The Invisible Man

The Invisible Man, Pages 1-9

The early nineties in Brisbane, Australia, was not unlike many other cities around the world at that time. The dance scene was kicking off, and the drugs followed like a flood to a parched field.

We had suffered under a type of dictatorship, as the Premier of Queensland, Sir Joh Bjelke Petersen, had drawn lines around our state, creating a gerrymander that saw him cling to power for seventeen years, despite the majority of people voting against him.

Bands like The Saints (with their track 'Stranded'), and later Razar (Task Force...Undercover Cop), were considered by Joh to be an affront to society...to be stamped out at any cost. And Joh's Task Force...his personal army, made up of the biggest and hardest cops, made sure anyone who attended such events would learn how jackboots and truncheon could descend upon the innocent.

In the years that followed, the bands and the punters became less fearful. Joh had other problems (charged with perjury over evidence he gave to the Fitzgerald inquiry). Sydney was no longer the place for up-and-comers to relocate for a chance to make their art into a living. Clubs would open and then close down as the youth who patronized these places saw new and more exciting venues on the flyers that adorned the street corner light poles and billboards around the city.

As is the way with youth, change was on the horizon when, in the early nineties, I attended my first dance party. For me, dance and disco have always been my guilty pleasure. Songs like 'Dancing Queen' (ABBA) and 'I Feel Love' (Donna Summer), or anything that had a repetitive beat, were shunned by my rock and alternative friends.

So, with a backpack over my shoulder and a head full of speed, I approached the sound of my future...doof doof doof...and I was still hundreds of meters away. Louder and louder, until I stood outside 'The Arena' in Brisbane's Fortitude Valley. There I felt an energy I never had at any of the rock concerts I had always known.

Hundreds were milling outside the entrance (the baggy pants, bright fluro, and pastels...I must have stuck out like a sore thumb). I thought it would take me forever to get inside, but most were not waiting to get in; they were getting some air or cooling down...smoking cigarettes, and waiting for friends or dealers to show up.

I made my way to the entrance, paid the pretty girl who looked like a happy monster fairy the twenty-five dollar cover charge, and with no idea what awaited me behind those doors, walked through...and was instantly transported to another universe.

I had never heard music so loud or seen more smiling faces. The clubs where the black T's and sad faces had been all I knew were now a thing of my past, as I watched two mini-skirted young girls dancing on a tabletop, smiling at my open jaw.

I thought, "Why were they not seeing right through me?" As had happened so often in my previous life. Looking behind me to see who they were smiling at, and then back...they would have guessed I wasn't from around those parts. But their smiles were the warm welcome I had been waiting for my entire adult life.

There was no click in the room that night, just a couple of thousand ravers, off their heads on MDMA or other similar intoxicants. Dancing and smiling, leaving behind the problems of the world just outside...yet, another universe away. And as I made my way to the dance floor, I had not an inkling of what the next ten years were to bring.

*******

Around a year earlier, in 1990-1991, I began learning Muay Thai (Thai boxing, Valhalla Stables). In my youth, I practiced boxing and Tae Kwon Do, and because of this, Thai boxing came easily to me.

My trainer was Jim. He was a former Australian Welterweight Champion in Muay Thai. Before his retirement, he had traveled to Thailand with the cream of Australia's young up-and-coming fighters to train and fight. Of the five or six that left, Jim and one other Aussie were the only fighters to win their bouts, with Jim knocking his Thai opponent out with an elbow. Returning home to Australia, he retired undefeated, opened his gym, and until recently (retirement), was one of the most successful trainers and promoters in the sport.

*******

Her name was Liz. I moved in across the street from her long before all of this. She was seventeen, tall, blonde, with an ass from hell. I was a year older than her, and the first time I laid eyes on her, I knew she would be mine.

Liz lived with her parents and was in her last year of high school. She was smart and ambitious, and within a year, she and her two friends had purchased their first house together by pooling their finances and making repayments at three times the minimum rate.

In what seemed no time at all, they had almost paid it off (quite an achievement considering the interest rates on home loans in the mid-1980s peaked at 17.5 %). They then purchased a second house. Liz and I lived in the original house, while the other couple moved into the second.

Meanwhile, I was just floating along, working for a builder, smoking lots of pot...and I was happy. We spoke of buying the other couple out. Liz talked to them about it, and they agreed, and so, I got my first taste of commitment and debt...and I was happy.

*******

A few years passed, and Liz and her brother-in-law, Dan, went into business together. She worked for a company that transported fast food to businesses and building sites for smoko and lunches, and she was a natural. And with her super short skirt or cut-off shorts and a crop top, sometimes she made more in tips than she did in wages.

