This Too Shall Pass
Fuck me, what a time it’s been.
If I told you all that had gone down lately (which I promise I will), you’d think I was so full of shit that even flies would drop dead on contact with me. But truth is stranger than fiction, as they say, so I need you to bear with me.
Most people report that when they turn thirty, nothing much changes. But for me, the shit certainly hit the fan, and then some. And it’s all culminated in me being where I am now – Sydney Kingsford Smith Airport, International Terminal, Gate 52, about to skip bail and flee my beloved homeland for a life of… who-knows-what. Think I’m gonna become one of those so-called digital nomads because, well, what other choice do I have?
I keep repeating, “This too shall pass” inside my ever-restless head.
I remember the day I learned about mortality. That one day, I too would die. I was about six, and Gramps had just passed. I asked Mum if she would die too one day.
“Yes,” she replied, “but not for a long time.”
After this deeply disturbing news sunk in and meddled with my still-developing emotions, I asked the inevitable.
“Does that mean I will die one day too?”
“Yes,” Mum replied, “we all do. But it’s nothing to be afraid of.”
Nothing to be afraid of!? I remember thinking. “What happens after?”
“You go to heaven.”
Without getting all spiritual, let’s just say I didn’t buy what Mum was selling. As a result, the great unknown caused me to fall into a deep sorrow for the rest of the day, a part of which I think still remains deep within my subconscious. I struggled to sleep that night. The next day, Dad sensed I was sad and asked why. I told him that I didn’t wanna die.
All he said in response was, “Never mind, son, this too shall pass.”
I didn’t ask him what he meant. Did he mean that how I was feeling would pass? Or did he mean us, our life, would one day cease to exist? Both were true, but the latter thought stuck with me to this day. Yet strangely, as I stare at my Boeing 747 getting ready to board outside the window, the idea still comforts me.
You see, I’m at a crossroads – a real sliding doors moment. Can you relate? If so, you will know that it sucks balls. It’s anxiety-inducing. Another cliché that keeps popping into my head is “a change is as good as a holiday”. Yeah, except if that change is a one-way ticket to the other side of the world – no accommodation booked, no itinerary, no fucking idea. And everything you own, which isn’t much because you had to sell most of your prized possessions at the last minute on Facebook Marketplace at such a discount that makes your eyes water, is coming with you. The great unknown awaits. But it’s all good because this too shall pass.
Let’s just get the basics out of the way, so we can get to the juicy stuff. The name’s Archie. I turned thirty a few months ago. That’s all you need to know about my background, for now.
I’ve done my research on this modern-day nomad life. Here’s the bag-packing essentials checklist from one of the many blogs I read in the past few days on the subject:
Laptop – ✓
Power bank – ✓
Power converter – ✓
Mobile phone – ✓
Backup charger for phone – ✓
Backup charger for laptop – ✓
Dual SIM card phone – ✓
Local SIM card – X
And that’s it. Apparently, that’s all you need to live the life of a twenty-first-century digital vagabond. However, that list assumes you already have some online work to sustain you. Which I don’t. But I’m working on it. More on that later. I got other shit to worry about first.
Yeah, okay, about that. Enough holding out on you.
You’re gonna judge me. Yeah, you are. As I mentioned, I am about to skip bail. But I’m no criminal by any means. Christ, I’d never been arrested until this year. But I’ve been thrown in the lock-up twice since. I know what you’re thinking – how does someone who has never been in trouble with the law all of a sudden score a trifecta with the cops?
Well, here’s the first shit-sandwich – it all started with an STD.
For those fortunate enough not to know what this acronym is, STD stands for Sexually Transmitted Disease. Or, Sexually Transmitted Infection – STI. Both terms basically mean the same thing – you caught some nasty shit through sexual activity. See, I knew you were gonna judge me. But here’s the thing – it turned out to be not much at all. It’s totally gone now. But that didn’t stop it from royally fucking up my life.
So, how did an STD cause me to break a good behaviour bond and land me a day in court with a high probability of jail time? Luckily, I could afford a good solicitor and was granted bail. Not so lucky for the justice department, as they didn’t confiscate my passport because of my clean record and all. So yeah, I abused that privilege, but before you judge me again, I didn’t really have a choice. Firstly, if this went to court and I was convicted, the story would have leaked to the press, and I would have been painted as this church fetish pervert (more on that later). My life and career would be over. This is a big city but a small town. I grew up here, people know me. I’d be finished, as the priest would say – excommunicated. You’ll meet Father Bob later.
Secondly, I’m not built for jail. Really, I’m not. I’m a lover, not a fighter. Fair dinkum, I’m such a lover boy that I like to love multiple women at the same time. But I’m not an arsehole. Well, at least I don’t think I am. I’m open and honest about it with all my girlfriends. But there’s a fair chance I have some serious love and sex addiction issues. I even went to a Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous meeting once. Yep, it exists. But I stopped attending because while I could identify with other sex and love addicts in the group, this only made me build a rapport with the gay dudes. There’s plenty of flamers in SLAA…
Now, where was I? I tend to go off on tangents, so bear with me. Oh yeah, I’m not cut out for jail. I’m somewhat handsome, if I do say so myself. Not in the classical sense, but more in an unusual, can’t-quite-pin-it-down way, if that makes any sense. Could be my strong chin, or perhaps my dimples when I smile. Whatever it is, chicks seem to dig me. I just can’t hold onto them. The point is – I go to jail, I become somebody’s bitch. And there’s no way I’m getting bummed. Especially for something that wasn’t my fault.
So, now I have a one-way ticket to Colombia, of all places! Why the fuck did I choose Colombia? Because Colombia has no extradition treaty with the Australian Government. They also have this thing called a Digital Nomad Visa which I can apply for, and then stay in the country long-term. The cost of living is low compared to Australia so I can survive a while until I sort my remote income. Then I can begin my new life as a travelling fugitive cyber-gypsy. That’s the plan, anyway.
Hang on, there’s an announcement over the loudspeaker.
“Flight 374 to Santiago is now boarding. Group D, seated rows 18 to 34, please proceed to the gate.”
That’s me. Santiago, Chile stopover en route to Colombia. Am I really doing this?
My body seems to think so as I reach for my carry-on, stand up and join the queue to board Flight 374 to a country most famous for its cocaine. Soon I will be past the boarding gate and onto the plane. Once the plane takes off, I’m past the point of no return; officially a fugitive. Faaarrrrkk. My mind has been doing head-miles again over the past few months. I fail to hear the female flight attendant calling me forward when I reach the front of the queue.
“Sir! Your passport and boarding pass, please?” she says, her chestnut-brown eyes glinting and hair tied back in a tight ponytail.
I snap out of it, and hand over my passport and boarding pass. Only now I notice how attractive she is. Young, brunette, wearing the striking red Virgin uniform that always seems to raise a flight attendant’s sex appeal a few notches.
“Thank you, Mr. Flynn,” she says flirtatiously, providing me a micro-dose for my insatiable appetite for self-validation.
I simply nod and make my way down the boarding tunnel, an umbilical cord leading me into a new world. Once the cord is cut, that’s it, there’s no turning back. It feels both exhilarating and terrifying at the same time. A deep sense of guilt mixed with anxiety riddles me, engulfs my whole body, up the spine and swirls around my frontal cortex. