Chapter 14: The Day Of Pancakes

The drive to Owen’s house was long and boring.  He lived in an area of North Melbourne, more industrial than residential and the streets were peppered with depressing grey coloured factories and small clusters of abandoned storefronts.  In truth, I was procrastinating.  I had promised to help Owen move house weeks ago, thinking the sentiment another empty promise, never to be fulfilled.  Yet the day had come, and I resolved to do my duty as a friend, aware that I would likely have nothing better to do with my afternoon.    

Part of my apprehension had to do with Owen’s oafish housemates with whom I was not looking forward to another encounter.  They frightened me, and I was always unable to conjure appropriate small talk.  Having little to say on the subjects of sport or misogyny, uncomfortable silence was often the best option.

                

Owen and his housemates had been evicted a few weeks earlier by a landlord evidently fed up with weekly police visits and the loud, drunken behaviour that was the house custom.  His apartment was on the third floor of a complex which housed ten or twenty such units.  According to Owen, the deciding factor in their eviction was vomit spewing fourth from the balcony, which splattered on expensive looking cars underneath. 

                

After getting lost in near identical side streets, I finally arrived.  I ascended the stairs, and approached the front door, only to find it open.  I walked inside, apprehensive, only to find the place empty – and clean.  The skeletal sofa was gone, as were the many beer (and blood) stains revealing strange, minty green carpet, previously unseen.  Owen stood by the balcony, alone, his housemates already vacated.  I breathed a sigh of relief, thankful that I would not have to endure those beasts.

“Hey dude!” came my customary greeting.

The second that Owen turned to face me, I knew something was wrong.  His eyes were wide and blood shot, and his eyebrows raised in what resembled a state of perpetual shock.  He was smoking furiously, great plumes of white smoke surrounding him.  Something was wrong, I could feel it.  A sense of unease hung in the air, only heightened by the vacancy of the space.  I slowly approached, mentally steeling myself for whatever horrible bombshell Owen was about to drop.

                

He handed me his phone.  Text messages from Nikki.  Oh dear, this can’t be good.  Within moments of perusing the contents of the pixelated screen, I understood what had happened – Owen and Nikki had broken up.

                

Owen was often cagey when it came to his personal life, and Nikki was no exception.  We had heard about her for a few weeks, but never actually met the girl in person.  On occasion, Avery and I had wondered if she was even real.

                

I moved towards Owen and wrapped my arms around him in a bear hug, knowing that any words I could think of would sound hollow and forced.  I noticed his ashtray perched on a nearby window sill, and the pipe gingerly rested amidst the ashes.

“How many pipes have you smoked?” I asked gently.

“Eight or nine…I dunno.  I lost count”

                

That explained a lot.  Owen was shaken, almost in shock, a state of disbelief at what had transpired.  I began to ask the standard questions as to what happened, and when.  He replied vaguely, skipping words and pausing intermittently to drag on his cigarette.  I slowly sat down and listened patiently.

                

Nikki had provided Owen with a sort of human credential.  An affirmation that his life was normal, and that he too was desirable and worthy of love.

I quietly chastised myself for not arriving earlier, and prepared myself for the difficult day ahead.

“Where’s all your stuff?” I asked, surveying the room, expectantly searching for carefully taped boxes and bags full of clothes.  Owen motioned towards three clear plastic tubs, all sealed with lids and containing an assorted mix of books, crushed video game boxes and unwashed laundry.  They looked as though they had been packed in haste and rage.

“That’s it?” I asked.

“Yeah man, that’s all I got”

Suddenly Owen looked so small and fragile.  The entirety of his worldly possessions, contained within three meagre containers.  I wondered if the boxes contained all of his belongings, or simply the ones that he cared to retain.

He offered me a pipe; I declined, and suggested that we get going.  I was to convey him to the Lesbian House – a temporary arrangement to be sure.  Owen would only be able to stay there for a few weeks at best.  I quickly loaded the plastic containers into the boot of my car, while Owen stayed upstairs, taking his last drags.

“That’s it man, ready to go when you are” I said, arriving back upstairs. 

Owen pocketed his phone, and slowly shuffled over to lock the front door one final time.  With an unceremonious turn of a key, his life in that apartment had come to an end with an eviction and a break up.

The car trip was silent at first, the golden rays of sunlight streaming through the clouds providing a stark contrast to the day’s events.  I attempted conversation, carefully trying to extract more information. 

A true conversation with Owen required patience.  He would take his time formulating responses, and as always, ever the macho man, he tried his best to appear emotionally indestructible.  But I knew better.  We talked, as guys do, slowly and in grizzled tones.  Only a few words at a time, cautiously avoiding words like ‘hurt’ and ‘feelings’.  He still seemed dazed, and so profoundly broken.  His pain was palpable, and permeated the space between us.  The revolving door of breakups in my own chequered relationship history meant that I could relate, completely, to the soul harvesting feeling of loss that he was experiencing.

