Himalayan Alien Communication

 

The joint was in my friend group for around 25 years, a rundown, ramshackle white weatherboard house opposite the beach in Narrabeen. Tenants came and went – and sometimes came back again, unable to resist the gravitational pull of cheap rent, a great location, an acceptance of personal quirks, and the idea anything was really possible.

 

On the odd occasion a spare room came up and a random moved in, they were quickly indoctrinated into our micro-lifestyle, its values, vices and ways of doing things. We called this ethos “NLEG”, the Narrabeen Lifestyle Exponents’ Guild, and it was built around the idea of courtesy, a concept underpinned by a belief that what goes around, comes around. If you were broke and waiting for payday, someone would sling you a beer, or a line or a cone, with no ledgers being kept. But you had to uphold your end of the bargain too, and offer courtesy to others when you could and they needed it.

And while we were very liberal when it came to substances, there were a couple of rules: no ice, and no heroin. Just about anything else was fair game. 

 

The Wonder, one of the original tenants, christened the place “The Palace” and the name stuck, sometimes being used interchangeably with the moniker “One Forty”, after its street number.

 

A kilometre or two up the road was another satellite sharehouse, a series of linked rooms and a massive, but seldom-used, verandah located above a funeral parlour. It was known as Rock Central, and had been established by another original Palace tenant, Dudley, when he hooked up with his missus. It was within staggering distance of The Sands Hotel, a pub once known as The Royal Antler, whose band room had played host to groups like INXS, The Angels and Midnight Oil in the 70s and 80s. Its last gasp was when Monster Magnet played there in the early 90s, a show we all attended.

 

Sadly, the property greed that saw the Sydney live scene killed in the 90s lead to the Sands being redeveloped into a characterless tavern, the band room replaced with pokies. Part of Narrabeen lost its soul when that happened, and we rarely drank there.

 

A variety of characters moved through Rock Central, including The Fonz, a shady small-time coke dealer with a misogyny problem, and Raquel, a stunningly beautiful hot mess who had a different boyfriend every three weeks. But even with her lack of judgement in other areas, Raquel was smart enough, despite his best efforts, to stay away from The Fonz.

The ethos at Rock Central was also different to The Palace, as were the vices. Courtesy played less of a role, and they were all about tequila and sambuca, whereas we focused on beer, bongs and lines when we could afford them. And while The Palace had a cockroach problem, everyone tried to keep it clean and tidy. By way of contrast, there was a four-foot-high stack of empty pizza boxes in the corner of the kitchen at Rock Central. It was rare that we’d make the walk up the road to hang out.

 

The Palace sat on a massive block, with room for a bunch of cars parked out the front and a courtyard, outbuildings and a huge yard, punctuated by a giant, old Fig tree, out the back.

 

Early on, someone tied a hammock between the fig and the fence, but it never got used because it sat over a damp depression in the soil beloved by mozzies. 

 

Sometimes, on a Sunday arvo, we’d fire up the BBQ, put on the tunes, crack a few beers and break out the Boules. If someone had scored, even better.

 

We all knew a few dealers but tended to gravitate to one or two because of their quality and how easy it was to conduct a transaction. Send a text or make a call, drive five minutes, get on, out with the door and back home. None of the small talk and hanging around many purveyors of Class As make you endure.

 

The centre of The Palace had once been a loungeroom, but it was insulated and converted into a band room, loaded with amps and instruments and a drum kit. We’d jam out, my rudimentary bassplaying just about able to manage a cover of Stereolab’s “Contact.” The other guys, more accomplished musicians, were courteous enough to put up with my ineptitude.

 

Behind the bandroom was a smaller room that had been converted into a kind of office, with a desk, soundsystem, computers and comfy chairs. We often ended up in there, playing tunes on YouTube, snorting lines, drinking beer, smoking cigs and talking bollocks. Anyone wanting to relax and watch TV could retreat to the loungeroom out front. There was plenty of room at The Palace.

 

Drugs are a market, just like any other market. Sometimes there are shortages, and supply chains break down. Your guy can’t sort you. One time, for some reason, there was a weed shortage. No one, not even the best connected of us, could get on. Mad Dog, one of the residents, had started getting into synthetic weed. For a while it was legal, available at shonky hippie shops, and generally known as K2, like the mountain that vies with Everest for the tallest in the Himalayas.

 

I wanted to get stoned, was sitting in the back room, and asked Mad Dog for a cone of K2. If it worked for him, I reasoned, there’s no reason I would have a problem with it. He packed me one, I pulled it and waited. Then it hit me. I slowly slid out of my seat onto the floor. I’d been nailed. Mad Dog, Unky and the Robed Priest stood over me, their voices sounding like an alien language.

 

Later, I found out how pissed off The Robed Priest was with Mad Dog for giving it to me. “You can look after him,” he apparently said, saying I was Mad Dog’s responsibility.

 

After about three hours, I finally got up off the floor. I’ve taken a lot of drugs over the years, and never had a bad experience until then. Sure, sometimes acid gets annoying when it gets to hour 7 and you just want to go to sleep. And the same goes for rack – it would be nice to get some shut-eye, but there’s nothing bad about it, or anything that can’t be dealt with.

 

The K2 was the worst drug experience I’d ever had. I learned my lesson, and now stick to what I know.

 

Two or three years ago the Palace tenancy by my friends ended. The group of nuns who owned the property wanted to redevelop it. An era had ended. But for the 25 years it lasted, it was good.