Sleeping With Dogs

By Marc Schroeder

Sleeping with Dogs: A tale of madness, by East London author Marc Schroeder is raw and compelling, an unflinching account of a man who seems to have it all – by capitalist standards – and yet who yearns for peace. In letting go of the trappings of a “successful” modern life, he ultimately finds the contentment he was searching for.

South African readers will enjoy former financial analyst and current Nepalese trekker Schroeder’s reflection of town and country, in slang and in description. His journey takes him from an idyllic childhood in East London, attending Selborne College, to the wild student days of Rhodes University in Grahamstown. From seeking dealers on his way home from work to coughing up blood in Joburg, from cycling through France to trekking in the stunning mountain vistas of Nepal, Schroeder takes his readers along with wit and style.

Schroeder holds nothing back, candidly lifting the veil on the stints in rehab, the impact on his work as a financial advisor at one of East London’s well known institutions, of wrecked relationships and of an increasing distance – perceived and real – from close friends and family. His dogs are his only anchor in a life falling apart.

It is only in abandoning everything the world tells him to hold dear that Schroeder ultimately finds a way to slip away from the tentacles of addiction that have grasped him since varsity days. This is an unflinching, dead honest account of addiction and hedonism, mostly hidden from friends who thought Schroeder was a just little left field.

Sleeping with Dogs is a read that will linger in your mind long after the final page. This is not only a good story, but it is an intelligent, thought provoking glimpse into what makes someone who seems to have it all, throw it away to pursue happiness. Schroeder has said “Yes” to making his own life organising treks in Nepal and the Kashmir, going back time and again to the places where he found peace.

This is a tale of both loss and redemption; of living a half-life, of nearly dying, and of carving a new life far off the beaten track. In his madness, Schroeder found his sanity. As a debut novel, Sleeping with Dogs is a fine piece of literature and is highly recommended.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Marc Schroeder
• Release date: Apr 18, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370627110

Book preview

Glossary

Ek is nie ’n wolf nie – I am not a wolf

Maar ek sê ‘halllloooooooooo daar’! – But I’m saying ‘helloooooooooo there’!

Skottel braai – A gas-fired BBQ; very popular in South Africa in the 1980s

Braai – a charcoal- or wood-fired BBQ; cornerstone of South African culture

Boerie – Boerewors is a famous South African sausage, best cooked on a braai

Oros – A South African orange squash drink. Mix one part Oros to four parts iced water

Soutie – White English South African

Stooge – Student hostel master at a boarding school

Mountain Drive – Famous look-out point above the Eastern Cape town of Grahamstown

Slummies – East London

Carte Blanche – Investigative journalism TV series

Belter – Pretty girl

Disco biscuit – Another name for ecstasy

Charlie – Another name for cocaine

Molly – Another name for MDMA

DSTV – South African satellite television

Digging – Enjoying

FML – Fuck My Life

Jol/Jolled – Party/Partied

Howzit – Hello

Howzit going? – How are you?

Boet – Brother or friend

Bru – Brother or friend; can be used instead of ‘boet’

Shot – Thanks

Waxed – Mastered

Avanza – Car used commonly as a taxi in South Africa

Bakkie – Small personal use truck; a pick-up truck

Goofed – high from smoking marijuana

Vakansie romansie – Holiday romance

Miff – Gross or disgusting

Siff – Slightly more gross version of miff

Jozi – Johannesburg

Hansie – South African ex-cricket captain who fell from grace in a match fixing scandal

Sy’s pragtig – She’s beautiful

Car guard – Someone who watches and protects your car when parked in a public space

Big house – Another name for rehab

Meneer – Mister

Polly shorts – Famous brand of South African running shorts; quite porno

Spur – Famous South African steak house

Duff – Blunder

Author’s Notes

I have an extremely enthusiastic friend named Brynn Hill who was the first person I was brave enough to read a section of my book to. This was way back in 2014, the book as of yet having no end in sight. Brynn’s overwhelming response to the reading was the inspiration I needed to keep me believing and writing, especially when belief was hard to come by. I read him the section that features the line: Well guys, we’re not here to fuck spiders! His choice for the book title was: We’re not here to fuck spiders. This was my second choice. I mean, could you imagine a more daring and gripping book title? For me, however, it didn’t encapsulate the essence of the story the way the chosen title, Sleeping with Dogs, does. I might be wrong, so I’ll let you, the reader, decide for yourself. I’d love to discuss your thoughts and reactions to this book one day. I’d love to hear your feedback.

