Beautiful, wonderful, Cape Town.
It was October 2014, and how on earth did I manage to make it here? I was in awe of the city and instantly fell in love with it. This was it, I was finally out, away from friends and family, and truly alone. My Promised Land. I began working at this elite finance company as a glorified data capturer, but I was still pretty stoked. I was 23, single, and in a new, stunning city. I had wanted this moment for as long as I could remember, my mind was solely focused on sex in the new city.
Then a curveball.
It seemed I wasn’t quite as alone as I thought I would be, as, to my horror, I discovered that my newly rented room was intimately attached to a larger house that belonged to a middle-aged husband and wife who seemingly longed for a son. There would be no late nights and sex parties here. Additionally, my room was located quite a distance from the city’s vibrant nightlife.
My gross dream of debaucherous parties and conquering the women of Cape Town was immediately crushed as I quickly realised the husband and wife wanted me to fall into the role of an adopted son. Regular check-ins, surprise interruptions, constant messages, or just the man standing outside my door pretending to check the pool every hour became the norm. They were well-intentioned, but at the same time, stood solely between me and my dream of absolute freedom.
I dodged them as best I could, but as soon as I settled in, and likely due to my newly crushed dream, my initial weekends in Cape Town became incredibly reckless.
A default behaviour rapidly emerged from the unconscious.
Friday would come around, and I would finish up work, go home, change, shower, and make my way to the local pub to watch the rugby, and more importantly, drink. I sat alone at the bar and drank until I was drunk. I was likely social enough, but mostly just watching rugby. Once I was sufficiently drunk, I paid, got in my car, and drove drunk back to my little room in Edgemead; and the pub in question wasn’t close, and I did this for months.
How I was never arrested is beyond me.
I don’t blame him for anything, but I think this “default” behaviour of drinking at the pub alone stemmed from my father. It was so strange, as I hadn’t ever really done it before (sit and drink alone at a pub), and I say default as it just seemed so natural, like the logical conclusion of what to do when I was free.
A few months later, around June 2015, I moved away from the foster family and into my own apartment near the city in Woodstock. Finally, the gates had opened. Freedom. I swiped right on every girl on Tinder and was utterly obsessed with sex; my fragile ego desperately seeking validation. In the beginning, I got nothing, but damn, my neighbours did.
Freedom in a new apartment quickly fades when your neighbours seem determined to let you know whenever they’re coming or going.
Of course, my room was a small studio with zero furniture and a tall roof, so it echoed like hell.
With zero likes on Tinder and stuck at night listening to their loud, grunting sex, my ego and sense of worth plummeted. There’s no worse torture than hearing others getting lucky while you’re desperately alone. I quickly lashed out. I used to shout loudly, telling them to shut up, and would throw things against the shared wall.
The rock began sinking
In March 2016, on St. Patrick’s Day, my dad came to visit me in Cape Town, and together we went out drinking on Long Street after I finished work. The whole street was festive, and I ran into a few work friends. My dad left after a few beers, and I stayed with my friends. I honestly can’t remember much after, but I do recall drinking for several hours, getting horrendously drunk and remembering that my car, which was parked at the Waterfront, was about two kilometers away. So in the early hours of the morning, still in my work shoes and attire, I began staggering my way towards it.
Almost immediately, someone tried to pickpocket me. I fell over and flailed my arms around. I then ran a short distance, and when I stopped, someone placed their foot next to mine while another person reached for the wallet in my hand. I shouted and clutched everything in my hands and took off running.
After some quick walking, and now away from the festivities, the streets quieted, and I then managed to get into an argument with a large drug dealer who started following me. I responded by continuing to stagger backwards, loudly shouting, and throwing my coins at him, all the while screaming that this was all the money I had and if he wanted it, he could take it. He never took his eyes off me and silently followed me for what felt like a frightening 20 minutes or so.
Eventually, he figured I wasn’t worth the trouble and let me be.
With each step, the streets became emptier, until it was just me, walking somewhere around the bottom of the City Bowl, likely around 3AM. Somehow, I made it to the Waterfront and to my car.
Feet aching, heart racing, and barely conscious, I started the engine and, within a few hundred metres, I crashed into the roundabout that used to be part of the Waterfront. I blew a tyre and scraped the side of my car. Fortunately, the roundabout is basically a part of a garage service station, so I quickly pulled in.
I still wonder what the attendant thought about me that night. I must have stank as I almost fell out of the car trying to explain I had a flat tyre, when he likely would have watched me crash and pull into the station.
Regardless, he fixed the tyre. I paid him generously and continued on my way home, somehow without further incident.
Upon arrival, I saw my neighbour’s car parked next to mine and, angry at the world, I viciously scratched their car with my key and deflated their tyres. I stumbled into my room and started throwing everything at the shared wall.
I collapsed onto my bed. I had managed to survive a horrible night that could have easily ended with my death.
Rock, meet bottom.
Michael's musings 