Like A Cactus Wearing Groucho Marx Glasses

Prologue

Fuck.

Isn’t it just the greatest word? I think so. Not in a Fred Durst, I’m-so-bad, 46-fucks-in-this-fucked-up-rhyme sort of way, but I like it nonetheless.

People seem to like using it because it became a habit in their teenage years and it beats having to learn a new verb. Or noun. Or adjective.

I like it because it’s the least apathetic word in the English language. Because I think we should all choose evil over indifference. Try it yourself – instead of saying “I don’t care,” say, “I don’t fucking care,” and all of a sudden you’re taking a stand instead of sitting back. Think of it like changing a message on paper to large-scale graffiti on public property; its glorious, empowering.

Some people are afraid of it.

I’m a writer. I don’t fear words.

Some people don’t want teenagers to become obscene and disrespectful.

I’m a teenager. I have nothing but respect for obscenities. Well, most of the time.

To say that this is my story implies that I’m somehow involved. I guess I am, but I’m only one character. Not the protagonist, as I tend to antagonize myself more than anyone else you’ll hear about. Ex, The Simple One, Norm and Opher – they’re all annoying as hell, but I love them. As a rule, I don’t think ‘bad guys’ should be loveable. I’m the bad guy here. Lonely and trying to conquer the world, armed with daydreams and words. Actually, that’s an interesting thought.

The good guys of the story are the words you’re reading from here to the last page.

They saved me.

Chapter One

Right, today I’m going to be witty and suave, just like yesterday. If I keep at it I won’t even need to think about it anymore.

It’s hard to be the debonair stranger on a train when you aren’t wearing pants. I don’t even pass as the crazy person that people purposely avoid looking at. I’m wearing a brand new pair of Converse All-Stars, a buttoned shirt and jacket – all perfectly – but when people can see that you might actually be sane despite your lack of wardrobe, EVERYONE looks at you. They aren’t afraid that you’ll snap and wreck up the train or anything like that, so they indulge themselves in your missing attire’s revenge on your pasty white legs.

Some old lady was most offended, so I used the crowded carriage as an excuse to stand near her. Before you think I’m enjoying this, wait until I explain why I’m not wearing pants.

It won’t be a long wait.

I promise.

The mechanical worm of a Transperth train pulled into the Leederville station at about 11:30, and since it wasn’t my stop, I moved against a current of people getting off and found somewhere to sit. Sadly, I had to move away from the offended old lady.

Next to me was a family of Hispanic looking people. They reminded me of Norm, despite looking nothing like him. They were a family, and that was Norm all over. He’d be a family by himself if he had to.

There were two young boys, mum, dad and a baby of unidentifiable gender in a pram. The boys were hyperactive, mum was attractive and dad was overweight. All qualities that seemed to follow me in the friends I kept.

Ironically, my attractive friend was also overweight. Think about that while waiting for an explanation for my sociopath costume.

The young boys were looking out the windows, marveling at everything like they were on an intergalactic sightseeing tour. “Daddy, look! Fire engine,” one of them said, pointing at something out the window behind me.

I didn’t ascertain whether it was actually a fire engine or not, and neither did Daddy. He just said, “That’s great, little man,” and continued talking with his wife. Or girlfriend.

The other people continued to stare at me, but I wasn’t as much of a spectacle now that I was sitting down.

After a few stops the Hispanic family got off the train, and I smiled at them as they did. ‘A smile is a universal hello.’ I think I read that in a travel brochure once. I’ve never been out of Perth, but I had been planning my escape hopelessly for two years now. I’d get to Zurich one day. Or Stockholm.

Across from me was a man in a suit, working on his laptop computer as the world rushed past him outside the window. Anyone with an appearance even the slightest bit ambiguous is open to interpretation.

I was the only one paying attention to him.

He was the only one not paying attention to my pasty white legs.

I liked to think he was an internet poet. Sharing his verse in a timeless, cyberspace reading that would last until technology destroyed itself. Broadcasting emotion into a cold world of circuits and pornography, and maybe a feeling to one lone person in a library, or a bedroom, whose only culture comes from a broadband connection.

He wasn’t, of course. I just liked to think he was.

The Simple One got on at the second last stop before the train turned around and went back to the city. He had my pants, thankfully.

