The wisdom of the ages, don't stress over what you can't control, just let it be and focus on being happy. Easier said than done. I don't seem to have much control over anything in my life at the best of times. Should I consider myself a piece of flotsam on the ocean's surface? Inevitably headed towards the great Pacific garbage patch? I initially reject the idea of attending the 1997 Budweiser Hawaii Harlequins tournament. But Jonesy uses my credit card details to buy his ticket as he doesn't have the funds. He thinks it proper that he also buy a ticket for me to repay me. Also using my credit card. What are mates for?
I have just quit, or been fired, from my job. Same difference, so I tend to forget immediately exactly how it goes down. They both equal unemployment. On my resume it is always documented as downsized. It isn't the first occasion I have been sacked or resigned from a company. Perusing my CV, you would think the medical industry was in severe recession. Downsizing every few months. Unlike the other times, this time it feels different. There is a change happening, either with me or with the work environment I am used to. Or with society in general. Who has the time to keep track? Change is not a bad thing, it just feels uncomfortable. Like knowing my prostate is healthy is not a bad thing, but to have it inspected to find this out feels uncomfortable.
Something doesn't feel right when I lose my job. This entire year feels different. Princess Diana dies in a car crash. Mother Teresa dies of being overly kind and generous. The UK returns Hong Kong to Chinese rule after their lease runs out. There is a global economic crisis, the Hale-Bopp comet has its closest approach to earth, and to top it all off there is a frigging El Nino weather pattern in the Pacific. I can't keep my head straight with all this going on. Next thing you know some scientist will clone a sheep. Oh shit, that happens as well.
On the five-hour flight to Hawaii I weigh all of this up in my head. There is such a prevailing aura of stress hanging over me that all the other passengers in my row ask to be reseated elsewhere. The stewardesses avoid me like I am carrying the plague. All the signs are there that this is not starting out to be a good weekend in paradise. And they already have the El Nino to deal with. As a travel agent, Jonesy makes a piss poor psychologist. I don't think Hawaii will be able to handle me. They were already fucked over once by Japan. We shall see.
Speaking of days that live in infamy, without diving too deep into the technical details, people living at the time of WWII must have been particularly clueless. First the Germans amass an invading force for Austria that no one sees coming. Then Hitler invades Poland which no one sees coming. The Japanese have a fleet of aircraft carriers approach and bomb Pearl Harbor that nobody sees coming. Hitler invades Russia with 3 million men and 3500 tanks that nobody sees coming. The Allies land at Normandy with thousands of troop carriers that the Germans don't see coming. Did people just not care what was going on around them? What could have been occupying the attention of the people in the 1940's so much that a World War broke out that nobody saw coming. WWII was like Justin Bieber mania in 2009. One minute not a soul knows anything about it, the next thing you know it is fucking everywhere destroying the world.
Arriving at Honolulu airport I am given a standing ovation by the passengers on my flight who are thankful to be rid of me. My travelling companions are not so lucky. My foul mood threatens to cast a dark cloud over their trip. Hawaii is at risk of being drowned by the tsunami of my gloom. The airport sliding glass doors open. My face is struck by the warm rays of the glorious sun. Oh god, shoot me now.
Then something weird happens. There is something insane about what palm trees and a tropical breeze can do to a person's temperament. Within 20 minutes of stepping off the plane I am starting to twitch with the feelings of being refreshed and relaxed. What is wrong with me? An hour passes, and I am standing on Waikiki Beach renting a long board to go surfing. The islands of aloha can do that to a person. Just not if you are flying overhead dropping bombs. If I was a scientist, instead of cloning sheep, I would be trying to work out how to bottle the essence of lying on warm sand at the beach to sell in a range of personal care products. After shave, underarm deodorant, teeth whitening gel. The world is becoming a stressful place to live, we all need a little time at the beach to put things in proper perspective.
There are seven players from the Santa Monica Dolphins going to Hawaii, eight if you include me. I am not pulling on the boots. Ten months ago, I was nearly killed in a car accident and I am still progressing with my rehab. I am working hard at getting back to full strength. Currently I can down four beers before starting to feel drunk. My goal before resuming my rugby career is nine. Seven players are not enough to make a rugby side so someone has been in touch with the team coming to the tournament from Guam, who also don't have a full complement of players, and both team will combine. They will play under the title of Guam and so will be representing that country. Afterwards my teammates claim it as earning an international cap, but I haven't heard the International Rugby Board's final opinion on the matter.
Kapiolani Regional Park is on the forefront of Waikiki Beach and the foot of Diamond Head. Picture perfect. No one could ask for a more spectacular setting for a rugby tournament. I have played my fair share of rugby games on landfilled garbage dumps. This is the place to play the game they play in heaven. The fields are set up beside the Waikiki Bandshell which has been fenced off to act as the legal area for drinking alcohol. Watching guard over the beer garden entrance is an enormous Hawaiian man squeezed into a plastic lawn chair. He sweats like no other man I have ever seen. That is what people do in Hawaii, they perspire. The flashy advertisements all promote the idea that life in Hawaii is all about surfing, paddleboards, and scuba diving. But what you really do while there on vacation is sweat. The official state drink is water and the state food is salt tablets.
Despite the soul sucking humidity, the games are as fun to watch as the beer I sneak out of the beer garden is to drink. I commit the cardinal sin of waiting to the last minute to resist fighting the urge in my bladder. Don't want to break the seal to early and I'll be heading to the bathroom every five minutes. On this occasion I have misjudged the pressure building in my perineum. I probably look like a castrated goat as I scurry off in search of the bathroom.
As I power walk past the sleeping Hawaiian man in the lawn chair at the opening to the beer garden, I ask for directions to the bathroom. He doesn't stir. 'Hey mate, can you point me to the loo?' I ask in a louder tone. No answer. I look closer. The beads of water on his brow are the size of marbles. Sweat is bleeding out of his pores. A steady stream of liquid cascades down the furrow of his nose and pours off his flaring nostrils. Reminds me of the waterfall at the beginning of Jurassic Park. It must be a profoundly deep sleep as the guy barely looks like he is breathing. In fact, I suddenly doubt he is breathing. I gently nudge him. Nothing. Then I shake him, then I start slapping his face trying to get him to respond. No response at all.
I was taught basic first aid from the old school of medical intervention. If someone has a panic attack you slap them hard across the face to calm them down. If someone collapses from cardiac arrest you break their ribs performing CPR. If someone is choking from an object stuck in their windpipe you wrap your arms tightly around their waist and look like you are bum fucking them with a vengeance. This guy is not responding so I get vigorous with my hits. Nothing. Shit. He not only could fill a bucket with his sweat, he has kicked it.
Several other people start to gather around. The police are alerted, and the first officer there makes a perfunctory assessment of the crime scene. A bystander points at me. 'That guy was slapping him around.'
The officer eyes me off, then subtly motions for me to come over to him. 'So, you were slapping him?'
'I was trying to arouse him,' I respond.
'Why would you need to do that?'
'I wanted to know where to pee.'
'So, he didn't tell you and so you assaulted him?' The cop persists.
I can think of many reasons why I
have wanted to kill people, with most of them having been especially trivial. However, committing first degree homicide because someone isn’t willing to tell me where the toilet is situated would be a stretch for Ted Bundy.
'No. He was already dead.' As soon as I said it I knew sounded rather heartless. As in, we wrapped the body in plastic and dumped it in the river to drown it, but he was already dead.
'He was dead before you gave him a chance to answer?'
'He was dead before I knew I needed to pee.'
Surely the cop would have experience with this type of incident before? Why is there any suspicion of foul play? I can't imagine that this is the first incredibly overweight Hawaiian local to go belly up while sitting in a chair under the hot sun. With the size of some of the people on the islands, sitting in a chair is probably the number two or three killer of the populace. With climbing stairs being number one. This is probably the least tragic death I have ever seen. You have to say it must have been his time. He was sitting there minding his own business and peacefully expired. You can't ask for a more laissez faire way to take that final dip in the 6-foot deep kiddie pool. The cop goes back through his notes, is satisfied that this isn't a case of an honor killing and allows everyone to disperse.
'Watch yourself,' he cautions me.
'I'll try be more careful next time I have to take a whiz, mate.'
Later that night I am at the rugby function. I am chatting with some lads on a team from the north island of New Zealand. One of them mentions he lives near Papatoetoe. This name rings a bell from the numerous trips I had made to New Zealand with my family to visit my relatives.
'My cousins live not far from Papatoetoe. One of them is an electrician and he…'
'Matty Smith,' he states without hesitation. It never ceases to amaze me how small this world can be.
'Bloody hell, how did you know that? Is he the only electrician on the North Island?'
'Aren't you the Aussie guy that killed the local?' One of his mates asks.
Shit, bad news travels fast. If I am not careful this news will get back to my cousin, then to my uncle, then to my mother, ultimately it will get to Dad. What the hell has that imbecile done now, will be his reaction.
'I didn't kill him. I just slapped him around a bit. He was probably already dead,' I reply. That sounds right, doesn't it?
And that is another secret of my life that my father never knew about until he reads this book.
Get stuffed the lot of you
A worthwhile life is spent asking questions despite a person not necessarily liking the answers. Do you have the courage to do that? In the search for truth don't let honesty get in the way. I thrive on posing uncomfortable queries to myself. So here is one question I can't seem to find an answer for. Why don't they ever have polygamist Mormons on the New Price is Right? I think it is because when they come to the part of the show when they spin the big wheel and Drew Carey asks the contestant who they would like to say hello to, they don't want the person to say, 'I want to say hello to everyone back in my home town. To my sister and my brothers, to my Mom and Dad, and my other Mom, and my other Mom, and my other Mom, and my other Mom.'
