The Invisible Man

The Invisible Man, Pages 10-17

Tony and I trained together, and we partied together. We were both Raver newbies, but we had one thing in common with those who had been in the scene longer, and that was our love of ecstasy.

I love Ben Folds song 'Zac and Sara' (Sara without a, H), about a pill making it so even white boys can dance. But, it is so not true, and if we were to watch a video of our efforts, we would realise that fact.

But who cares when the world is one big beautiful mass of friendliness, and the smile on your face cannot be wiped...at least until the last pill is swallowed. Then reality brings deleted levels of Dopamine and Serotonin, leaving you feeling like you have been dropped off the end of a rainbow and straight into a bucket full of shit.

In the beginning, I would say, "Once every two weeks, that's it for me."

Then someone would tell me, "Oh, but Pee Wee and Paul Holden are playing next week."

Then I would ask, "How much are tickets?"

Then, "Let's see...how much does that leave for pills?"

And at fifty to fifty-five dollars, it was quite an expensive little pastime. But hey, the pills were almost always pure, and "Two pills a night" was Tony and my anthem for a couple of months.

Until two pills were only going to get you through till the morning. Then, on to the after-party, where you needed at least another one...or two...or three...depending. And with Monday on the horizon, in my head, I was thinking, why stop? All day Sunday, then try to get some sleep around...?

Come Monday morning, and the inevitable call to work. "Hey, I'm really sick today. I can't possibly come in."

Then, with the fear of looking like a strung-out vampire to workmates gone, plans for next weekend could begin...good times indeed.

This one time, Tony and I had left a dance party at 'The Site' around 4.00 am and went back to his place. We smoked some cones, necked another Dove (very high potency MDMA pills) each, then returned to 'The Arena', which was right across the road from the previous night's antics, and where the day's after-party was being held.

It was early to mid-morning, the sun was shining, and our pills were well and truly kicking in. We got to the entrance, paid our cover, walked in and up the stairs...and into complete darkness.

We were instantly blinded, and by this stage, absolutely off-tap. I remember us calling to each other, literally crawling up the stairs, one step at a time, totally disorientated until eventually, I felt a door. We entered the door and found ourselves standing with the DJ...he turned and looked at us, shook his head and pointed towards the smoke.

We made our way out in the direction he was pointing, still having no idea where the fuck we were until the smoke cleared, and we found ourselves standing in the middle of the dance floor, so...Dance Motherfucker Dance.

*******

I had a training accident when my trainer Jim and I were doing a combination knee followed by a cutter elbow to the face. I was holding the pads, and he was striking.

We had done a few sets when some new guys came into the gym. He went over and spoke to them, telling them to watch what we do, and returned to me to continue our training.

Now, the go is usually to do a few practice strikes at a much lower intensity to get a feel for where the pads need to be. When he returned, the first combo he did was at full power, and instead of having the pad where it should have been (protecting my face), it wasn't, and his elbow connected with my mouth, sending my front tooth flying across the floor.

Blood was spurting everywhere, and those new guys just stared jaws agape. So what do you do when your tooth has just been elbowed out of your mouth? Go pick it up, wash the crap off it in the sink, and force that fucker back up from whence it came (it stayed in for another ten or so years before it rotted its way out), but hey, we were fighters, not soccer players and we kept on training as if nothing had happened.

****

So, my tooth was fine, but my lip looked like I had the most enormous pussy cold sore you've ever seen. And as the weekend approached, I said to Tony, "I'm not going out looking like this."

And Tony says, "Come on, man, it doesn't look that bad."

Fucking liar. Then, on the night of the party, I looked in the mirror... OMG....it looked worse than it had a few days before. Of course, Tony said it was fine, and I told him to go fuck himself, which was kind of ironic considering I had a lip that belonged in a horror film, and there was no chance anyone was going to be fucking me that night.

But, somehow, the lure of the drugs and the party was stronger than my fear of going out looking like Quasimodo. We arrived at 'The Site', my head down at all times until we reached the darkness (and safety) of the dance floor.

