aleX gOes To baLi

By Glen Brumby

aleX gOes To baLi – Alex, a young man with asperger’s syndrome tendencies, decides to kill himself after realizing he hates his life and that he has lost the will to live.
Looking for a reason to live before he dies, Alex makes a plan to test out what life has to offer with surprising results as he meets drug addicts, bikies and criminals along the way. The decisions he makes trigger a range of deadly disasters for everyone around him as his choices lead him on a random path through some wild parts of a social jungle. When things go badly awry and he is hunted by murderous bikies, the police and the media, Alex decides to take a trip to look for a last big adventure, a little bit of love and maybe even some hope.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Glen Brumby
• Release date: Dec 19, 2013
• ISBN: 9781310382925

Glen Brumby

I am married to Aija and we usually live at the Gold Coast in Australia although we are currently travelling around. Our children are Elise and Aleks. Aija and I have lived in the UK and in Germany. I studied arts and law at the University of Adelaide. I have had a number of interesting careers, including being a professional squash player, a fire-fighter, a teacher at Uni, a prosecutor and a senior public servant. I've also worked in a medium sized law firm for a while. I've also worked for a long time in building policy for the Queensland Government and I was proud to serve on the Australian Building Codes Board. Now I am writing and trying to keep fit. I have an ambition to write a novel that people say they can't put down.

Book preview

I am grateful to all of my friends for providing feedback on the various drafts of this book, in particular, Gerard O’Brien, Andrew Sinclair, Mark Francis, David Caro and Bruce Harper. These guys have been extraordinarily patient with me, which I know is hard when I am in one of my manic phases. Also, as always, my wife Aija has been incredibly supportive of my self-indulgence. A special thanks to Michelle Gonzales for helping me with the cover image. Lastly, please know I have enormous respect for the work of academics, public servants, journalists and the police service and this work uses them all in an entirely fictional way.

Prologue

An eleven year old boy navigates a path among the crowd of solemn adults at his grandfather’s wake, carrying his favorite academic book about volcanism. The old house is too hot for suits. Men carry their coats on their arms and talk to other men. Women sit in strategic positions near pedestal fans which are arranged to distribute a little lifeless relief to the mourners by moving stifling air from one place to another.

Tall for his age, the thin blond haired boy assesses the offerings of savory treats and opts for a warm sausage roll. After dipping it deeply into a bowl of tomato sauce he takes a bite. A disobedient dollop of bright red sauce drips onto his white shirt. Aware of the ire this will bring from his mother, he seeks out his grandmother who is sitting in the kitchen weeping quietly as she looks at her photo albums with her son.

Making his way through the crowded space, with his growing feet, the boy is uncomfortably aware he needs to take great care if he is to avoid stepping on any of the edge lines of the grey linoleum tiles. He plonks himself down onto a chair beside his grandmother to explain what he found to be the most interesting part of his book, namely the difficulties volcanologists face in avoiding incineration from exposure to pyroclastic density currents.

The boy’s grandmother and her son, who is the boy’s father, look up from the photos with puffy red eyes to listen. For a moment the boy examines their faces which are damp from grief. Then he goes on, Nana, pyroclastic flows can reach one thousand degrees Celsius but even the cold ones are lethal if they engulf you, at two hundred and fifty degrees. The boy’s Nana and his father nod their agreement.

Chapter One

Alex – Decision day

I decided to kill myself today. What a huge fucking relief.

I don’t feel inclined to explain why I feel the way I do. It might come out, it might not. It’s my life. I don’t need to win this argument or even make one. I feel the world doesn’t need me, or particularly want me. My appreciation of the world is a matter for me and if I don’t like it I can leave it. It isn’t Eden. It’s not paradise. For me, the world is just matter and energy. If I stop existing it will be like turning an appliance off. Like a television just going blank at the press of a button when you don’t like the show.

Sitting in my room, looking around, with the passing thought, is there something I could use? This is stupid. The thought emerged because I suddenly felt so good there was a need to validate my commitment. After all, if the relief was real, then my resolve has to be real too or my pain will re-emerge. I test this and it proves true. Mentally recanting causes my anxiety to rise.

