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 |  This is my blog & my hope, writing daily will help me see my progress and log supporters. |
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| I have always been an observer. Participation was secondary. Watching life go by became my obsession, fascinated by people and all their quirks. Over the years, I learned a trick that enabled this hobby of mine to flourish...I became invisible. I'm not saying that I could become transparent, but more like a chameleon, blending into any situation by disappearing into the backdrop of other people's lives. It wasn't like performing a magic trick, but it was a necessity if I was to observe humans 'acting' naturally in their own habitat. I honed my skills during the 90s when I found myself associating with people who were, at least in their own minds, heavy hitters in the underworld. Drug dealers, thugs and all-around narcissists, who, due to my aforementioned need to observe life in all its ugliness, were too irresistible for me to ignore. The issue of maintaining an invisible status became less for entertainment and more for survival. I know a lot of people say things about the past, bragging about stuff that cannot be proven either way, but I am not one of those people. I have some good stories for eager souls who perhaps haven't experienced life on the edge. I was never much of a fiction writer, and besides, in most cases, the truth is much stranger anyway. There are some stories I would never mention, but there are a few I think I can now tell. My 'friend' was born into a life of thuggery. His father was a very scary man who had served in the military. He was a Green Beret in the British Army during the IRA conflict. He had fish eyes...cold and blue that looked right through you and had seen things no one could see and ever forget. I heard stories, relayed from father to son to me, telling of torture and political assassinations. All is fair in love and war may be an excuse he would use, except he wasn't the type who needed excuses. He didn't work a 9 to 5 like us, preferring to hustle and extort his way through life. He did other work that I will not speak of...ever. I don't even know if he is still alive, but if he is, I don't want to say anything I will regret. I've carried around this speech in my head all these years, just in case a cop or worse, someone who remembers I was there, comes knocking on my door. If it ever did happen, I would say I don't remember anything...too many drugs and early onset dementia would be all that would save me from going into a hole and never being found...corpus delicti is the first line of a legal defence...just ask Jimmy Hoffa, if you can find him. I would go out of my way NOT to be there whenever the shit went down. I did my best to avoid such situations because I was a lightweight, which was a big part of my ability to remain unnoticed. I would be in attendance when meetings were had, but I made sure I was far enough away from the men who called the shots that there was no way for me to hear what was to go down. I was a driver, a gofer, a right-hand man, a confidant and eventually, a sucker, who would often put my hands over my ears and say, "LA LA LA!" much to the amusement of my 'friends'. There is a story that is so unbelievable I couldn't make it up if I tried. My friend was going somewhere and I was invited along. We were with another person (my friend's co-conspirator) who can only be described as a psychopath with direction. He wouldn't hesitate to kill anyone he considered a threat. There was an exact amount of time you could look at him before averting your eyes away...which, just like a dog, wasn't very long. Ironically, he had the temperament of a Pitbull and owned a .50 calibre Desert Eagle that was his pride and joy. I understand that handguns are nothing in the US, but in Australia, they were a novelty...a novelty I could do without. One day he arrived at our house carrying a duffel bag. He then produced the handgun to show us all. It went from hand to hand around the circle of onlookers, and when it got to me, I waved it on, telling them I didn't want my prints on that gun. Once again, they all laughed, but the truth was it had nothing to do with my prints getting on the gun and everything to do with reinforcing that I was a lightweight. No one would remember me if you asked anyone who was there that day. He died a few years later from sleep apnoea. The three of us arrived at a house and my friend told me the guy we were going inside to meet was a cop. I was told to be cool, which meant I was to speak when spoken to and say nothing embarrassing about them. Like I needed to be told. After the introductions, the three of them began talking, while the cop's girlfriend, who was a stripper (of course), was sitting at a table, her foot on a chair painting her toenails. My friend caught my eye and glanced at the stripper. I looked over and saw she had no panties on. I averted my eyes and didn't look at her again. Then, the psychopath said let's go. I hadn't been listening to their conversation and asked where we were going. He said we were going to rob a steroid dealer who owned a hairdressing salon (I told you, you couldn't make this shit up). My immediate reaction was this wasn't what I signed up for, but when I protested, the psycho glared at me and I realised there was no escaping the trip. So, there we were...a psychopath, my friend the wannabe heavy, an extremely reluctant lightweight chameleon and an off-duty cop, all sitting in a car not far from the target premises. Me and the cop were sitting in the backseat as the two robbers went in. I remember looking at him and thinking who was more scared? After a few minutes they came running back to the car and we took off. They described the robbery as a disaster. The cop had promised that the hairdresser always carried large amounts of steroids and cash, but apparently, he had nothing on him that day. I had my doubts about the story of no cash or drugs, but all I wanted to do was get back to my little life and hope that no one had seen us. They didn't even bother to try and disguise themselves (my friend was well-known locally) and would have been easily recognised by the CCTV cameras that would have been installed in the business. A few months later, my friend went for a drive in my car, and on his way back, stopped for fuel. As he was filling the tank, he was attacked by two masked men with baseball bats. He got lucky and managed to escape unscathed, although he was very shaken up. My guess was the hairdresser was paying for protection and they decided my friend was an easier target than the psychopath with a hand cannon. Not long after this, my friend and I went our separate ways and luckily, I have lived long enough to tell a few of the tales. |
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