ONLY THE GOOD DIE YOUNG.

To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream…
William Shakespeare - To be, or not to be (from Hamlet 3/1)

I lay in a room of the family home. A spare room were I come to hide away and not be a bother to anyone. From the room the smell of stale beer, body odour and vomit wafts languidly out the door and into the nostrils of unsuspecting family members. I am an embarrassment, the black sheep of the family even my teenage son is more responsible than I am. My fifteen-year-old daughter has given up communicating with in fact she treats me like the invisible man. My wife I think is living in hope that maybe one day I will change.

My ears are still ringing from listening to music in my car last night. The music was only loud enough to cause internal bleeding. Normally when I go on a bender like the one I have just been on, I do most of my drinking in my car. The reason for this is twofold. The local hotel will only serve a certain amount of alcohol to any one patron and if the individual starts to show signs of inebriation, they will then tell you they are unable to sell you any more drinks due to the responsible service of alcohol (RSA) laws. For the love of beer if you can’t get drunk in a pub then were can you. The other reason is the family has banned me drinking at home. I am such an embarrassment and due to my previous indiscretions, the ban is likely to remain in force forever. So when I am drinking my life away check the local beach car park. When I am another world away, it could last for an hour or it could last for days. With all the money spent and the last, drink drunk only then will I return home. I usually find a quiet street or a narrow lane way, praying that there are no cops lurking in the distance, and I somehow manage to get home. (I must have been a homing pigeon in a previous life.) My life is about living on the edge. It is about sticking it to “the man”, rebelling against “the corporate machine” and being a pain in the arse. I have a PhD it the latter.

What twisted perception would have an individual believing he is a double-fisted drinking Irish poet, when in fact he is a drunken babbling illiterate Australian with a questionably Irish background?
I remember one occasion sitting at the window of an early opener and thinking I am different. I cannot be like all the other slaves who drag their crumbled bodies to a job they despise. I am not going to be a hamster on the spinning wheel of corporate or government employment. No private enterprise is going to own me.
I will be heard, I will continue to rebel and laugh in the face of convention. Ha!
This of course is a compete fantasy. I would fear anyone to ask me what alternatives I would put in place that would be better than the convention I was ridiculing. Now I am not a smart man but I no, if by some bizarre twist of fate someone took me seriously then I would have to admit I do not have any answers.

Sitting back at the breakfast bar suffering from hot and cold sweats, trembling hands and a brain fog as thick as pea soup it dawned on me that I was a rebel without a cause a failed social commentator and a man that spent most of his time on his own in a drunken haze.
I had a family that did not want to no me. They could no longer tolerate the madness the uncertainty of whether I was alive or dead. I am unemployed. I am seeing a shrink who has prescribed anti depressants and told me to give up drinking for twelve months.
No friends a couple acquaintances that I nod to from time to time and my dog that is so frightened of me due to my erratic behaviour will piss it self any time I go near it.
I walked to the toilet and threw up.

After throwing up, I sat on the toilet head in hands. The only thought going through my head repeatedly was to be or not to be, to be or not to be that is the question. Inserted in my brain was a recording that was set on a loop to be or not to be, to be or not to be and I figured it was some government plot to send me mad. It was too late for that and I certainly did not need any assistance in going mad. I was doing quiet fine on my own thanks very much. It did though give me reason to consider were I was going with my life. More to the point were I was not going. Rising from the toilet and staggering back into the kitchen I gazed sadly out of the back window and noticed the day to be gloomy, and miserable. The exhaust grey skies blanketed the suburban rooftops and constant drizzle kept the roads wet enough for the unexpected to loose control of their car skidding into possible disaster. It was a perfect day for what I had planned.

It was enough that I had caused friends and family so much concern and worry with my self centred destructive ways but also seeking help from doctors, counsellors and support groups I realised that there is absolutely nothing anyone can do for me. The reason I have come to this conclusion is quiet simple. I do not want to change. Its not that I can’t, it is that I am so selfish and full of self-loathing that I rather burn everything down and be nothing more than a faded memory to those that knew me. On this day, I will finally take my life into my own hands and provide liberty for all concerned. I prepared a mental checklist of the items I would need for the day and still wearing the same clothes that I was wearing yesterday headed out of the front door.