Electricity sockets, a big plastic bag, maybe my box cutter knife? Again, stupid. I realize I need to plan and do it properly. Doing a bad job could be catastrophic. I start to imagine what it might be like to be in a half-way house, brain damaged and unable to take it all the way. Or, in great pain. Troubling images make me feel upset. I realize I just don’t know enough about it. Dying elegantly and serenely is my goal. I have basic ideas about killing a mammal but if it is me I am killing I want to do the best job I can. What is needed is knowledge, a plan and a timeline.

I leave my room and go walking around the building. I live with my parents in an apartment building. It has seven levels. On one façade it is about twenty five meters from the roof to the ground and on the opposite side it is only about ten meters to the ground. On the higher side, the ground below is sloping and covered in bushes. On the other side the internal compound is tiled and flat.

My father works in emergency services. He brings home lots of interesting facts he says have been tested by reality. He tends to be quite reliable. I trust his opinions. Apparently a fall of eight meters to a hard flat surface will reliably cause death to humans. I take the lift to the roof, walk to the rear balustrade wall and look down to the tiles. Ten meters looks like a long way down but I don’t feel confident about death. Maybe if it was twenty meters.

I walk to the other side of the building and look down at the tops of bushes. No, this is really too risky. I go back to the tiled area and look down. Climbing onto the top of the wall, I lean into the wind. I only need eight meters. I have ten. If I will myself to land on my head I can control the outcome.

I feel sick. I don’t like heights and the thought I might not be able to overcome reflex actions to shield my head make me pause. Plus the wind fluctuates and there is the risk I might just fall. I climb down and sit on the concrete to let the dizziness pass and I summon up the courage to reflect on my impulsiveness. My decision is only ten minutes old and here I am fucking around like an amateur. This is not like me. I am methodical and thorough. Emotion has taken over. It must be crushed.

And what is the rush? Is impatience a function of the feeling of relief and the need to prove to myself I have the courage to do it? That’s probably right. I have the relief which comes from my firm resolve. A final decision. No-one can stop me. No-one knows what I am thinking. I can luxuriate in my deliberations as long as I like. It can be an artful death. Something to be proud of. Yes, I need to do this well. It should be perfect.

I go back to my room. How do I feel now? It’s really hard to say. Overall, it has been a productive period. Apathy, ambivalence and pain are gone, replaced by pride, resolve and a new calm. Yes I am proud of myself. Life isn’t happening to me anymore, I am going to do something positive to life, something for me.

Suddenly, I feel selfish. What will my mum think? My dad? Wow, I’d forgotten the implications. I better leave a note. A thank you note will make them feel better because they will know I’ve thought it through.

Feeling better again, it occurs to me there are some things I can do to make the process very methodical and thorough. I write down a list of my problems. It isn’t very long and I look at it for a long time. I see there are some things that need to be tested before my final decision should be implemented. My main problem with life is I have had enough of it. I have isolated myself, that is true. But only because I don’t like life. You may, I don’t. That’s it really, I feel alone and tired of my life. My dad says it is my brain chemistry. I say so what? If you open your eyes and the world is bleak, the world may actually be bleak. He has a positive bias. At my best I am neutral and the world I inhabit does not seem kind to me. However, for argument’s sake, I’ll test it. Test my perceptions of the world and whether I can adjust the dials of my bias.

If anyone can, I should be able to do this. I know I have a special capacity which is also a bit of a curse. Humans have an ability to see patterns in nature. An important aptitude I think. Obviously, we are all different and we all have varying degrees of ability. But I see patterns everywhere even when they may not really be there. Surely I can work out how to predict girls of my own age. I can work out most humans, even older or more mature women, and I think I have become quite adept at conversations with older people. It’s simple really, because most people have pet topics and biases which are easy to identify and exploit. Most often you ask people questions and then they will talk about themselves for as long as you like. All you need to do is look at them periodically, nod a bit and add in an occasional prompting question. Then they think you are a wonderful conversationalist. But girls don’t follow patterns I can discern and this doesn’t work with them. This makes me feel quite alone because I want to be with a girl.