Tony would look at me and smile, trying to reassure his friend that it didn't look that bad. What a good mate. I was dancing, keeping my face down as much as possible, and I must have been subconsciously licking the scab when a miracle happened...the scab came off, and I spat it out.

Meanwhile, Tony, dancing his little ass off, happy as can be that for once he was the better looking of the two of us turned and...his face was classic, searching my own for that ugly puss-filled scab. I screamed above the music, "It's fucking come off!"

A weight was lifted from my shoulders, and I looked at every face in that crowd. Smiling because I was no longer the elephant man, but just another Raver bouncing around in la-la land...and that's when I saw her.

****

Tania was eighteen, I was twenty-nine, and I was ready for this. Since my break up with Liz, I had not been with another girl, so when this cute blonde with a Bob haircut and the biggest blue eyes I had ever seen walked past, I nearly died.

She was with friends and had recently broken up from a long-term relationship. Armed with my brand new lip, I smiled at her, and to my utter surprise, she smiled back.

Later one of her friends came over to us, and we spoke for a bit until Tania came to join us. We chatted for a while and decided to go outside for some much-needed air, and as we walked, I took her hand in mine.

I felt a thrill come over me that I had not felt in a very long time.

Then she said, "I thought you were gay."

All I could do was think to myself, over and over, "Do not blow this...be cool."

When the sun came up and her friends were set to leave, I looked at her and asked if she would come home with me. She hesitated for just a moment before nodding her head. I took her hand, and we caught a cab, the most nerve-racking cab ride I have ever taken.

We pulled up, I paid the driver, and we walked into my flat. We were both still high and wasted no time getting to know each other better. I put on a condom, and we had sex. I was on top, and once I came, I decided we should talk. We laughed about it all, and a few minutes passed. Then, I felt myself fall out of her and to our shock and horror, the condom was nowhere to be found.

Upon realising where the condom was, I had to try to fish it out with my fingers, but it was further in than I could reach. Eventually, I felt it and managed to extract it from its hiding place. We laughed again, but not as enthusiastically as before, and at that moment, it was a case of 'damage done', and we never used a condom again...that day or any other. Later, I dropped her off at her friend's house, but it wasn't long before we were again tearing at each other's clothes.

Tania had a plan. To make me into a respectable Clubber/Raver, presentable to her cool friends. It was a good plan, but I failed miserably. I have always had trouble fitting in, maybe because I didn't want to...or perhaps I was too afraid to admit that I just was not that cool.

*******

We used to do bulbs (Nitrous Oxide). It was an after-party, group thing to do because really, at times, it can get a little hairy. I have seen people go off into bulb land, then return and swear they had spoken to God (I almost spoke to him myself once but returned to Earth just before I was due to arrive in heaven).

We had a variant on this and took it to the next level. Sex shops like Inta Leather in South Brisbane sold a product called Video Head Cleaner. In reality, it was Amyl Nitrate, which, when sniffed, caused you to get high for a very short duration. Amyl Nitrate was used predominantly amongst the gay community, but you don't have to be gay to want to get absolutely off your face.

I would walk into the sex shop, ask for a bottle of 'Video Head Cleaner', get the look (I could hear the counter sales guy thinking...Is he a cop?...Is he gay?)...neither...just a drug fiend looking for another avenue to smash my brain to smithereens.

Take one whipped cream bottle, medium balloons, whipped cream bulbs, a packet of Tally-Ho papers and a bottle of Video Head Cleaner. Get a Tally-Ho paper and roll it into a skinny (no tobacco please...that shit will kill you), then dunk it into the bottle of Amyl to a level that you wish to attain, snap off the wet part of the paper and drop it into the open whipped cream bottle.

Put the lid back on the whipped cream bottle and screw it up tight. Place a balloon over the spout where the whipped cream would dispense. Place a bulb into the bulb slot holder and express it into the bottle (two or more can be done this way, but the seal won't last, so just one at a time is better), fill the balloon and repeat if required until a sufficient amount of N2O (Nitrous) and C5H11NO3 (Amyl) have entered the balloon. Place the balloon in your mouth and breath the contents until you see God.