Midmorning and I pulled into the local bottle shop to stock up on alcohol, lots of alcohol. I decided to indulge myself and purchased my favourite drinks. Beer of course and a drink that I usually only drank on special occasions tequila and I threw in some vodka for good measure. With the alcohol secured on the front seat, I opened my first beer of the day. As I sat in the car park, I drained the beer like a man who had been lost in the desert for a month. I thought to myself that one did not even touch the sides. Therefore, I decided to have another. By the time, I left the car park I had downed four cans of beer. At least the beer settled the nerves that were jumping like a mid summer rabbit plague. My next stop was to the only person I knew in the area that could be counted upon to provide a vast array of mind-altering chemicals. The individual had at his disposal Cannabis or pot, grass, weed, reefer, skunk, Mary Jane, Acapulco Gold, hash, bhang and ganja. At his fingertips was speed, whiz, go-ee, meth, gas, with a touch of base. Ecstasy, E, MDMA, Adam, love drug was another he was proud to have in his stable. He could also conjure the black demons of Opioids like Heroin - horse, hammer, H, smack, junk, gear then with a wave of the magic wand Morphine would appear yes M, Miss Emma, Mister Blue and morph. Speaking of morph Methadone would suddenly appear and finally every bodies favourite Buprenorphine or Bupe. Occasionally just, for fun Hallucinogens would flash past .Remember acid, trips, microdots, mushies, blotter, angels trumpet. Nitrous would have the party on the floor and sudden death could be alleviated by some Amyl nitrate you no snappers, poppers, rush amines. Throw in some coke, flake, snow, happy dust, Cecil, toot and Scotty loves the white girl. He was an acquaintance that I would sometimes have a drink with and his encyclopaedic knowledge of pharmacology was more than impressive. He could also recite The Man from Snowy River in its entirety. I knocked on the decrepit front door as the rain started to pour. The forecast predicted gale force winds and torrential down pours. Bring it on I thought. The door opened and standing in front of me was a young girl. I guessed she was about eighteen or nineteen. She was pierced with a plethora of different types of rings, studs, small chains in her nose, mouth, eyes; ears, tongue and I could only imagine there were probably a lot more shiny gold or silver trinkets turning up on the most unexpected parts of her body that now were hidden from view. I inquired if the pharmacist was home and she grunted and motioned for me to come inside. I had never been inside the house before but was impressed at the clean orderly almost fanatical way every thing in the house and I think the saying “everything has a place and there is a place for everything” would be applicable here.
I sat down in the lounge room and the girl lit another stick of incense. It was like being in a new age shop. Not only was there a very strong aroma of incense and essential oil but the whole place had been decorated with stars and moons, different coloured lights shone dimly which created an atmosphere of warmth and safety. Maybe I could just stay here.
The chemical man appeared. His long red hair tied back into a ponytail and his towelling white dressing gown hung open revealing a black t-shirt and a pair of boxers that had illustrations of hippos and giraffes. We were sitting very close. He offered me a drink and I asked for a beer. He motioned for the young girl to fetch a couple of beers from the fridge; she was still standing in the corner trying to light the incense. As we sat drinking, I explained my situation and the pitiful life I had been leading. I filled him in on what I had planned for the day. He nodded a couple of times and went into another room. A man of few words I thought. When he returned, he handed me a dark brown bottle and told me the cost would be eighty dollars. I handed him the money and the young girl showed me out. In a sweet almost child like voice she told me if I wanted the desired result I would have to take everything that was contained in the bottle. I waved and gave her a knowing look.

The time must have been roughly Oprah o’clock. The roads were quiet, which was normally a good indication. I decided to make my way to the final destination.
I pulled into the beach car park and found a spot at the back under a gnarled and twisted old tree, I did not have a clue what variety it may have been but it had a look of familiarity. Turning on the radio the newsreader was reporting that the storms lashing the coast were the worst to hit in thirty years. Certain areas of the coast were flooding; an oil tanker had run aground on a well-known beach. Torrential rain and gale force winds were uprooting trees and many were crashing down on residential homes. Huge seas were battering the coast and sand erosion had many houses in danger of slipping into the sea. Further, north there were reports of a number of fatalities. Levees breached evacuations were necessary in some areas and emergency services were fighting to keep up with it all.
It was Friday eighth of June one day before my fiftieth birthday. I raised my drink to the insanity of my situation.

Due to the inclement weather, the car park was empty. Except for yours truly and an old man walking his black Labrador. The dog had a limp and the old man had a cane. I finished another drink. I had stopped counting and the drink had now become a means to an end. Needing to take a leak, I made my way to the public toilet. Before doing this, I pulled on my black woollen cap, dark sunglasses and black jacket. I must have looked like a shadow slinking stealth like along the road. It was the best pee of my life.
After relieving myself, I zigzagged through the sandy walkway to inspect the sea. I stood on top of a sand dune and watched the huge waves exploding onto the shore. It was the biggest swell I had every seen at this particular beach. Everything was black and bruised. It was almost impossible to tell where the horizon started and the sea ended. The only distinguishable difference was the ocean with its incandescent white plumes shoveled skyward by the howling southerly winds. I returned to the car.