It didn't take her long to realize that she could be doing this in her own van, so, they purchased an F100 Ford pickup, ripped off the tray, and a mobile food van was assembled (bright pink, with her signature lips insignia emblazoned on the side...a replication of her own lips when lipstick was applied, then a kiss placed onto paper, then copied to stencil and tattooed onto her ass).

The first mobile food van was a prototype made from sheet metal. It was so heavy that it had to go into the suspension shop for modifications after the first test drive. Then Liz, blonde hair and hot ass from hell, began muscling in on her former calls and soon had stolen all of the guy's from the girl who had replaced her...that poor girl didn't stand a chance.

For us, the money started to roll in. The business was so successful that Mark II rolled off the production line about six months after the first truck. Only this time made from much lighter aluminum refrigeration paneling.

Liz had become an entrepreneur, and not long after the second, a third was on the road. But her workload had become horrendous. She was up at 3.30 am to meet the baker's delivery driver to ensure her order was correct. Mistakes could be costly and could only be rectified if checked early. She had to hire staff to run the other two vans, but no one was as good an operator as she was, so the other two vans were only moderately successful.

I have to give her credit; she was driven, but it was taking its toll, and our relationship began to suffer. We began to drift apart; too many late nights and little communication left us almost complete strangers.

*******

Around this time, I had trained in Muay Thai for about a year, having spent the past eight weeks in intensive preparation for my first full-contact fight. The venue was 'The Site' (directly across the street from where I attended my first dance party) in Fortitude Valley.


The weight limit for this bout was 67kg...welterweight, and when I showed up to the weigh-in six hours before my fight, I was right on the money at 67kg even. Paul was the guy conducting the weigh-in, whom I was lucky enough to have sparred with in the lead-up to my fight.

He took it easy on me, allowing me to move in...blocking my novice punches and kicks with ease. I knew of his reputation and his fighting experience, and I gave him due respect...enough that he didn't punch or kick me too hard. At one stage, I moved in, and we grappled...he then put a rotating move on me, which I had never experienced before, suddenly going from the aggressor, then into the corner and, if he had chosen, destroyed.

My opponent for the fight (Steve) approached the scales, and he looked big. At least six inches taller than myself and muscular. He stepped up onto the scales, and his weight was 72kg.

Paul looked up and asked, "What weight division is this?"

Jim had not arrived so I said, "Welterweight."

Paul then asked me if I wanted to proceed with the fight. 5kg is a significant advantage in this lighter weight division. I looked at Steve and felt no fear. After eight weeks of hard training and daily sparring sessions with one of Australia's most fearsome welterweights (who after retirement was no longer a welterweight...more like a super middleweight), I said, "I'll fight him."

That night, all my friends, including Liz, had assembled in the crowd. All had heard about the difference in weight, and Liz especially was concerned that I would be outgunned and perhaps seriously injured.

I had never in my life felt anything like it (and still haven't). The MC for the night was Malcolm (BJC Kyoshi-Sama, Blood Axe Dojo, and Jim's trainer), and when he announced my name to the crowd, we entered the arena, and all eyes were on me. I was so focused I couldn't hear them, but I felt them...giving off vibrations of energy and anticipation.

After Jim had gone through our pre-fight ritual, I entered the ring, the bell went, and everything went silent...the only thing I could hear was my trainer's voice. He had put so much work, so much time and effort into me that I could not let him or my club down. He called out the codes for the combinations we had practiced every day, and I obeyed automatically and with deadly intent.

All these years later, I have one distinct memory. Jim called, "OVER!!" It was the code for an overhand right, followed by a left hook. He had seen Steve coming in, and when I heard the call, I launched my right, and it connected flush in his face, and in my mind, I can still see the spray of sweat coming off his head, like a halo, lit up by the bright ringside lights.

I just missed with my hook and went on to win on points. When my arm was raised, I became the first winning fighter for my fledgling club (also winning the fighter of the night award, collecting an array of fight gear that I, of course, donated to my club), and is a record that can never be taken away.

My second, and subsequent last bout, was at the Mansfield Tavern about a year later. The first fight was under kickboxing rules...no knees and no elbows because we were both novice fighters, and there would be no point fighting with weapons we could not use proficiently. This second fight was under modified Muay Thai rules...kickboxing with knees but without elbows.

I had improved a lot in the previous year and had trained hard. The club had classes running Monday through Friday and sparring most Saturday mornings. It was club members only on weeknights, but on Saturday, anyone could attend. We had fighters from every level, including Queensland, Australian, South Pacific, Intercontinental, Commonwealth, and World Champions.