Throughout the history of man, mankind, humankind, cis-peoplekind, transgenderkind (Whatever the current approved politically correct, all-inclusive designation of the homo-sapiens race is) we have searched far and wide for the rewards of myth. The fountain of youth, King Solomon's mines, the sunken continent of Atlantis, the lost Nazi train of gold. Explorers have died in the search for proof of these perplexing mysteries. This has gone on for centuries. At one time in my life I thought all the great mysteries of the world had been solved or written off as being fake. There was nothing left for anyone of my generation to discover. No opportunity for me to cast off to find the elusive western sailing route from Europe to the East Indies. Done. Pinpointing the location of the sunk Titanic on the ocean floor. Accomplished. Determining the mysterious forces at play behind the disappearance of ships and planes over the so-called Bermuda Triangle. No one cares anymore.
The greatest mystery that man now faces is discovering who we each are as a person. Not easy amongst the endless barrage of information, advertising, and calls to consumerism that humans are subjected to. To me, every day becomes an adventure to uncover the lost city of Simon. How much more irresponsible can I be today? I find there is always room for growth. Once I was roped into doing something so stupid it still sends shivers down my spine when I think about it. It was the time one of my oldest mates, Sheilds, and her boyfriend Jim are visiting me in L.A. I love to have a beer with Sheilds. Except she wants to drink Margaritas. So, we will be travelling together to Tijuana in search of mythical treasure.
The fact that Sheilds and I are still in communication with each other after university is no small feat. The age of the earth is measured in millennia yet sometimes it is the minutes that are most important. We met during O-week at the University of Queensland. She lived in Women's College and I was in St. John's, two of the church affiliated, campus residential colleges of the University of Queensland. I took a bit of a liking to her. She seemed to like me, because she talked to me. Let's see where this goes.
The story of the romance of my parents was about all I had to work from at my first year of university. In 1986 Pretty Woman was still four years from release, so I had no idea I would have been better off trying to sweep a prostitute off her feet. My Mum and Dad were the blueprint for love and marriage. Dad met my mother when he needed to have his final thesis for his engineering degree typed up. Someone suggested he ask Mum to do it as she could operate a typewriter and lived in the next town over to his university campus in the north island of New Zealand. That is how they met. Two lines on separate trajectories that one day intersect and become parallel.
Half way through first year I asked Sheilds to type up my first Psych 101 assignment and she obliges. Next day I ask her out and she laughs in my face. In her defense it wasn't one of those loud, spiteful cackles where gobs of spit are showering me in the face and everyone within a two-mile radius rushes over to ask what the commotion is. It is a completely caught off guard, tried to hold it in but in the end just couldn't, quick burst of laughter that still showers me with her spit. I have tasted rejection before, still waiting for a call up for the Wallaby training squad, but this hurt particularly bad. In the classic love triangle story of me, a pretty girl, and a typewriter. Sheilds chose the typewriter.
Don't worry I tell myself, there will be plenty of others. And I was right. Hundreds of other women have rejected me since.
One night at a random party Sheilds and I share a moment of passion where our lips lock. It is a completely spontaneous and unexpected moment, lasting 4.6 seconds. The least exciting thing to happen to me at this party. I dismiss this as her merely taking advantage of me while I am drunk. Despite her attempts to win me back I resist and instead concentrate on being lonely and single. We stay mates throughout university, although I know little of what goes on with her. She is thrown out of the university and I have no idea. Probably thinks I am being a douche every time we catch up and I ask her how her studies are going. Trolling. Her payback for rejecting me.
When I move overseas any remaining threadbare ties we had are completely severed. Then we run into each other in Boston, MA. It is three or four years since we last saw each other in Australia. Sometimes you need to be miles from home to find the time to talk to your neighbour. I can see she is still tormented by her inability to come to grips with losing my affection. She is wandering through life. In this case excitedly moving to England to seek out work. I can tell it is a cover. We swap addresses and like ships passing in the night go on with our lives.
Three years later we run into each other in a beer garden back in Brisbane, Australia. I stepped in to sit down for a moment while Mum went to pick up a prescription for me at the Chemist. Sheilds walks in during that three-minute window. She is on a brief vacation back from England to see family and needs
to stop into the pub for a tinkle. We swap addresses again and she introduces me to her boyfriend, Jim. The anguish of living for years knowing she had screwed up big time by letting me go had finally driven her into the arms of another man. Poor girl, life must have been a nightmare for her. God, or whatever supreme being there is pulling the strings, has timed it perfectly so that we could run into each other again and I could be comforted by seeing the anguish I had left her in all those years ago.
We part and don't communicate a word for another year. Then one day, as I am making plans for a round-the-world trip, I send a letter to the address she had given me. It arrives at her job on her last day of employment. She immediately calls me up and tells me she is flying out to L.A. in two days, where I live, for an interim week between jobs. Ah the chickens have finally come home to roost. Then she tells me Jim will be coming too. Ah yes, old Jim. The fill in. Her second option. I can't wait to reacquaint ourselves.
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