Cracking open the lid to the bottle of tequila I decided to take the medication. I took a hearty slug and the alcohol did its job warming my icy decaying body. I sat silent turning the brown bottle repeatedly over in my hand. My thoughts turned inwards as I remembered another time. I remembered the first time I went to a pub. It was for a co-workers birthday. I can recall being asked what I wanted to drink and at sixteen, I was not sure so I said whatever you are having. He returned with two schooners of Tooheys . That began an ongoing love affair with pubs and alcohol. It was the unleashing of the bad boy of rock and roll. The concerts, nightclubs, discos, comedy clubs, girls, booze, drugs, all night and all day drinking binges I remember it as if it were only yesterday. Every night was party night. I thought of all the people I had met during that time. The mad and sad, generous and loving the damaged and lost, brilliant minds fuelled by the arrogance of youth and wanting to change the world. The nights of stoned pontificating, it all made sense at the time.
My closest friend killed in a motorbike accident as we returned home from a night of dancing and carousing with the local lovelies. My only injuries were a couple of broken ribs, and dislocated shoulder and a perforated ear drum. Another close friend finally succumbed to the calling of heroin. His body found in a public phone booth. These tragedies did not make sense. Others found fortune overseas and I moved to the coast with my wife and family the quintessential sea change. It had not worked out as I envisaged. I sometimes think that what I have done up until now has been nothing but overblown rhetoric. A lot of talking and not much action: that was about to change.
A slapping gust of wind rocked the car so severely it shook me back to my reality.

I emptied the drugs into my hand, tossed them all into my mouth poured vodka and coke down my throat until all the pills flowed into my stomach This was the beginning, I laughed at the irony of the situation being the beginning of the end. The effects were instantaneous. Drowsiness, dizziness my breathing becoming shallow and irregular I was becoming very confused as I started sinking into a coma. As night descended upon me I closed my eyes and darkness followed. I had the sensation of falling down a black and white spiral. It was endless and I kept spinning and falling deeper and deeper into the abyss. I could hear the haunting strains of Danny Boy and felt a teardrop rolling down my cheek. I had a strange sensation of wondering if there was liberty in death, would I stop crying in my dreams and would there be relief from the ongoing pressure of trying to live and survive every single day. In addition, what I had heard of death seemed a fairytale a cheap commercial religion. It was a late night advertisement promising “that’s not all.” There were no Gods, white light or angels singing. There was no feeling of eternal peace or a happy land of marshmallows and mud cake. I could not see Jim or Jimi, Janice or Elvis. There was no mention of Kurt or Bon. I did not meet any friends or family that had “passed over,” only darkness and solitude. Where was the afterlife? Where were the trumpets and harps guiding me to the divine kingdom?
I had seen a number of dead bodies in the morgue during my life with the skin a dull uninspiring shade of depressing grey and the eyes closed as if the person were sleeping. I had dreams of watching myself lying on a morticians slab and looking exactly like the dead bodies, I had seen. I was not floating about watching myself it was only in dreams. In death, there is only reflection, not a clear concise orderly type but a reflection you can only see through a steamy bleak moment. It’s not your life played back in high definition with running commentary by a well-known successful actor. Death begins when the heart stops beating. Death is simply no more.

My heart had stopped beating. When the ambulance arrived, I had turned a ghastly blue, I was not breathing and there was no pulse. They started to administer mouth to mouth and CPR. It now becomes like a badly scripted hospital drama. I recall the trip in the ambulance. The sweet female ambulance officer holding my hand and asking what I had taken. I told her I did not know. Lights spinning and flashing and the inside of the ambulance so brightly lit I thought it was in an interrogation room. Arrival at the hospital and lifted on to a trolley and taken inside. The Perspex doors violently flung open as the ambulance officers rushed me to the emergency ward. Onto a bed and the nurses attached a heart monitor with a number of sticky connection devices. Inserted into my arm a drip whilst light flashed into my eyes and voices continued to ask me if I was still with them. There was talk that my liver maybe damaged or my kidneys had stopped functioning. My head lolled to the side just as a needle found my mainline and took a sample of my blood, what a cocktail. The rest is something I never bothered to follow up.
My stomach may have been washed out by gastric lavage (stomach pumping) or activated charcoal may have been given to help bind the drugs and keep them in the stomach and intestines. This reduces the amount of drug absorbed into the blood and once it is bound to the charcoal, it takes a ride on the shit express.
I was not violent so no restraints used. A doctor of Indian extraction came to examine me. Asked again, what I had taken I could only tell him it was white tablets approximately ten milligrams each and I swallowed a fist full. He mumbled something I could not understand so I nodded. He looked worried, I think because he had no idea what to do. He told me he would return in a short while. As I lay there, sleep drifted all around me. Dark blue, white and occasionally pink people would pass by. Sounds of young children crying, muffled voices, and screams from individuals that desperately needed help was the music constantly played in the background.
After an hour of waiting for the doctor to return I decided now that I was awake I could use a drink. After assessing my surroundings the connections to the machines that constantly beeped and the intravenous drip masterfully inserted into my vein and taped zealously by the interned nurse I made a decision to leave. The connections severed and the drip was unplugged, I found my clothes on the chair next to my bed. I changed and parted the curtains. An illuminated green light guided me to the exit. The hustle and bustle of an emergency room must be the same the world over. I made my way out through the madness of a Friday night and silently praised the nurses and support staff that kept a under funded and crumbling health system rolling. Approaching the front door, I walked past my treating doctor. With a glazed look emanating from his dark brown eyes, he asked me if I was ok. Yes, I answered and continued out the door.