Over time, I have become more afraid of interactions with people. I am hyper self-conscious and each interaction leaves me with so many new insecurities I’d rather not have any. I see also that the rise in my anxiety coincides exactly with the rise in my desires for girls. There, I’ve said it. I’ve recognized what may be one of the roots of all my problems. At twenty two I am afraid of people and in particular I find younger females utterly inexplicable. My fears have even made me feel awkward with men. It’s like there is a club. I am not a member.

I have a theory. Girls select boys. We boys are serially available and girls just look and wait. We’re supposed to do all the work. Then they pounce on the one they want. Clearly, evolution has made them selective because they only get to have one baby at a time. Boys on the other hand will be favored by a strategy of being always available. This means I am fucked. I don’t have the moves to make it through the selection phase. I feel like I am going for a job I’m not qualified for.

So, my list, which I don’t feel able to disclose as it stands at the moment, features my lack of any relationships with girls. I can talk to them and I have. Just not in a way that feels like it will lead anywhere. I can’t read their cues and I can’t see they follow any rules.

My dad says just give it a go. He says if you fuck up, just say sorry. That’s what he does. How does he do that? Blundering along in life and just jumping into things unreflectively, like a little child. Well I’m not a little child and I don’t do things without thinking them through. I think to be properly civilized you need to imagine the harm you might cause in any action and particularly the embarrassment you might cause yourself. I know the truth about my dad is he doesn’t feel embarrassment in the same quantities I do. My dad and I are quite different. I can’t just give it a go.

Besides, how do you do it? How are you supposed to know before you do it? I look on the internet and it is clear that there is more to it than shows on camera. To get to the point of intimacy there are lots of steps you can screw up. I definitely need more information.

It occurs to me I should conduct experiments, of an incremental nature, in series, making observations and adjustments along the way. This is an exciting thought. It follows from my resolution to be methodical and thorough in the process which will either lead me to take my life or decide life is worth living after all. That’s it, follow my nature, test it properly.

I work in marketing for a large multinational company. I’ve moved on from sales because of my special talents lie in understanding human nature. Plus the more intensive client contact of sales is quite stressful. I don’t like it much. I don’t work full time and in my current role I get to work without the distractions of too many other people. My training comes mostly from a scientific perspective and my parents think that with all my university education I am being wasted in my role. On the way to getting my science degree majoring in chemistry I’ve studied at least the first year of pretty much everything. Now most employers don’t seem to think I fit their needs. If I could bear the thought of a long life the under use of my studies might bother me too. It doesn’t at the moment and anyway the power of marketing is definitely linked to science. Marketing is power, it can transform the value of a product by tenfold, just by presentation. The science of value says people will pay a range of different prices for the same product depending on how they feel about the packaging, its presentation and the careful manipulation of their preconceptions. Intriguing. I am happy to stick at it, for now.

Apart from the power of the subject, this has been quite lucky for me because a while ago I have begun to form a satisfying connection with a suitable girl at work. Still very early days though, I need to add, in terms of our relationship. I think part of my despair, from which I do not resile, can be attributed to the fact I have reached an impasse in my relationship with Ms. Rebecca Swann. Bec for short. I work the evening shifts and I see her three times a week. We’ve known each other for over a year now. But things are just not progressing.

Bec is slim and brunette with a symmetrical and well-formed fine featured face which is a reliable marker for beauty. Even better, she is in proportion across all of her body’s features, another solid marker for beauty. She speaks kindly to me and it is clear to me she likes me by the way she smiles when she looks at me. She has to look up to me when she looks at my face because I am a head taller than she is. Anyway, it seems to be my move in our relationship. I don’t know what to do.

I’ve seen where she lives and there doesn’t seem to be anyone else she is seeing. She doesn’t even have many girlfriends. I think that is because she is not from here, not because she is somehow unsocial or asocial. Lately she has seemed a bit tense and distracted. She’s missed a few shifts and she is losing weight. I imagine she is having troubles. I wonder what they are.

I’ve spent far too much time ruminating on this. I am going around in circles and my biology is to blame. It’s hard to be objective when your testicles are running your life. My problem is my mind won’t let my balls rule. It steps in like president with a veto power. I get stuck. Then I overthink. Which makes me more stuck.