It was not unusual for a rank novice to be sparring with someone much more experienced. If the novice could keep their cool and not go too hard at their more seasoned opponent, it usually ended without anyone getting too beat up. Of course, this was not always the case, but lessons learned the easy way or the hard way are still lessons learned.

This was to be a much different fight from the first. Danny came from Rockhampton. He had quite a few boxing matches under his belt, but his record in Muay Thai was a few fights with mostly losses. Add them all together against my one fight with one win, and I was in for a hard battle.

The bell rang, and in the first round, he caught me with a punch to my head. I was off-balance, and although it was only a glancing blow, my ass hit the canvas. I wasn't hurt, but a mandatory standing eight count was applied by Marty, the referee for the fight (I remember looking over Marty's shoulder and seeing Danny in the neutral corner, bouncing from his left to his right foot, and when our eyes met, he smiled).

In a three-round fight, a standing eight count is virtually impossible to come back from unless I get a standing count on him or I knock him out. I could punch hard, but a knockout was unlikely, so I went to work with the weapons I was strong with. I knew he was a boxer, so, as he came in, I tied him up and kneed his midsection as hard as I could.

Each time he came at me with punches, I parried, grabbed hold of him, grappled, and kneed his midsection...this he did not like. A good knee to the solar plexus will take the wind out of anyone's sails, and in the last round, I struck him again and again, aiming for the same place each time, until I felt him crumple in my arms.


The bell rang, and although I had finished strongly, I didn't think I had done enough to win, but, to my and most of the pundits in attendance's surprise, my arm was raised.

Looking back, that fight at best should have been awarded a draw. Danny was an outstanding fighter, and so, like after my previous fight, we met at the bar to share a drink and have a laugh at what had just gone on. Two highly trained and prepared athletes who, half an hour earlier, were quite literally trying to knock each other's head off...now having a drink, as a mark of respect to each other, and to our sport.

*******

When I was seventeen, I was hit by a car crossing a road. I was sent flying through the air and was lucky not to be hit again by the vehicle coming from the other direction.

It was a hot summer's day, and I lay on the bitumen, wondering if I was still alive. I remember the moment it hit me...BANG...I cursed my stupidity as I spun through the air, and once I realized that I was, in fact, still alive. I stood...well, I tried to, looking down to see my right thigh bend at an impossible angle made me reassess this decision.

It was around midday. I was wearing a pair of shorts with no shirt, and the road scorched my skin. Someone produced a blanket, which brought some relief. It was my fault; I was in a hurry and had run out without looking.

As they often do when blood is on the menu, a crowd had gathered. Gawkers surrounded me, and one of them was a girl I used to date. She didn't know it was me because a gash on my skull had bled to the extent that my face was obscured.

Being the funny guy I am, I cracked a joke. She looked shocked to see it was her former boyfriend, then the ambulance arrived. My leg was still bent at an impossible angle from the earlier attempt to stand up. The paramedics had to straighten it to apply a splint. I swore loudly because the gas (no green stick back in those days) wasn't doing its job. I sucked down as much as I could until they loaded me into the ambulance and took me to the hospital.

So began two years of hell, where pain became the norm. Several major and minor operations, a golden staph infection, and external fixations followed by a full-body cast were just some of the issues I faced. On arrival, I was placed in traction to stabilize the fracture. A stainless steel pin was drilled through the shin bone just below my knee (I was awake when they did this, although heavily sedated, so I have no memory of the procedure). A heavy weight was attached to twin cords and a pulley system that hung over my bed's end.

Two weeks later, a K-Nail (a large hollow nail made of stainless steel) was hammered over the entire femur (from an incision made through the upper part of my bum cheek), and once that had settled, I was cleared to go home.

A year went by, but then my leg began to swell, and a small weeping sore appeared on the outside of my thigh. I went back to the hospital and was admitted, then had an operation to remove the K-Nail.

I had contracted an MRSA, or Golden Staph, an infection that prevented the bone from properly healing. That night, as I slept, I rolled over onto my side and broke my femur again. I screamed in agony, and when a nurse came, I couldn't be given any heavy pain relief because it wasn't prescribed on my chart.

I had to wait until a night-duty doctor came (about an hour later) to sign off on the morphine. They already had the needle prepared. The moment he signed, they gave me the injection, and the entire ward could then get back to sleep after the racquet I had been making.

The Golden Staff infection is symbiotic with hospitals and their staff, so they sent me home once I was deemed fit. I received home visits from blue nurses to change dressings and monitor my general health.

Each morning I would wake up and go lay out in the sunlight, which is Golden Staph's worst enemy (when combined with heavy doses of antibiotics), and within a couple of weeks, it was gone.

