I am definitely the odd one out at these dinner parties. Going clockwise we have a solicitor, doctor, biologist and two small business owners. Then there’s me, the hairy alternative semi-hippy type who I suppose is always good for entertainment value. And I’m okay with that, I’m not intimidated by their sleek cultivated looks and the air of success that oozes from them. I’m pretty comfortable with who I am, although they will never find out about my love affair with the needle. That would push the envelope too far.
They talk about the alleged stepping stones of soft drugs to hard drugs, look to me for an opinion and I just shrug. I think it’s a crock of shit; and I know there are heaps of studies that disprove this urban myth, but they can think what they want.
They know I get on the bong, they probably figure it goes with that bohemian look I’ve got. But I know their fashionable tolerance will evaporate against the stigma of heroin, so it never features in the circular stories.
What the hell is a circular story? you ask. We’ve developed this odd tradition that the teller of the best story gets to take the last bottle of wine home, and tonight’s theme is our most embarrassing moment. The wine kicks in and I laugh and hoot along with everyone. The biologist has an amusing tale about trying to kill a mosquito with fly spray in the bedroom, only to find in the light of morning she had picked up the spray paint instead. Then it is my turn, and the appropriate story comes to mind...
How to be a winner
A long queue snaked its way out the front door of the unemployment office. I had plenty of time now that I was unemployed. I chained my bike up to a parking sign. I joined the passive line. I caught the distinct smell of apathy. There was a gentle whiff of non-achievement in the air. Stubbly male cheeks blowing smoke from twisted rollies. Stubbly female legs encased in track suit pants and Woolworths thongs. These were people who knew Days of Our Lives on an intimate basis.
I was determined not to fall into the black hole of the dole mentality.
I would maintain the aura of a winner. I got to the desk and dealt with
the paperwork. I chatted with the tired public servant swamping me with
forms. I marched out past the growing line that now reached the footpath.
Listless eyes followed me for want of better things to watch. So I strode
with purpose all the way to my pushbike. I was determined to finish with
an inspiring running start and leap onto the seat. The still fastened chain
allowed me about two steps into this.
Suddenly I was flying over the handlebars, slamming the back of my head into the gutter, my arm caught in the front wheel. The gloss of success rapidly abandoned me.
The sound of hand clapping wafted over from around thirty people who looked visibly brighter with their day. Various losers wandered over to make sure I was okay. A recently graduated doctor asked me who the prime minister was. A one-armed man had me counting fingers. Once they figured my head was okay a fat guy with pink thongs and red Winfields unlocked my chain. He said I could rest up at his place around the corner if I wanted. ‘With a good warm cuppa’, he added with a smile missing several teeth. As I wobbled my way home I realised I certainly showed them what being a winner was all about.
Doesn't matter who or what we are
As happens more often than not, I win the last bottle of wine, a fine looking semillon although I know fuck all about wines. Apparently my story was not only amusing, but had a moral, so it pipped the biologist’s spray paint tale.
And I guess it does have a moral. It doesn’t matter how good our clothes are, what our job is, which drugs we use or how we get them into us – in the end we are all just hairless apes, and what distinguishes us from the animals is the level we choose to rise above our base instincts and care for other people.
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