Everyone loved it. Everyone laughed. Especially Cathy Cook.
I was that guy. I was the fun guy. I engaged.
One day I was driving past our local Nissan dealership and I saw a candy-red 300ZX for sale.
I’d never had a sports car before, and this one even had T-tops.
I pulled my truck onto the lot to inquire. The dealer was motivated to sell.
On the spot, I traded my truck in for that candy-red 300ZX…with T-tops.
I had a red sports car.
Every Sunday afternoon I’d polish and wax that red sports car. It was my baby.
At school, I started parking in the third parking lot, that empty lot way in the back, where no other car doors could dent or scratch my new baby’s paint.
I knew the chicks were going to dig my red sports car even more than my truck, and hence, dig me more. I’d arrive early to school every morning, park in that third parking lot, and just leeeaaan against it.
I was so cool.
My red sports car was so cool.
A few weeks passed and I started noticing some changes. The chicks, they weren’t digging me like they used to. It was like they were bored with me leeeaaanin against my red sports car.
After school they went muddin off road in someone else’s truck instead of cruisin the streets T-tops down with me.
I wasn’t getting near as many dates as I used to. The girls seemed to lose interest in me.
What happened? I wondered.
Then one day it hit me.
I lost my truck.
I lost the effort, the hustle, the mudding, and the megaphone. I lost the fun.
I was too busy leeeaaanin against that candy-red 300ZX with T-tops in the third parking lot.
I’d gotten lazy, started looking in the mirror at my hair too often, relying on that red sports car to do the work for me, and it was doing a shitty job.
I’d outfoxed myself when I’d traded in my truck for that red sports car, and I lost my mojo when I did.
The next day after school, I went back to that Nissan dealership and traded it back in for my truck.
The day after that I pulled into the first parking lot again, flirted with the ladies from the megaphone, and took them off-road muddin after school.
And like clockwork, I was back.
Fuckin red sports car.
Greenlight.
process of elimination and identity
The first step that leads to our identity in life is usually not I know who I am, but rather I know who I’m not. Process of elimination.
Too many options can make a tyrant out of any of us, so we should get rid of the excess in our lives that keep us from being more of ourselves. When we decrease the options that don’t feed us, we eventually, almost accidentally, have more options in front of us that do.
Knowing who we are is hard. Eliminate who we’re not first, and we’ll find ourselves where we need to be.
* * *
On my eighteenth birthday, my parents said to me, “If you haven’t learned it yet, you’re not going to.” In my family, the eighteenth birthday was a seminal moment. It meant no more rules. It meant no more curfew. It meant independence. It meant freedom.
I graduated from high school, and like most kids, I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. I mean, I thought I wanted to go to law school and become a defense attorney, but I wasn’t absolutely certain. My mom came up with this radical idea: “Hey, you love to travel, Matthew. What if you become an exchange student?”
Immediately I was up for it. “Sounds adventurous and wild, I’m in.”
We went to the local Rotary Club that ran the exchange program and learned that they had two openings for a foreign exchange: one to Sweden and one to Australia. Sun, beaches, surfing, Elle Macpherson, English-speaking—I chose Australia.
Next thing I knew I was sitting at a boardroom table in front of twelve suits at the local Rotary Club. After they approved my background papers, a man said, “We think you’d be a great ambassador of the State of Texas and the United States in the faraway land of Australia. We’d love for you to go, but before you do, we need you to sign this paper saying you will not come back until your full year of this exchange is over.”
That seemed odd. “But I am going the whole year, that’s the plan.”
“Everyone says that,” he retorted. “But the reason we need you to sign this contract is because every exchange student gets severely homesick and tries to come home early. We can’t have that happen, which is why we need you to sign this document stating that, ‘I, Matthew McConaughey, promise not to come home early unless there is a tragedy or death in my family.’”
“Look,” I said, “I’m not signing that paper, but I’ll shake on it. I’m not gonna quit and come home, I’m in for the entire year.” I looked him in the eye. “Deal?”
He agreed, we shook, and soon I was packing up to go to Australia for a full year. I’d leave in ten days.
A few days later I got my first letter from my Australian host family, the Dooleys. It read:
“We can’t wait to meet you and are so looking forward to having you in our home, Matthew. We live in paradise. Near the beach, on the outskirts of Sydney, you’re going to love it.”
Yes. Outstanding. Everything I was hoping for—the beach, Sydney—this was going be a blast. Australia, here I come.
Day 1
I arrived at the Sydney International Airport terminal. Duffel bag over my shoulder, I was walking down a long ramp toward a huge room with thousands of people awaiting their arrivals when I heard, through the sea of people chatting and greeting their guests, “Matthew! Matthew! Matthew!” My eyes went to the sound. I saw a hand popping up and down above all the other heads and moving toward the end of the ramp, “Matthew! Matthew! Matthew!”
As I reached floor level, the owner of that bouncing hand who was yelling my name was there to greet me. With an eager smile he lowered that hand and I shook it. Meet Norvel Dooley. Five foot four, 220 pounds, mustache, balding head, and a bit of an English accent I would later come to find out was an affectation he used to appear more proper. “Awww, there he is, look at him, strong, handsome American boy. Welcome to Australia, son! You’re gonna love it.”