I decide to listen to Rosetta. Their Wake lift album, Temet Nosce, so soothing. Then I go on to listen to their Galilean Satellites album which makes me feel like an astronaut, all night.

Alex – four days later, very late

I spent three days researching female psychology on the net. Deciding to make a plan to connect with Bec was the right way to go but it is hard to land on the right actions. I’m not sleeping much. My plan is too exciting.

I didn’t find much I could use. Clearly, the evidence suggests there are evolutionary pressures which have made females favor high ranking and rich males. They also seem to like the dark and dangerous men. Well, I am not any of those things. That’s a dead end.

On the relationships pages girls seem to be saying they like men who are caring and considerate. Men who try to understand them appear to be in favor as well. This gives me an idea. Every night at the end of our shifts, Bec uses the drink machine to get a diet cola. A small thoughtful gesture will send at least one of the right evolutionary messages. She will see I might not be rich or powerful yet she can trust me to be the kind and thoughtful father she needs to produce successful offspring. A tame and dutiful mate.

Reading more on the topic, I come to see there will be lots of benefits in forming and keeping a solid relationship. Yes, apart from sex on demand, I know that’s a big deal, it will be very interesting to have someone to talk to in the flesh, almost whenever I want. Bec seems my kind of person, I can tell from her selection of music and the way she uses every spare second of her life so productively. For example, I see her cross the road, texting and changing her music at the same time. This girl is squeezing the lemon, just like me. She is fastidious at work too, even when no-one is looking. Admirable.

I resolve to test my theory as soon as I can. I will use what I know about what she likes and add some components to demonstrate, if you think about them, a level of affection and care which is evident from the effort that went into the gesture. This much I know, from my researches, because it is really the thought that counts.

The enterprise feels terrific. I am all jumpy and full of energy. An exciting development and I can thank my resolution to kill myself for my new sense of purpose. And I am free. I am really giving it a go. Now I just need to wait until the time is right. A few days at most. It feels like an eternity. I hope I can make it.

Chapter Two

Surfers Paradise Beach, Gold Coast, Australia

On a clear summer day, the Gold Coast sun is merciless in the way it irradiates sun worshippers. Salt spray in the air makes tiny transient glitters. Minute crystals of sodium married to chlorine, sparkle and float in thickly humid air. They refract the brightest sunlight imaginable, issuing all day from an azure blue sky. In combination with ceaselessly pounding waves and fine white sand, the effect produces paradise on earth.

An insistent drop of sweat finds its way into the eye of a man who makes it a rule to value every today more than any tomorrow. Hans Poppel. Hans feels the rogue droplet rolling down a furrow on his forehead that formed with a smile. It makes its salty way into an eyeball. What does he care? Hans is counting his cash, in his head.

Life was certainly looking up. At thirty two years of age, Hans was now more than a part time horticultural teacher at a youth detention center. He was much more than that, and soon, at this rate, there would be no more need to work with dirt or dickheads. With a surplus, income exceeding expenditure, for the first time in his life, ‘loser’ is not a tag he worried about. He sees wads of crisp one hundred dollar notes in his head and he thanks god again for a strong Australian dollar.

Spare cash makes all the difference. Lifestyle, that was it is, live for the day. Not to the point of waste though. Hans remains very proud indeed of the good German sense his parents beat into him, with Bavarian Catholic diligence, over so many of his childhood years. But sure, to flash it around a little is fine. The girls needed to see that there was plenty, he knew that. Passing the age when being cool and laid back is enough to be attractive to women isn’t marked with a signpost. Hans gets that now. A man’s strategies have to change as he ages. As an older guy, you needed to pretend to spend big, in a flashy way, but you can’t spend it all, or then you’re just broke. It is a delicate thing, to give real substance to something wholly insubstantial. It takes a close attention to style. You have to get it just right, just so, especially when you weren’t in fact very rich at all. And he would get it right because his life was coming together at last. All his ducks are in row, a big beautiful Harley D, all paid up, a regular cash flow, a club that needs him, new black leathers and a friend who has his back. The weather is good in paradise. His hair is going as white as his skin is going brown. He works out and he feels good.