*******


Tania and I lasted about two years. Pretty good for a couple with drug issues. In the end, she wanted more from life than I was willing to give, and as our boat began to sink, I met Misty. Misty had moved to Brisbane from Hobart, Tasmania. She was eighteen (I'm beginning to see a pattern here) and walked into the gym wanting to learn Muay Thai, and I wanted to teach her.

A natural redhead, although she had it died black. Stocky and strong, she became a fighter with the club, having one win and a draw from her two fights. I was very proud of her.

She had a typical female approach to fighting. Where all was good until she got hit, then she would see red and explode with full intent to hurt her opponent. Redheads have a reputation for a bad temper, and that's what it took for her to fight.

I took her under my wing, and I hate to admit it, but she received special treatment and got more access to me as a trainer than the other fighters did, and soon, we fell in love.

I would say to her, "Outside this gym, we are boyfriend-girlfriend. But once we bow into this dojo, I am your trainer. We must maintain the two relationships if we want to remain a couple, and you want to get the most out of your training...to be the best fighter you can be."

Of course, drugs were at the forefront of my mind, and drug addicts love to corrupt the innocent, and bring them down to our level. Oh, and there is also the sex. Stimulants such as Meth, MDMA, Speed and Coke all have a side effect, or perhaps we should just say an effect...so that when you are high or just coming off that high, it makes you want to have sex.

And we are not talking about the routine sex found in most bedrooms around the world. It's intense, it's wild, but it can also be horrible. Too soon after using, a man can have problems maintaining or even getting an erection. Wait too long, and a girl can begin a come down that sees us men, the ones who caused her to feel like this in the first place ("You forced me to take it"), running for cover. But, time it just right, and it is the most sensual, gratifying and hottest sex you are ever likely to experience. Misty and I had that, at least in the beginning.

One night she said she had something she needed to tell me. I knew this was not going to be good.

She said, "I have been lying to you, Neil."

"Yeah, what about?"

"When I told you I had been with other boys before you...well, I hadn't."

The truth of what she was trying to tell me was becoming clear, and I said, "Yeah, so you hadn't.... been with anyone before me."

"No... I'm sorry I lied."

All was forgiven. But I am a dumb MF. I didn't see the writing on the wall, and soon she realised that this old guy, the only man she had ever been with, was not the be-all and end-all. That there was more to life than what I had to offer, and she drifted away, to search out her own sexuality, without this old man who had taught her so much. And for me, it was like watching a bird flying away from the nest.

*******

Training fighters became my life. Jim and I had become quite a formidable force within the local and Interstate kickboxing scene. Because he was also a promoter, he always had his hands full, and I was more than happy to take on more responsibility, training multiple fighters for one show.

We worked like a well-oiled machine in both the lead-up and on fight night. He was far more experienced on the technical side, and I acted more as a motivator. When our guy came in between rounds, we allowed him a few seconds to recover, and then Jim would give some advice on what to watch out for and what to do more. Then a few more seconds to take that in, and I would chime in with, "Deep breaths... you're going great mate...keep your hands up." Then the bell would ring, and off he would go.

Our win/loss record was outstanding, and we instilled into our fighters discipline and respect, not just for their opponents but for themselves and for our club. Street violence or pub fights was not something I would like to hear about on our Monday training sessions. Sure, if someone needed to protect themselves or some idiot needed to learn a lesson, but that was not what our club was about.

*******

We had a big fight coming up against a very similarly credentialed fighter. Our best against theirs in the light heavyweight division. The opposing trainer was Paul, the fighter I had sparred with before my first fight.

We were confident.....then came the news. Jim, our head trainer, had been involved in a serious car accident on his way back from the north coast. He was in hospital in Nambour, with multiple fractures and at that stage, we didn't know how bad he really was.

With only hours until the fight a decision had to be made, go ahead or pull out. I spoke to our fighter Jamie, there was confusion, we wanted to show respect to our fallen trainer, our club and our opposition. But we also knew that Jim was an intrinsic part of our team, and we would struggle without him.

We went ahead with the fight, Jamie was thinking about our fallen trainer, I was thinking about him too, all the while we had a top-level fighter, who had the home-ground advantage and his trainer in his corner.