I hope you understand that certain characters and events in this book have been altered to protect the true subjects. The biggest example of this is the character Lisa. Lisa reflects the dynamic of friendship I shared with more than one person during that period of my life, I rolled the experiences into one central character with the primary objective of protecting those involved. Every experience you will read about happened, every emotion conjured was felt.

If you’re expecting a typical drug book which serves to scare anyone from ever thinking of doing drugs, you might be disappointed by this book. ‘Say no to drugs’, like ‘Zuma must fall’, is a noble slogan behind which the people can unite. However, is it realistic? As long as curiosity exists, people will say yes to drugs. As long as misery persists, drug addiction will continue and, by all accounts, we’re living in an increasingly unhappy and detached society. Drugs are here to stay, regardless our feelings. Some of the best people I’ve known have tried drugs. I’m not saying I like these people because they said ‘yes’ to drugs, but rather because they are the people who say ‘yes’ to life in general. The vast majority of drug experiences have been for a recreational kick, chalked up as a life experience like skydiving or shark cage diving. Drugs – the elephant in the room that most people choose to ignore. Parents, if your kids try drugs, there is good reason to believe they will not become addicts. Don’t freak out; don’t isolate them. If an addiction is at play, your fear and anger will not intimidate it. If I ever have children, I’d love for them to feel comfortable enough to tell me if they are experimenting or thinking of doing so. I’d let them know I trust that whatever they do will be for the right reasons – and if they find they’re not, I’d want nothing more than for them to trust that I’ll understand.

You might decide early on in this read that I was destined for addiction, having drank alcohol and experimented with marijuana at an early age. It seems society is quick to assume that if you meddle with drugs you will become an addict. How many people drink, yet aren’t alcoholics? I know an alcoholic who only started drinking in his twenties, and an addict who first tried drugs in his forties. The point I am trying to make is that it isn’t about the ‘when’ one takes or drinks; it is 100% about the ‘why’. Why do addicts take drugs and why can’t they stop? This book is an attempt to recognise and understand the ‘why’.

My dear parents, can you imagine reading what you are about to concerning your own children? I love you, Mom and Dad, and I’m sorry for all the lost years. I’m sorry you will suffer reading about what happened to me. This suffering, I trust, will be short-lived and knee jerk in nature; the book is bound to shock on impact. However, when the dust settles, I think the view of what lies ahead will be something special. I used to lie, avoiding family gatherings, as I was too strung up or wasted, telling myself I’d make it up in the week, when I was feeling better. Years of this and one can do the math. I’ve missed much, but that’s over now. I know it was hard for everyone, watching me roll up my life and abscond to India. However, despite my erratic nature, there was certainly an end wrapped up and well disguised in my apparent madness.

Writing the drug scenes in this book was an ordeal in itself. I often had to stop, get up and go outside to catch my breath. Retracing and documenting my steps was like walking through a graveyard at midnight. I take solace that the recollection is so daunting, so threatening. When I was in the middle of it all, I couldn’t really see it properly, just as one can’t see the worrying mole on one’s back. As I finally put time and distance between me and my planet of waste and destruction, I am able to finally put things into perspective. I am glad the view of what is left behind is shocking and difficult. I’m glad, because this means it is no longer part of me the way it was.

How you judge my character when reading this book is, of course, your prerogative. I only ask that you reserve your final judgement for when you have finished reading the book. Along the way, you might wonder why I’d ever want to bring these events to light, and the answer lies in ‘the light’. By bringing these wounds into the light, I heal them within myself. My recovery is vested in the message of this book. The message is, therefore, bigger and more important than my pride.

I regret the hurt I caused people throughout my addiction. However, for me personally, I have no regrets. How I am today, the joy of life I celebrate on a daily basis is due to the struggle I have endured. For that, I am grateful.

My dogs; my three all-loving, all-forgiving beautiful dogs. There’s no love quite like a dog’s love, is there? I miss you every single day. I love you more than ever and I want to thank you so much for never giving up on me, and for loving me as you did. I would be dead if not for your love. You kept me going when I had nothing but filth within. My reflection in your eyes was the only bearable version of myself.

Lastly, can I ask that, if you enjoy this book, or if you don’t, please won’t you mind writing a short review on Amazon?

Big love,

Marc

For what it’s worth: it’s never too late or, in my case, too early to be whoever you want to be. There’s no time limit; stop whenever you want. You can change or stay the same; there are no rules to this thing. We can make the best or the worst of it. I hope you make the best of it. And I hope you see things that startle you. I hope you feel things you never felt before. I hope you meet people with a different point of view. I hope you live a life you’re proud of. If you find that you’re not, I hope you have the courage to start all over again. – Eric Roth, Hollywood screenwriter

To those I hurt during this period of my life, I am truly sorry. To those who will hurt reading this, hurting you was never my intention.