I entered the large shopping centre with a single thought in mind. I wanted another beer. The money spent I formulated a plan that I thought was foolproof.
The grey haired red-faced woman serving behind the counter was busy assisting a fat pale faced man. I approached the fridge, with all the bravado of a Spanish bullfighter picked out a large bottle of my favourite brew, and headed for the door. I approached the counter as the assistant was counting the money the old man had provided. Giving a sweet smile, I waved and kept walking. Somewhere in the background, a voice was calling to come back I had not paid for the drink. There is nothing like someone stating the bleeding obvious to keep you on your toes.

Happy with my getting even with the man I headed east. Friday evening on the coast is always a busy time with city tourists arriving on mass and chartered bus groups perpetuating the myth that travel will leave one satisfied.
As I approached the local lookout, a horn blasted, turning I recognised the car and laughed. Sometimes in life, you meet people that change your destiny. In this case that did not happen but at least I did not have to walk back to my car.
The fellow that picked me up was a friend that I had not been in touch with for a number of months. He asked me what I was doing and with blood dripping down my arm and a hospital bracelet still attached, it was hard to say I was just returning from Bali. I told him what had happened he grunted and laughed. Another man of few words I thought.

Entering the public bar the smell of cheap tobacco reminded me of my old man. Every Saturday he would attend the local hotel drink to closing, place bets all day as I waited on the front step with a packet of plain chips and lemonade. I smiled at the barmaid that I had known for a number of years but never really spoke to and with the twenty bucks I borrowed from my friend ordered a couple of beers. I walked back to the table left the drinks and told my friend I had to take a leak. Returning to the table, I sat and expanded on the days events. My friend looked at me not knowing what to say or do. After a few more beers and lingerie models with boobs abreast and buttocks trembling, we decided to leave. He asked me if I wanted a lift home. I said no and that I would see him sometime in the future. I had to laugh when the word future sprung to mind. I watched his taillights leave the hotel driveway.

I was lucky enough to get a lift back to my car. Unfortunately it was by an off duty police officer. She asked me about the coagulated blood and the hospital bracelet. I told her there had been an accident. I told her it was a drunken boy’s game and everything was ok. The officer explained that she had grown up in a family of five boys and knew the antics that could happen when the boys got together. We both laughed.

The officer asked were I lived. Not wanting to appear suspicious, I pointed to a house that was a friend of my son. Occasionally fatherly duties do reap a reward. As she pulled out of the driveway, she wound down her window and told me to go inside and look after myself. I waved and I agreed I would do just that.

The car park was still deserted and the storm that threatened the coast had moved out to sea. Across the road, the hotel was still glowing with Friday night revellers. I walked across to purchase as much alcohol as my meagre funds would allow. A man can become very creative when faced with a limited budget. Wine, cheap out of state beer and some sample wines from a very bored ex model was enough to keep me going until sunrise.

I wiped the sand from my eyes and tried to focus. The morning sun was blinding. I tried to remember were I had landed. There is a six-pack of beer beside me and the front of my jeans is wet. I had pissed myself again. I shiver as the sun starts to warm by back.
I reach for another beer to steady my nerves. I have been awake for less than ten minutes. I have often had visions of being a bum. I have thought there must be a real freedom to it.
Free of responsibility. This is my destiny I thought. The sea was still a mass of rolling thunder, angry and not willing to retreat for any reason. The horizon was a puzzle that no man could solve. I decided to take my cue from the sea and horizon.

Behind the dunes, I have constructed a small shelter. A humpy my old man would call it.
It shelters me from the rain and occasionally from the wind, depending on the direction.
Only the sun and the moon now define my days. The majority of conversations I have are primarily with me. The “moocher” is the only other person I communicate with on a regular basis. He is the other town drunk with a floppy hat and a mouth full of marbles.
I no longer have contact with my family. My mother is sad and lonely. My daughter is pleased that she had been right all along. My wife is moving on. My son comes and visits occasionally with stories of his adventures in the movie business. I am so proud.

Every Sunday morning I take my cask of wine to a special location deep within the national park. It is a six-kilometre walk all down hill. It does not matter on the way back because I am super drunk. I sit under a gnarled and twisted tree it is familiar to me. The wine flows, my blood warms, and the sunsets quietly behind me.