We lost that day, and even today, I regret the decision to fight. As the assistant trainer, I should have made the call to pull out and we should have, instead of fighting, been on our way up to see Jim... to see if there was anything we could do for him.

Life is full of regrets, but they are only regrettable if you don't learn from them.

The next day we headed up to see him, and he was a mess. He was going to be laid up for many months to come, but we had a club to run, and so, we did. I already had a set of keys, and some four to five years experience, yet I felt some apprehension as to not only my ability to take over and run this club but also how much respect I would get from the twenty or so members.

I made the announcement the following week, and began to collect fees, sell merchandise, run the classes and do anything else that needed to be done. But one thing Jim, myself and the senior fighters agreed on...we would not be a fighting club again until he returned from his injuries.

****

A year had passed, and Jim returned. The club was in a healthy state, membership was up, morale was good, and the reigns were passed back to the man who founded our club...and nobody was more happy or proud that this day had finally come than me.

Awards night came at the end of each year...best novice fighter, most improved and fighter of the year....all of the awards had been handed out when Jim called the attention of the members. A special award was to be presented that year. For his commitment and dedication to the club. I couldn't believe it when I was called up, one of the proudest moments of my life.

Several years later, a serious knee injury ended my career in the sport I loved.

****

The next few years saw some changes that took me further away from my club. I became pad man/trainer for Paul, the trainer and fighter I had sparred with before my first fight. In these years there were some very good times but also some not so.

It was nobody's fault that things ended the way they did. When drugs are involved, there is only ever one result that can follow. I experienced so much during these years and learned so much about the sport of fighting and the everyday fight of life being an addict, but one thing for sure...I wouldn't change a thing.

I saw the end coming. It was like a train, unstoppable, unmistakable.

We had been out the night before, and I had bought pills that I was told later were no good. "Snowballs". So I put them in my pocket, thinking I might take them later, desperate for one last high before sleep.

At home, I lay down, then remembered them. They had been crushed by the night's antics....two pills.....just a small amount of powder in a bag. They were not very good anyway...so down they went.

Paul and Lear had gone to their room to fuck. Good for them, the house we lived in had thin walls, and I could hear them going at it. Then something incredible happened. A bright golden light glowed in front of my eyes, and this amazing tingling that began in my feet, rising up until it exploded in my head.

My hands went to my face, my fingers running up and through my hair...OMG...I had never experienced anything like this, my whole body was alive, buzzing with an energy of sexual pleasure that I liked...a lot.

Then, my door opened and Paul stood there, sweat was pouring from him. They had either finished or given up on their escapades.

He looked at me and said, "Holy fuck!"

I couldn't speak, overwhelmed by what was going on in my brain and body. Paul's decks were set up in the room outside my own, and he went and put on some tunes.

Lear had come out of their room and was sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the decks, and I came out of my room and sat beside her. Then he played this track...trance. The intro was a male's voice singing harmonies...deep...sorrowful...African. And I began to cry, uncontrollable sobbing.

Lear was confused, and she asked Paul what was wrong with me. He knew I was off my head, and that these things sometimes happened. But the truth was....five years of friendship, of love for this man who I had called brother, was coming to an end. And like a train rolling in, there was nothing anyone could do to stop it.

****

My father was born in England in 1923, in a little town called Butterknowle in County Durham. The eldest of six children, they suffered from poverty and hardship, unlike any other time in the modern era. The stories he told me seemed inconceivable to my young ears, as I had grown up with no such hardships.

He married his childhood sweetheart...they had a boy and two girls before breast cancer took her away from them, and in his grief, he removed all traces of her from their lives.

I cannot even begin to imagine the pain he would have gone through, and I never heard him speak a word of her. I know he did open up to my step-sister about it...before dementia took away his mind. He died peacefully at the age of ninety-four.

My mother was born in Hull, England in 1935. She met my father about a year after the tragic loss of his wife. Unbeknownst to me until recently, she had my older brother out of wedlock, which back then was frowned upon. She took on this heartbroken family and in a way, they took her on, but it was never going to be an easy job or appreciated.

Where such sadness and grief had been, was soon replaced by anger, frustration and resentment. The role she played as a step-parent was never thanked or appreciated. In fact, she became the focus of their inner turmoil, an easy mark to lash out at until my brother came along, then the focus could go onto an even easier target, and he suffered greatly through no fault of his own.

A young boy who didn't understand why his father couldn't love him, him why his older sister despised him and why his mother didn't protect him? He was alone, so he did what any boy in his situation would do...he lashed out.

My parents emigrated on the ship Fairsky in 1963. Ten-pound Poms (the cost of the fare), arriving at Yungabah migrant hostel (situated under the Story Bridge on the New Farm side), having chosen Brisbane because my father, being a fitter and turner, had better job prospects here...and thank God.

I was born a year later, the first Australian to carry our name (or so I thought) and a Queenslander to boot.

Memories of my childhood were mixed. My father would take me into our garden at night and talk to me about the stars and planets. I would listen in wonder, with no idea of the sorrow that filled his heart.

But as I grew, I began to see that things were not the same for me as it was for the other boys at my school. My brother was cruel, and uncaring and at that stage, I was completely unaware of his torment. If I dared to challenge him, tease or backchat, the price was a beating. But it was the ridicule that hurt more than anything.

I once embarrassed him in front of a girl. I ran, but he was four years older than I was and when he caught me he began punching me over and over...then lifted me up and spear-tackled me into the ground, headfirst.

Another time, he had been told to mow our lawn. It was an old mower and had a spring-loaded wind-up start that ratcheted until enough kinetic energy had been built up then released, powering the motor up. The spark plug lead had no rubber cover over it so the bare wire and spark plug end was exposed.

He called out, "Neil!"

My brother needed my help. This was my chance to show him I am not the goofy little brother he always told me I was, and he may love me and be proud of me.

"Come over here and hold this for me." Pointing to the end of the spark plug.

I obeyed immediately, wanting his approval more than anything. I put my fingers on the plug, holding on tightly. Then he released the catch, and I was thrown across the yard, landing on the grass, my arm numb from the electric shock I had just received...and that laughter....always that laughter.

Over the years I was to hear this laugh many more times until I became too big, or too tough for him. I can thank him for one thing...he toughened me up.

****

The first time I used a needle to inject drugs I was fourteen years old. My brother lived in Sydney and was up visiting. He and a few of his friends had stolen some pills and were preparing to inject the mixture.

He went first, then he did me, then the rest one after the other, all using the same syringe and little did we realise he carried the Hepatitis C virus. I carried that virus around in my body, unaware until a routine blood test some fifteen years later became another nightmare.

"Am I going to die?" I asked the doctor.

"No, that is unlikely."

I felt like a leper, carrying a contagious virus others feared. It became my shame, something I hid from friends and family.

If you don't talk about it then nobody will know...right?

But who does know?

Is that why nobody will date me?

You know what they are like, they talk, they laugh and they're ignorant. They fear me and fear catching it from me.

Who should I tell?

This new friend? Not today but maybe tomorrow. But the right moment didn't present itself. Maybe another day.

How long before I should trust this person with my shame? With my deepest, darkest secret. Too soon and they might not want my friendship. But wait too long and they might question why.

I played with your child? Possibly exposing them to my infection. Guilt, shame, fear and hatred of myself. I was training at my Muay Thai club when I was first told, and other than Tania, Jim was the first person I told.

Retirement was the only option. But he needed me, he didn't want to lose his right-hand man and I didn't want to lose my club, my sport, this blood sport, where every move could cause my friends to be exposed.

What about my girlfriend? Tania had been to the same doctor, we had gone just to get tested for HIV and STDs. She tested negative and was awesome about my diagnosis, but I didn't ask for a test for Hepatitis. I didn't ask my brother to inject me with this fucking turmoil.

Jim convinced me that I shouldn't leave, that the risk to the other members was very low. VERY LOW. How would I feel if someone exposed me to this virus? Even with a very low chance of transmission. It ate at me every day, in every situation. Why people acted certain ways. Was it because they knew? Who fucking knows?