Then, back into the hospital for more surgery, where an apparatus called an external fixation was 'applied'. It looked like I had a Mechano set on my upper right thigh. Six stainless steel rods drilled into my femur protruded from the side of my thigh, braced with a stainless steel bar running parallel to the leg, epoxied onto the six pins set three on each side of the fracture.

Eight weeks of this, followed by a further eight weeks in a full-body cast that went from my ankle to my armpits. Going for a shit wasn't easy, but better than the alternative...staying in the hospital. I would do a party trick and open people's beer bottles (before twist tops) with the protruding ends of the rods. They were a perfect distance apart, and the number of people who would cringe or almost vomit made it worth the risk of refracturing the leg if it all went wrong.

*******

Six months before I was hit by the car, my neighbor and best friend Jimmy and I were at a party one Saturday night. As we were leaving, I noticed a vehicle with the keys in the ignition. I told Jimmy we should take it, but he didn't want to.

I said something to the effect that he was a wimp, and, as I was older than him, and he looked up to me, he finally agreed. We drove out of the car park; I wanted to go to the Gold Coast, but he said no, so instead of taking that turn off, I kept driving straight ahead.

Just after this, for some unknown reason, Jimmy reached across my chest and pulled my seat belt down, clipping it into place; he did not do this for his own. Three minutes later, we slid out of control, crossed the center lane, and onto the other side of the road before hitting an embankment. The car rolled several times, ending up on its roof, me hanging by the seat belt that had no doubt saved my life.

I called out, "Jimmy, Jimmy!" He wasn't beside me, and I didn't know where he had gone. The car hissed, and I could smell fuel. I tried to release the seat belt, but I couldn't, it was jammed, and my body weight was holding it fast. Some people had stopped to help. A man appeared, lifting me enough so that the belt was released. I had never been so afraid in my life, and I still have nightmares of being burned alive...but Jimmy?

It happened that a guy I knew had stopped; I recognized him, telling him the car was hot, and that we had to find Jimmy and get the fuck out of there before the cops arrived. His girlfriend said she had seen someone run into the bush beside the road...thank God. I yelled out again, but he must have kept on running. I asked them to take me home, and they agreed. Jimmy would undoubtedly find his way or get caught by the cops once they showed up.

They dropped me off; I said thanks and went straight to Jimmy's house to see if he had turned up. His sister was with a couple of friends, and I told them what had happened. I asked if they would take me back out to help find him, but they didn't believe me. I had a small cut to my head which had bled, and they thought we had gotten into a fight and didn't want to get involved.

I gave up, went home, and went to bed. Not long after, the police came to my house. I heard them pull up, looked out of the window, and then hid behind our couch in the living room. My father answered the door, and I heard them speaking. He went to my room to look for me then returned to tell them I wasn't there, so they left.

My father came inside, and he found me where I had been hiding. I never asked him how he knew I was there, but his words became a nightmare from which I could never wake. He asked me what had happened, and I told him that I had left Jimmy out at the accident.

"Jimmy's dead son."

"What.....no......he ran into the bush, that girl saw him."

"Son, Jimmy is dead.

"NO!".

But it was true. Jimmy had been thrown from the vehicle and suffered such traumatic injuries that he was pronounced DOA. My life was never to be the same.

*******

I was laying in my hospital bed after being hit by the car. Jimmy had been gone six months, and I was starting to believe that I deserved to be punished, that Karma was giving me what I deserved.

Or that Jimmy was angry with me; after all, he didn't want to take that car, he deserved to live, and it was me who deserved to die. I prayed to God to take me instead, but of course, I had to face the reality that he was never coming back.

And, as time went by, I thought of a way to escape this overwhelming guilt and grief that I felt. After getting drunk one day, I went to my parent's medicine cabinet, grabbed all of the pain medication I could find, and walked down to the local bush, down into a gully where it would take days to find me. I sat down with my back against a tree and proceeded to swallow seventy pills, not wanting to spend another day with this incredible guilt and sorrow.

I remember as the drugs took hold, falling forwards and vomiting, then rolling down into the creek bed below me, vomiting again and again before unconsciousness finally took my pain away.

The night sky... stars...where was I? Buzzing all around me...silence.

In the morning, I opened my eyes, vomited, then tried to get up. All down one side of my body were thousands of mosquito bites. I vomited again, but this time I managed to raise myself. I stood in that gully; the realization that I had failed was a bitter blow.

I looked up towards my shame, wanting to remain there...where nobody knew. Where I was to be found by a random walker or bike rider, reported to the police, and bagged up as just another youth suicide—someone who could handle life no more, joining Jimmy at last, happy together forever.

Many years passed. Drugs and alcohol took away the pain just enough to dampen my want to leave...perpetual haze...forget why. Get up, get stoned...no real future, nothing.

They say something good always comes from something bad, and during those dark days, I made some promises to myself. To never again steal. If I found a wallet full of money, it didn't belong to me, so it must be returned.

I never wanted to harm another human being. Before the accident, I was a complete asshole. I didn't care about anyone but myself, taking whatever I wanted without thought. Jimmy's death taught me so many things. How fragile life can be, how easily fun can turn to tragedy, and how one moment in your life can change who you are and where you are going.

Jimmy and I had gone to Moe Webley and Bluey Ryan's tattoo parlor at Stones Corner a year before he died. We walked in, and although we were obviously only in our early teens, we were not asked how old we were. I chose two eagles, mirror image one on each side of my chest, and he chose a skull and crossbones with a dagger running through the middle on his forearm, and below the words...Live Hard, Die Young.

****

I arrived home from work one day. Liz and her driver Rose were finishing up the afternoon's duties. As I walked up the driveway, I saw a guy leaving through the other gate. I walked up to the girls and asked who he was, and Rose looked away quickly.

I looked at Liz, and she said, "He's just a friend."

To which I replied, "Nice ass."

A couple of weeks later, Liz told me she wanted me to move out.

I was floored, "You cannot be serious!"

She told me I had a week to move and went to stay with her sister.

We had two Rottweilers, Buck and Crush. Crush was pregnant and was several weeks off having her puppies. I moved out as instructed and into a granny flat below a share house not far away.

One Friday afternoon, I went to ask if I could see the pups, and she said, "No, fuck off!"

I was ropeable, and as I stormed off to my car, I yelled out, "Tunnel!"

Then to my surprise, a voice yelled from the verandah of our house, and there, right before my eyes, was the guy with the hot ass, and he was making his way down towards my car.

So, I decided it might be a good time for him and me to have a bit of a chat. To discuss why he was now living in my house and fucking my missus. I turned the car off, and he was almost on me by the time I got out. His first (and only) punch just grazed the side of my eye. He wore several rings on his fingers, and one left a slight cut where the punch grazed my skin.

Almost immediately, he began backing up, with me coming forwards, a huge smile on my face.

I shouted at him, "Let's play, Boy!"

He kept going backward and I continued moving forwards until a right hook sent him down and onto the road thirty meters from where it had begun.

He had beautiful long black hair and wore a cap. I had a grip of that cap with his lovely locks firmly in my grasp. I had him pinned to the bitumen, my left hand held that hair tight, my right was back behind my head, ready to smash his face...but then, something held me back.

I screamed, "It's over, Boy!"

I released my grip and began to walk back towards Liz, who was standing with our dog, Buck, in the small gate where I had first seen the Boy leaving a few weeks before.

I said to her, "Get me my money, and you will never see me again."

Then, coming from behind me, this young fellow had decided that it wasn't yet over and launched another attack.

Muay Thai had taught me a lot; when to push and when to relax. He had me in a tackling position and drove me back into the six-foot timber fence I had built the year before. It had a bit of give, and I could hear his grunts as the Boy drove me into it again and again. I was limp as he did this, using only enough energy to keep my weight on him...dead weight...then, I felt him relax. He had used all his energy trying to smash me into the fence, and adrenaline had completely exhausted him, and now, with all that rest I had just enjoyed...it was my turn.

I never really wanted to hurt this kid; after all, it was she who allowed him into our home. And he couldn't let me talk to her the way I did, or he would have lost face and her respect.

But, it was still my home, she was still my missus (in my mind anyway), and they were still my dogs. I gave this kid another chance. I stopped trying to hurt him, and again, I walked towards the gate where Liz and my dog, Buck, waited. She had hold of his collar, and as I approached, the Boy came around to the left of me and stood right by her side.

I looked at them, and an incredible sadness came over me. I knew now there would be no reconciliation, and I said to him, "You're a dog mate, this is my home, and she is my missus."

He retorted, "You're a dog!"

And at that point, something inside of me snapped. I hit him with a straight left, and it was on the money. His nose exploded with blood, and as he tried to throw a punch, Buck lunged, biting his arm, and bringing an end to the fight.

"Good boy Buck." I then reminded her of the money she owed me and left.

That was the last time I ever saw that dog, and I never got to see Crush's pups. I did, however, get my money; a week later, cheques written out by family members for various amounts, tallying up to a thousand dollars less than she owed—a nice offer, which I accepted. Then began my drug-fuelled madness, dancing the nights away, smiling as I had never smiled before.