We continued driving, and the Lesbian House drew closer.  I had planned to simply drop Owen off, unloading his stuff and wishing him well for the evening.  I wasn’t sure if Mitch or Avery were home and the thought of leaving him alone in his current state unnerved me.  Over the past few months, Owen and I had begun to explore and struggle with the depths of our depression, and the resultant thoughts and behaviours it could induce.  I needed help.  I had to get a message to Mitch and Avery.  But how?  I’ve never been great at multi-tasking, especially while driving, and of course, I wanted to be discreet. 

Swerving into a service station, I lied and told Owen that I needed fuel and gambled that he wouldn’t glace at the half full petrol gauge on the dashboard.  After filling the tank, I disappeared into the service station to pay, and secretly call Mitch.  I can’t remember exactly what I said to him, but was sure he understood the urgency in my voice.

After our needless pit stop, and stop start heart to heart, we finally arrived at the Lesbian House.  Avery was at the door to greet us.  She silently wrapped her arms around Owen, her tiny arms unequal to his bulky frame.  Avery glanced my way; our eyes met, conveying a powerful telepathic message of ‘mental health crisis’.

Avery’s addition to the group had opened up a furtive dialogue on mental health.  More than any of us, she was keenly aware of the seriousness of the subject and the damage that could be done if symptoms were ignored.  She quietly ushered Owen and his containers into a bedroom at the back of the house which had been set aside for him.

I wrapped my arms around Mitch’s shoulder and began relaying the news in hushed tones. We both seemed to share the same thought – the proverbial elephant in the room that neither of us dare verbalise.

We were afraid. 

We were afraid that Owen would kill himself. 

His depression was of a different flavour to mine.  It was a demon unique to him that would wrap its neon claws around Owen so tight that he couldn’t breathe or think or even answer the phone. 

The last couple of years of his life had been replete with failures and setbacks.  Just when it seemed that things were going right for him – they would all fall apart.  The look on his face said it all – the look of a man staring into a long dark void, and seeing nothing beneath him to break his fall.

Avery emerged from the bedroom and suggested cooking a gigantic dinner feast to lighten the mood.  We instantly agreed, and all four of us piled into my untidy car.

The afternoon sun had long since disappeared, leaving only grey skies and an icy wind promising a chilly evening as we entered the crowded supermarket.  Avery handed me a small basket as we entered, and slowly began combing the aisles for vegan fare.  Someone suggested pancakes, and so the basket was filled, as each one of us tried our best to cheer up our sullen friend with various high calorie snacks.  Owen lumbered along with us, still somewhat numb, though I suspect he was still feeling the effects of the pipes he had smoked back at his empty apartment.

Back at the Lesbian House, Avery immediately took command in the kitchen, expertly unpacking our supplies, preparing pots and pans along with numerous kitchen utensils foreign to me at the time.  Owen and Mitch sat comfortably in the lounge room, sitting before the TV in silent solidarity while I wandered around the house.  This was someone’s home, evidenced by photos and artefacts carefully placed.  Evidence of two people who had made a life for themselves.  I was envious, and grateful to have been admitted entrance to their sanctum. 

As I thumbed through the CD collection on the shelf, I felt a shadow cast over me.  I looked up to see Avery, staring at me intently, spatula in hand.  Her expression conveyed a clear message – if we wanted pancakes – we had to help cook them.

With quiet authority, she assigned each of us tasks in the kitchen.  I glanced nervously at Mitch who was busily stirring a metal bowl containing flour and eggs.  At that point, I had never exhibited any great skill in the kitchen, specialising in mainly toast based cuisine.  I decided that I could be of most use by washing everyone else’s dishes and bowls.  Owen’s mood seemed to elevate as we all laughed self-consciously at our domestic shortcomings.  I think I even saw him smile.

As I stood by the sink, my hands immersed in soapy water, I felt a peaceful sense of stillness.  Here I was, in a stranger’s kitchen cooking pancakes.  I turned to see Mitch, Owen and Avery chattering away, and knew that I was happy and content, and could not wish to be in any other place in all of existence.  We had all come together for a cause, with no prior planning or prompting.  We had moved in unison, like a school of fish changing directions.  I marvelled at the simplicity of the moment, as though a truth had suddenly been crystalised before me – I needed people to survive.  Without them, I would die. 

I ate my pancakes quietly at the table, content to listen to everyone else’s conversation.  These revelations sat uncomfortably, and ground harshly against my edict of existing as a solitary man, never needing help and avoiding all emotional ties.  As much as I tried to fight it, I had made a connection, and I think I liked it.

Those pancakes, though delicious, were a symbol of friendship and defiance in the face of emotional turmoil.  All of us had been suffering somehow, yet we drew strength from each other.  At the time, it also seemed as though they had saved Owen from suicide.  All in a day’s work I guess.

We stayed up late into the night watching TV.  I must have dozed off, crushed between Owen and Mitch on a sofa clearly not designed to seat three fully grown men.  I gently removed Owen’s drooling face from my shoulder and stood up, hoping to make a quiet exit.  Avery must have heard me stirring and met me at the front door, still wrapped in her blanket. We tightly embraced with a promise to see each other the next day. I zipped up my jacket and stepped outside into the frosty winter night, closing the door behind me, catching one last glimpse of my companions, peacefully asleep on the couch, and it seemed as though, for the first time in my life, I had finally made some friends.