“Next time I’m organizing things, savvy?” I said as he sat down next to me.

I said ‘savvy’ because of a popular movie about pirates in the Caribbean Sea.

He handed me my pants and I stood up to put them on, much to the dismay of the populace, who had grown accustomed to my rebellion against the concept of ‘dressed’.

I’m so suave.

“Why? I think I did alright,” he said. He was proud of his ability to put together a party that was both totally needless and able to make for a night no one will forget. In truth, he did a great job. I’ll never forget it.

“Yeah, sure. The police thought it was great.”

“Are you kidding? They didn’t know what to think. They came ready to bust a riot and found us all sitting on cushions that were vibrating from the ear-splitting dance beats.”

“They must’ve thought we were all on ice or something.”

He laughed. “Nope, just love. We were all on love.”

I laughed. “True. There was a LOT of love going on. Well, at least from what I saw in my corner of involuntary celibacy that housed me all night. You all seemed to be having fun.”

“What is this? An attempt to get sympathy?”

“It’s definitely an attempt.”

“Keep trying.”

Now that I was fully clothed and ready for a day of forced social situations with a hint of what tasted like teenage desperation, I felt pretty good. Still, if I were any sort of teenager I’d be hung-over in a gutter somewhere.

You know you have someone good to talk to when there aren’t any awkward silences. You know you have a friend when you can have silences that aren’t awkward. The Simple One and I spend a lot of time in comfortable silences; we even talked about it once.

It was Sunday, which meant a day off. For The Simple One, it came as a welcome release from everything that existed outside the concept of a ‘day off’. It meant spending time without thinking about it, which is hard for someone like him who studied metaphysics as a hobby.

It was also the year that I had chosen to differ from university and do absolutely nothing, which meant I was sick of days off by now. It had only been two months since Highschool graduation, and I already missed structure.

I was thinking of upgrading my status from ‘unemployed’ to ‘unemployable’.

The Simple One had been at university for two years, and already he missed having ‘days off’.

I suppose that because there is a hiatus of activity in this part of the story, I should explain a few things.

I refer to him as ‘The Simple One’ because he is the world’s simplest riddle, but a riddle nonetheless. Despite all his complications and mild neuroses, he was easy to figure out. In fact, I had figured him out so well that my summary of him could be placed on a tombstone. Years from now, when he dies from either a car crash or liver failure, I’ll insist on finding a large stone and carving the words: HERE LIES THE SIMPLE ONE. HE LIKED HIMSELF FAR TOO MUCH TO EVER FIND IMPERFECTIONS.

Think about that while I explain why I wasn’t wearing pants that day.

Sometimes words pop into my head randomly. This particular pop equated to a thermonuclear explosion. I often wonder what the difference must be between these pops and people hearing the voice of God, but the theological ramblings are an event for another time.

“Let’s go for a run,” my head said to me, and mushroom clouds of proclamation ensued as I told everyone about my idea.

Too much liquid cynicism had been consumed by that point, so I went alone.

Before you think I’m erratic and incapable of thinking things through, you should know that I thought about it for a few minutes before going. I reasoned that the true nature of the night can’t be witnessed in a backyard. It lives out there, where the spaces around you feel as big as the one above you.

I always appreciated the night.

Long story short: I lost a shoe and my pants were a bit too long, which resulted in the bottom of my pant leg getting dragged through the dirt of wherever the hell I went. They were nice pants, so I stopped to take them off in order to keep them clean.

The second part of a long story short: I spent a few hours after that without them on, and by that time it had begun to feel like nothing was wrong, so I went home not noticing that I was only about 60 per cent dressed.

Now, were you wondering about why I cared so much about the pants, or why such an odd party was taking place? I sure hope so, because this is the only form of suspense I can create without trying to convince you that maybe someone I knew was sending information to the Russians.

Most of the people I knew couldn’t even find Russia on a map.

We got to Fremantle at about noon, and instead of heading straight to the music store, like we normally did, we had to meet a bunch of people that I didn’t even know existed.

Last week, if someone told me that there was a group of girls in Western Australia that dressed like prostitutes and were top of their classes in just about every subject in their last year of Highschool, I’d have wished to meet them.

Now on my way to meet them, I wish I was at home with someone that doesn’t exist anymore.