Random Encounter

What. The. Fuck.

First of all, I hate when people knock too many times on your door. Knocks on the door are a tolerable intrusion at the best of times, and only because they herald the bringing of lovely things, but when someone raps 5+ times on my front door with a sense of entitled urgency audible through the house, it makes me unhappy. I'm trying to restrain myself here, because this isn't really part of the story.

I heard one of these obnoxious knocks at the door just now, and left my room to answer what I thought would be one of four or five deliveries we get every week. I opened the door and a gaunt, pasty smackhead, stoned out of his mind with a half-smoked, unlit cigarette in one hand, stood before me. He was swaying.

The first thing that struck me was that this person must have summoned up all of their strength to execute the knocking that had caught my attention, because as he stood there on my front doorstep it looked as if any change in local air pressure would have him reeling on his ass. I've heard plenty about the miraculous feats of balance addicts are capable of (see: David Cross, 'Bigger and Blackerer') but to witness something like this first hand was really a wild ride to Silly Town.

Then he asked me if I had seen his dog. “I've lost my dog... it's a little shitzu... if you find it... I'll give you my number...”

Normally I would have been excited about this... actually, scratch that, I WAS excited about this... but not yet. I was a little worried, or maybe just anxious for this insane interaction to be over, so that my excitement at having had something dumb happen to me today could kick in. “Who are you, ridiculous person?!” I could hear myself preparing to ask. I could hear the story formulating itself in my head already. I love telling stories... I just had to wrap this thing up, this beautiful present that the world had offered me up. Saturday afternoon in Richmond. 3121.

“...uuuh... yeah okay dude.” was all I had... and all I really needed to be honest. The guy had probably forgotten that he'd offered me his number, or that he'd asked me where his dog was, or that he'd ever had a dog (did he ever have a dog?) or what a dog even was. We stood there for a second in silence – just a second, but long enough for it to be mutually understood that our time together was at an end – and then I stepped back a fraction, and began to close the door, looking at his face as I did so. His face looked back at me, and then turned, with the rest of his body haphazardly following it, before disappearing from my view. I heard the gate open, so I know he's not asleep on the couch out the front right now... that's good. I'd to go past there at some point.

It's strange that we live here, so close to the barely-beating heart of the heroin scene in Melbourne's inner East. It's weird to see people consumed with a half-life, stalking the streets every day, I often wonder what their day-to-day lives are like, even though the mystery really isn't hard to guess at. Today though, I didn't have to wonder, I got to peek in, I was allowed the rare opportunity to gaze over the edge and into the blackness in the abyss, just for a second. Only a glimpse. Initially I was angry for the intrusion, then spiteful... but that was just a reflexive reaction. Enjoy your heroin bro, it's your choice, and as far as I can tell you're not hurting anyone – it doesn't hurt to be woken up from idle daydreams every now and then by a bit of reality. That's the reason we live here.

I'm going to get lunch now. The pasty, white ghost with whom I shared a twenty second conversation at 2:45pm this afternoon will probably start feeling sick before sunset. I hope he finds somewhere warm to crash, some downers to help him sleep, and a lighter for his unlit ciggie.

Happy Saturday.

Peace, Taco.

(To read my thoughts on this encounter a few days later after some interesting information had come to light, click here)