To those struggling to hold on, I hope this story provides hope.

This book is dedicated to Duffy, Hobson and Jones.

Starter

Somewhere in Cape Town, 5 June 2011

Sinnet evol I kcuf, I mused to myself. I love saying things backwards; I’m a little obsessed with it, actually; constantly saying words and sentences backwards in my mind. It’s the French Open Final and two of my favourite all-time tennis stars are battling it out for the cup at Roland Garros, centre court. While I love Nadal, my absolute best player of all time has to be Roger Federer. Before Roger, that honour belonged to Andre Agassi. So I guess Nadal would be my third favourite. Sinnet evol I kcuf! Sinnet evol I kcuf! I’m sitting in my boxers in a lounge; a lounge I’ve never been in before and will probably never be in again. However, for now, I feel right at home.

Sam, you have to come see this point.

Roger was on the back foot in the second set after having lost the first 7–5; the game swaying between advantage and deuce and Roger pulling out the big serves to just hang on against the relentless tide of Rafa.

Egalite! the umpire calls after a big ace from Roger, to save yet another break point.

Sam, what are you doing?

Advantage Federer!

The crowd erupts after an incredible rally, which Roger manages to close down with a big backhand cross-court shot from his baseline.

Marc, come here! Sam is calling from the kitchen.

I really don’t feel like leaving the game now. Sinnet evol I kcuf.

The crowd sighs as Roger forces an error; a bold forehand passing shot, to hold service, goes long.

Marc! Sam is sounding rather insistent.

I’d better go and see what she’s up to in the kitchen.

I met Sam back in 2007 on the streets of Bantry Bay under rather unusual circumstances. We’d been in touch over the years, and agreed to catch up over dinner the night before. I was in Cape Town for work; I’d brought along my running shoes, which were still in my bag.

Sam’s in her small kitchen, which has a window above the sink that looks onto the Lion’s Head mountain, reminding me I’m in the most beautiful city in the world. She’s wearing pink full-bottom nickers, which read in royal blue cursive from behind ‘Welcome to the Jungle’. I love that they do. She’s stooped over the kitchen counter, doing a line. She straightens up, wipes her face with the back of her hand and turns to face me. The room is slightly hazy from a few too many cigarettes smoked in the close confines, yet the smoke and stale air is strangely comforting. I look into her dreamy eyes. She’s neither here nor there; she’s adrift. Smiling, she extends her hand, holding a rolled R100 note.

I stoop over and as I start running down the snowy trail I hear the crowd erupting from the lounge. My mind returns to Roland Garros, and I wonder if Roger managed to hold serve.

PART 1

01 The Eastern Cape

I was born into a loving home on 7 October 1978 in Boksburg, South Africa. Our family is boisterous, to say the least. I often marvel at us, saying we’re a great example of a dysfunctional functional family. It might have been the noisiest house on the block, but it was also the most fun. My earliest memories are of our family home in Beacon Bay, East London in the Eastern Cape, where my folks moved to when I was still a baby. My dad was offered a position at the coast and decided it was worth taking a pay knock in order to give us the beach to enjoy as we grew up. We had two dogs, Daisy, a true Transkei pavement special, and Lucy, a beautiful black-and-white patched spaniel. ‘Daisy and Lucy’, that’s what you get when you let three-year-olds name dogs. My mom would moan in the mornings when seeing I’d let the dogs sneak into my room to sleep on my bed. A trend that would continue throughout my life, sleeping with dogs - I’m an addict.

My older brother, Clinton, and I were tight growing up. We spent loads of time on Nahoon Beach, arguably one of the best beaches in the country, attending junior life saving and later becoming patrons of the ocean, my brother on his surfboard and me on my boogie board. When I was in Grade One, in 1985, my younger brother, Steve, was born on 17 October; the third to enter the brotherhood. My mom was a teacher and my dad a salesman. We weren’t what you’d consider well off, yet my folks ensured we went to the best schools and were able to play the sports we were interested in. All three of us attended Selborne Primary, and from there finished our schooling at Selborne College.

My folks surprised us at the end of 1986 with news that my mom was pregnant with a fourth, twelve years after being pregnant for the first time. The family was really excited, especially for Steve, who was going to have a little brother or sister to be paired with. Steve was seven years younger than me and ten younger than Clinton. On 20 July 1987, along came Jonathan Michael Schroeder; we were all stoked beyond measure. My mom might have been hoping for a little girl, although she never made that known; she just said she’d be happy with a healthy baby. He was perfect in every way; even his one little ear, which stuck out a little, seemed perfect to me.