He notices his partner’s hair seems to go blacker as his skin gets browner. Strange, the way our bodies work. Looking more closely at his new found buddy, roasting in the heat coming off the sand, he likes it that he doesn’t use sunblock and he wonders about his friend’s past. Hans moves in a circle in which it is not unusual for a person to have a past like they just popped out of thin air a few minutes ago, completely complete. It’s not cool to ask questions, not cool at all. This roguish sensitivity is respected, in the main, by conversations which, while they don’t say much, inevitably leak some light into mystery.

On the other hand his buddy Luc is like one of those holes in the sky that are so massive they don’t let any light escape. Hans thinks about how this works in his favor, how easy the guy is to be with. Taciturn, bordering on mute, you sure can’t call him demanding. And his club brother does seem like he’s tight, a real team player.

Again though, on that other hand smart people talk about, Hans wonders if his new friend could be somehow socially retarded. He is one strange rooster. A touch aggressive, he looks at himself in reflections a lot, and he is unpredictable sometimes. Hans sees a bit of his own younger self in the story so he decides to chill. Best to just let it go. Soak up some sun. Be content to hang out with the guy, pump some serious iron, drink a beer or two and enjoy that he doesn’t bang on about stuff. He can be a bit random, as they say. True, true, but who isn’t when they get wired? Who isn’t? In the club, the past is in the past, that’s the motto. And it is true, that is in fact where they keep the past, so who the fuck cares? Anyway, Hans muses it suits him to hang with a young tough guy when he can feel the eyes of the chicks turning their way. Two tough guys. Young and looking good. Players, to contend with.

Way too much thinking, sun and heat take a toll. After an hour of sun baking, half on each side, Hans gives in to man sized thirst, Beer?

Club?

Ok

Two AWB motor cycle club members make for their bikes. The younger and bigger of them is glistening with a sheen of sweat that covers the darkest tan on the strip. With a bulging upper body, he provides the beach community with an impressive spectacle of physicality. Hans, as his partner in display, decides to follow the lead and he too rides shirtless to get a beer.

At the clubhouse, numbered 5015, right on the six lane Gold Coast Highway, two bronzed members are greeted by the club Captain who does not speak, in the manner of a Prussian hallo.

Gruss Bernie.

Bernhard backs up his welcome with a Prussian conversation. With a cold stare and a little sneer, openly concealed in the wrinkle of his long nose, Bernie explains he is not in a talking mood. A Captain has responsibilities. For Bernhard Weiss, responsibilities are weighing him down.

A Captain does not have the luxury of making more than one mistake. Being a Captain is not a game. No, it’s not about having fun. He wonders if he is perhaps looking at two fuck ups right here. Two of them, one right after the other. He hopes not. Hoping to the god in heaven, in words resembling an atheist’s prayer, words you use just in case. How could it have come to this? Is it time to call Mr Greg in Melbourne? Risky either way. If he does, and if he doesn’t.

Chapter Three

Alex – five days later, midday

Tool is an interesting name for a rock band. So functional. Eulogy is one of my favorite tunes. It starts out slowly and builds to an impressive and compelling beat. To indulge, I play the song loudly into my headphones, because now I don’t need to save my ears for old age.

It is art. It makes me think. I like that. Art should make you think about simple things in complex new ways. Eulogy is a Tool song which makes me think of my own eulogy. It never occurred to me. I think of my story as forming the basis of a simple and short address to people who love me, at a big funeral.

My own awakening to the implications of the immediate aftermath of my planned death make me think about my mental life. I see the value of my reaction to the stimulus of the song. It triggered me taking over the executive direction of my thoughts to explore the issue. Two side effects are that I have a new appreciation for the role of art and I now realize something new about myself.

My thoughts are mainly self-directed with occasional external stimuli prompting me to react to a need for some new thinking. Essentially, I am living in a world of my own, in my head. This now appears to be a problem. What if I didn’t hear that song just now, in the context of my recent decision to die? I suppose the matters of a coffin and my eulogy may have come up later and if they didn’t someone else