He introduced me to his wife, Marjorie. Wearing a white polyester dress with big green polka dots, she was four foot ten, and using a walker because of a kyphotic spinal deformity (which back then we’d have called a hunchback). I leaned down and gave her a big hug and kiss, and she reached up and held my face in her hands, then warmly said, “Welcome to Australia, Matthew. Welcome to your new family; meet my son Michael.” His shirt buttoned down and tucked in with a pocket protector, Michael wore a key ring around his right belt loop that held fifty keys, forty-eight of which I would later find out were unnecessary, but like his father’s accent, healthy for his ego. As I reached out to shake his hand, he sidestepped it in favor of a hearty embrace, before he stepped back and began giving me extremely firm stiff-arm slaps to the middle of my back, singing, “My little brother! My little brother!”
Meet the Dooleys.
We loaded into the car and left the airport. I was riding shotgun, Norvel was driving, Marjorie and Michael were in the back seat. After about an hour, I noticed the skyline of the metropolitan city of Sydney was well behind us in the rearview mirror. Even the outskirts seemed out of sight. I asked Norvel, “So…technically, it’s not Sydney that you live in, right?”
“No, mate,” he proudly replied. “That’s the big city. Sin, sin, sin going on over there, mate. You don’t want to be living there, it’s no place for civilized men. We actually live in a little place down the road here called Gosford on the Central Coast. Great spot, beautiful beaches, you’re gonna love it.”
We continued our small talk and drove another forty minutes when we made it t
o Gosford. Its population looked to be a couple hundred thousand; it was on the coast with miles of beaches, a pretty happening place. “This is going to work, beautiful,” I said aloud. They said nothing.
We continued driving through downtown another fifteen to twenty minutes when I noticed Gosford was now in the rearview mirror. Odd. I once again respectfully asked, “So…it’s not actually Gosford that you live in, is it?” To which Norvel once again protested with pride, “Oh, no, still a bit too citified, mate, loose morals; country livin’s a lot better than that place. We actually live just down the road here a bit in a place called Toukley. You're gonna love it.”
We drove another forty minutes then got to the town of Toukley. Population 5,000. It had one red light, one bar, and one small supermarket, but it was still on the coast, and a very pretty place. “Okay,” I said aloud, “small-town livin, reminds me of where I was born, I can dig it.” They had no comment. Norvel continued driving.
We drove six or seven more minutes and came to the roundabout on the other side of town. Now quite confused, I asked, “So…it’s not really Toukley that you live in either?” Without hesitation and with just as much determination Norvel replied, “Nah, Toukley’s a nice spot, mate, but a bit big for our taste. We actually live in a little gaff down the road here a bit, Matthew, beautiful little spot called Gorokan. You’re gonna love it.”
The pavement turned to blacktop.
A few minutes later we then came upon Gorokan, population 1,800, a sleepy inland one-street country town. No beach in sight. A couple of small one-story wooden houses to the right and left of Main Street. I took a semideep breath and before I knew it we were going through another roundabout on the other side of town, the blacktop turned to dirt road, and Gorokan was in the rearview mirror.
Now a bit peeved, I stated more than I asked, “So…you don’t live in Gorokan, either, do you?”
“No.” Norvel grunted with excitement. “But we’re veee-rry close, mate, just down the trail here a spell, beautiful little country spot, mate, you’re gonna love it.”
We drove down that dusty trail for about five miles. I was staring out the window at the countryside, trying to recalibrate my expectations, when a green roadside sign intercepted my view. It read Warnervale, pop. 305. With no civilization in view, we drove another mile past that sign, and took the first left turn we could, then the first right, then pulled into a gravel driveway up to the garage door of the only house in sight, came to a stop, and turned off the ignition, when Norvel said with great fanfare, “Welcome to Australia, Matthew. You’re gonna love it.”
Day 4
I was washing after-dinner dishes when Norvel and Marjorie entered the kitchen. “Matthew, we’d like to have our extended family over this weekend and we thought you could cook us something, maybe something quintessentially American.”
“I’d love to,” I said. But what to cook, I wondered. “Ah, nothing more American than a hamburger, that’s it, we’re having good old American hamburgers this weekend.”
“Top choice, Matthew,” Norvel said as they turned to leave.
“Actually, no!” I raised my voice. “I take that back. We’re having cheeseburgers, cus the man who invented the hamburger was smart, but the man who invented the cheeseburger was a genius.”
I started writing down a grocery list for my culinary masterpiece—soft white buns, dill pickle slices, cheddar and American cheese, red onion, avocado, jalapeños, real mayonnaise, good ketchup—when I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was Norvel.
“Matthew, would you come with me, please? I’d like to talk to you for a second.” We exited the kitchen, walked across the living room, and down a hallway where he opened the second door on the right. “This way, please,” he said as he ushered me into the room. It was his office. He then shut the door behind us and pointed to the seat in front of the desk. I sat down. He then went behind the desk and stepped up onto a platform where his chair was perched, then sat in it.
Oddly, Norvel, who was five foot four, was now sitting about a foot and a half higher than I was. He settled in and leaned forward. Placing his elbows on the desk, he crossed his hands knuckle for knuckle, looked me in the eye, and sternly said, “Matthew, I’d like to talk to you about your choice of words.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, “whadda you got?”
Chin on those knuckles, he turned his eyes to a portrait of Winston Churchill on the wall, took a composing inhale, and said, “YOU said that the man who invented the hamburger was smart, but the man who invented the cheeseburger was a genius, did you not?”
“Yes, sir, I did say that.”
He took another aristocratic breath. “Matthew…that is merely your opinion. And in your time here with us, you will learn to appreciate fine wines, fine cheeses, and NOT to voice your opinion for the masses.”
“Norvel, it’s a figure of speech,” I said. “It just basically means I like cheeseburgers more than hamburgers.”
“Ah!, ah!, ah!” he chided as he waved his finger at me. “As I said, for the duu-ration of your stay in Australia, with us here in the Dooley household, you will learn to appreciate fine wines, fine cheeses, and NOT to voice your opinion for the masses.”
He was dead serious.
Other than the Dooleys thinking that more than a couple of hours away was still the outskirts of Sydney, this nonsensical lecture was the first odd thing that happened to me in Australia.
I was puzzled, but I chalked it up to “cultural differences.”
Day 8
I started school.
I had already graduated in America, but this school decided to enroll me with the junior class since I had arrived midterm. The thinking was, I could go into my senior term next year with the same group of kids.
Two weeks into the curriculum the year-and-a-half-old syllabus seemed like a breeze to me. Math was so easy it was boring, but I was enjoying my creative writing in the English classes. The teachers, on the other hand, were not. They red-pen marked up everything I wrote and gave me F minuses across the board because of my use of contractions, euphemisms, made-up words, and occasional profanity.
“Look, I know how to write, I passed those tests. I am deliberately writing how I am, I’m being creative, expressing myself,” I said. Their response? “F minus!”
Socially the school was awkward as well. Everyone wore uniforms and played tag at lunch. No one had a driver’s license, no one wanted to party, and the chicks were not digging me. I felt like I was back in junior high. I started missing my truck, my friends, those girlfriends, my freedom, Texas. But I told myself everything was fine, all part of the adventure—cultural differences.
I soon started skipping class daily and going to the library instead, where I discovered the great English poet Lord Byron. I had three cassettes: INXS’s Kick, Maxi Priest’s Maxi/Maxi Priest, and U2’s Rattle and Hum.*2 I’d listen to them on my Walkman while I read about romance.
Two weeks later the principal came to me in the library. “Matthew,” he said, “it doesn’t seem like this school thing is working out for you, mate. I was thinking that maybe you could transfer into our work experience program where you would practice a trade off campus. You wouldn’t get paid, but you would get school credit.”
Fuck yes. “I’m in,” I said.
* * *
My first job was as a bank teller at the Australia and New Zealand Bank. Being around adults was refreshing. I became friends with the manager of the bank, Connor Harrington; we enjoyed lunches and a few pints together after work.
Back home with the Dooleys, peculiar things were still happening.
Per usual, we ate an early dinner, 5:00–5:30 p.m. at the Dooley household. It was always me, Norvel, Marjorie, Michael, and Michael’s girlfriend, Meredith, at the dinner table in the kitchen. Meredith was twenty-two years old and had a slight developmental disability that didn’t allow her to drive a
motor vehicle. She also had a habit of five-finger squeezing the whitehead pimples that were sometimes on her cheeks when she got nervous. I liked Meredith, we got along well, and she had a great sense of humor.
While at the dinner table one late afternoon, I had the Summer Olympics on the television just in view from the living room. The US was about to race in the finals of the Women’s 4 x 100 meter relay. I seemed to be the only one interested. Bang! The starting gun went off and less than forty-two seconds later the US women had won gold. I clenched my fist in pride and patriotism and let out a muttered “Yes!,” mostly to myself.
Norvel evidently saw this as an ideal moment for a history lesson. He leapt from his chair and scampered into the living room where he shut off the TV mid-post-race celebration and then marched back to the kitchen. Standing over me, he said, “Matthew, would you come with me, please, I’d like to talk to you for a second.” Uh-oh. He escorted me out of the kitchen, across the living room, and down the hallway to the second door on the right. Yes, back to his office where this time he grabbed an encyclopedia off his bookshelf, sat upon his high chair, glanced at Winston on the wall, opened the encyclopedia to a dog-eared page, and began to lecture me. “A real athlete, Matthew, a great athlete, was this young chap from Great Britain named David Broome, who, in the 1960 Summer Olympics, won a bronze medal in the equestrian event of show jumping!”
“Okay, that’s cool, Norvel,” I said.
“And another thing, Matthew, that silly movie Stripes you were watching the other night—it’s brainless and imma-tur! It is a fuu-rther example of the inferiority of American humor to that of the English.”
Wow. “Okay…Mind if I go finish watching the Olympics?”
I was starting to feel pretty uncomfortable at the Dooleys. But hey, I told myself again, it’s just cultural differences.
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