December 5th, 1987 was a significant day for our family. I can still remember it like yesterday, the details imprinted in my memory like a startling film. It was a Saturday and I was staying out with my friend, Andrew, at his family’s cottage at Glen Eden, a beautiful little beach village about thirty minutes’ drive north of East London. Andrew and I had been blessed with perfect conditions that day, the sea that beautiful deep green-blue. I remember sitting on my board behind the break and looking down at the seabed below. A gentle westerly was blowing, the water so warm we were able to surf without wetsuits. Feeling a gentle breeze tickling salty, wet skin during an Eastern Cape summer’s afternoon is a treasure beyond measure. The sky was scattered with clouds and the ocean, as far as one could see, was rolling softly. We surfed into the early evening, watching as the clouds began catching the sunset rays, turning from white to orange to pink. My last wave in felt like I was sliding along shimmering liquid gold; it crashed over me and I was pushed deep underwater. Relaxing my body, I rolled around with the surf until I popped up in the white water.

We made our way back to Andrew’s cottage, famished. His mom, knowing how hungry we’d be after an afternoon in the surf, had prepared a spread of cheese puffs, sandwiches, Ghost Pops and Coke. After that we settled into a game of Mario Brothers on Andrew’s Nintendo game console; a huge post-surf pastime. It was just after dusk when I heard a car arriving. I got up and looked out the window to see it was Sue, my mom’s best friend and godmother of my baby brother, Jonathan. Andrew’s mother went outside to speak to Sue and I could tell immediately that something was wrong. Sue’s eyes were red, as if she’d been crying, and Andrew’s mom recoiled in shock moments after engaging her. I sat back down and carried on playing Mario Brothers, pretending I hadn’t seen the exchange. A few minutes later, Sue came in and told me she wanted to talk to me. She took me into one of the bedrooms and I sat on the edge of the bed, looking down at my feet, not willing to make eye contact. I was trying to defend against what was coming. I didn’t want to accept what was coming. Please don’t say it! Eventually, the words came. I’m so sorry, Marc. Jon Jon has gone back to Heaven.

My baby brother had died in his cot. My mom had found him blue; he had just stopped breathing. My folks had raced him to the hospital, but it was too late. He was gone.

This event had a profound impact on me. I didn’t know my brother – he was only a few months old – yet he was inextricably bound to us, and losing him damaged us. The trauma of seeing my folks suffer so incredibly is what I recall most vividly from the years that followed. At the time, I was filled with intense shame for my family, as if something was wrong with us. Why else would this happen? I became extremely sensitive around people talking about Jonathan’s death. I did my best in each instance to redirect the conversation or not dwell on it. I wanted to pretend it hadn’t happened, which, of course, is absurd, but I was nine at the time. This sense of embarrassment and shame lasted a few years for me. During this time I fostered a deep anxiety of what people might be thinking of me. Therefore, I became hell-bent on never wanting to disappoint anyone. I would do absolutely anything to please my friends, or anyone really.

02 The Wonder Years

Clinton was eight and I was five years old when my dad arrived home with a Beta Max video machine and the James Bond classic, Diamonds are Forever. This one event commenced a lifelong obsession with Bond and the Secret Service. It turned out that our neighbours, Brad and Michelle Liss, who were similarly aged to Clinton and me, were equally Bond crazy, and so began our neighbourhood gang, aptly named The Secret Service. It was a great time to be a kid in South Africa. We spent all our time outside, climbing trees, making skateboard ramps, and racing bikes and go-karts on the safe streets of our neighbourhood, Vincent Gardens. We didn’t realise it then, but it was the end of that golden era for youngsters. Life would soon change forever with the advent of the ‘cell phone age’ and its ugly little brother, social media, which was to follow.

School was one of my happiest periods. Of course, we had to contend with strict teachers, the odd caning on the behind and various stints of detention, but overall I loved school. In our primary school days, during the mid-to-late 80s, Benson and Hedges night cricket was the in thing. All the school kids were desperate to get their hands on one of the colourful B&H night cricket shirts; if you were ever lucky enough to get one, you were immediately catapulted to rock star status. The Border team, known at the time as the Impalas, used to play mid-week games in King William’s Town, around fifty-five kilometres from East London. One day, I was desperate to attend, but thought there was little chance my folks would see the wisdom in taking the family to an out-of-town cricket game on a school night, especially considering my little brother, Steve, was only three years old at the time. I asked anyway. Mom, please can we go to night cricket tonight; please Mom?

I was expecting an outright ‘no ways’, but instead my great old mum replied, You’d better clean out the cooler box, and ask your dad to see if there is enough gas for a skottel braai.

Elation! My two brothers and I were so appreciative that we did our best to sit still during the drive to King William’s Town, usually an impossible game. We arrived to see Emmerson Trotman, the biggest hitter in the league, smashing a massive six out the park. It was my first night cricket experience, and possibly the most exciting night of my life to date, at just ten years of age. The colours, the sounds, the smells of the skottels sizzling boerie and chops, and, of course, the excitement of watching cricket under floodlights. That’s where I bumped into one of my greatest friends in life, Peter Flemmer.

Our friendship was the yarn that stitched together my school years into one brightly woven quilt. It was in Pete’s house that I first saw a pair of boobs that didn’t belong to my mother; it changed my life. His older brother had a recording of a recording of the ’80s teen classic movie, Nerd’s Vacation; we’d watch it nearly every day, never tiring of seeing those great big round boobs on TV – fun bags, as we’d grow to think of them. It was also with Pete that I had my first taste of booze; we were twelve years old at the time. I was sleeping over at Pete’s house and his parents had gone out for supper; a harmless endeavour. I mean, what could possibly have gone wrong? Besides two ‘wet behind the ears’ school kids surveying the booze cabinet. Let’s mix this stuff, Red Heart rum, with some Oros and see what happens!

Great idea.

I got horribly sick that night as I tried in vain to stop the room spinning. I swore I’d never do that again.

In high school, the interest in girls took off; a rocket with no intention of ever returning to Earth. Those were days when we’d write letters to girls at our sister school, Clarendon. Sadly, the practice of handwriting letters was soon to be archived; emailing and texting were just around the corner. I am grateful to be part of that era; the letter writing era. The era when, if you wanted to talk to a girl, you had to brave up and walk over to her, or call her at home on the landline. Good day, Mr Sawyer; it is Marc Schroeder here. Please may I speak to Bridget?

I loved writing letters and essays, even back then. The teacher who had the greatest impact on me in this regard was Mr Coetzee, my history teacher. He inspired me to write essays and ignited a passion for learning history. I’ll always be grateful for this; thank you, sir. I wasn’t a bad rugby player in my earlier years. Sadly, I peaked in Grade Nine after being selected for the U15A touring squad for the hotly contested Craddock Rugby Festival. Along with Wynberg College, we were the only English-speaking teams there. The Afrikaans teams were much bigger than we were and tried their best to intimidate us souties. We were a polished outfit, though, and managed to focus on the game, eventually taking home the cup for the side that played the most exciting rugby. Soon after that, I was brought down in a crunching tackle during a Friday night derby versus Cambridge High School. My arm was broken in two places and I needed to undergo surgery to straighten it out. Mentally, I never really recovered from that injury and played out the rest of my school years in the more light-hearted and social open teams. In Matric, I was a winger for the mighty sixth team; we had the heaviest pack of forwards in the open division, but the boys didn’t move around the park too quickly.

A fond memory was the commencement of the annual derby against the rugby school giant, Grey College from Bloemfontein. In 1994 we travelled to Bloemfontein on the train for the first time and got beaten in every game, except the one that mattered most, the first team. The following year, Grey travelled to East London and, this time, as I recall, they won every single game. In my final year at Selborne, 1996, we made the ominous trip back to Bloemfontein, a little shell-shocked from the hammering we’d taken the year before on our home turf. Our sixths came close to a sensational victory over our Afrikaans counterparts, losing in the end 17–15. Up until lunch, Selborne had lost every single game; a bleak scene indeed for the black and white grandstand. Grey put on an impressive lunchtime display, their military bands parading the field, and it seemed like all of Bloemfontein had come out to watch their slick rugby machine, Grey College. They were brimming with pride, having only three games left to complete the whitewash – the thirds, seconds and firsts. That’s when the magic began. The thirds pulled off a great victory. This inspired the seconds, who took it aggressively to the physically superior Grey team, who called themselves ‘The Cherries’. Selborne played brilliantly and we ran away comfortable winners. By then, the feeling in the crowd had changed somewhat; the Grey supporters weren’t brimming as confidently as they had been during their lunchtime parade. It was time for the main feature, the first team match. Our cheerleader was on fine form, whipping our stand into a frenzy as our pride and joy ran onto the field. As tradition decreed, we began singing our most famous school song, The Waters of Victoria! I could sense we were on the brink of something extraordinary. The Selborne team gave it everything they had against the Grey; the battle was spectacular. We needed