In the beginning months, the work with Paula and Megan was mentally hard but not physically demanding. I finished the day with energy to spare but nowhere to spend it. I tried to avoid idle time, but I couldn’t run away from it entirely. I knew that I needed it to process the work and heal the deep wounds that still stung. But my weekends were entirely idle. I had no motivation to do anything. Saturdays and Sundays I was on “forced rest.” I wasn’t allowed to do class, exercise, or exert myself physically. In the early stages, walking was monitored as well. Sue would say, “Enjoy the weekend. Drink a few beers. Relax!” In other words, “Be happy!”
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ON SATURDAYS AND Sundays I woke up at noon, if not after. (In New York I was up by nine thirty at the latest.) Bringing my coffee back to bed, I’d waste time online or on Netflix until around three o’clock. Feeling peckish and thirsting for my first beer, I’d finally head out to the pub, order a pint, and smoke a cigarette outside. After a burger and fries, and three pints, I’d stumble home, crawl back in bed, and watch more movies.
I knew I was being self-destructive. And I didn’t care. I would spend whole days just lying there, or sitting outside the pub alone, in a daze, watching the traffic go by, drinking beer after beer. I would imagine running into someone I knew. That they would see me in this grungy state, in the middle of the day, that stereotypical drunk. I knew I was depressed. I knew I wasn’t helping myself with my mental health or recovery. Still, I indulged.
I became a regular at specific watering holes, that American sitting alone at the bar. One was the Prahran Hotel, my weekend midday haunt. I’d head over there around three and order lunch and a beer at the bar. While I waited on the food, I’d go out for a smoke with a Carlton Draught, my beer of choice. Aussies considered it a cheap, trashy beer, but I’ve seen them enjoying a Bud, which they think is a high-quality import.
Another haunt was the Flying Duck, a pub minutes from my apartment. I didn’t care that I was alone there on a Saturday night, when all around me were men trying to impress women in short skirts. Again I was that loner in the corner.
On Friday evenings I’d go to a beautiful park where dog owners would take their pets for a run. Growing up with golden retrievers, I found joy in watching the dogs dashing around frantically searching for balls. I’d buy a six-pack of Carlton Draught and settle onto a bench and watch. I’d sit there for two or three hours, calmly sipping beer after beer until the sun had completely set and everyone had gone home but me. I became that man seated alone in the park until after dusk, drinking beer. The one whom everyone would fear and take pains to avoid.
At the Flying Duck, it was seldom busy midweek so as I drank my beer alone, the staff would come over for a chat. They’d ask me what I was doing in Melbourne (my accent a dead giveaway). I’d fill them in. One thing would lead to another, and after a couple of weeks, I knew most everyone who worked there.
Instead of “knowing” them the way I would in New York, which would only ever amount to saying a cordial “Hello,” “You good?” “Yes, and you?”, I made the effort to really talk with these people. The same went for Alex, my morning barista. I didn’t have seven places to be at once, like New York makes you think you do. I set aside the urgency and self-importance that come with an overly committed lifestyle. In New York I would feel that I couldn’t be bothered speaking to people uninvolved in my everyday tasks. But in Melbourne, being in these places was my everyday task. It felt honest and true. And I liked stepping back and experiencing the people around me. It contributed to the rehabilitation I was just barely beginning to experience.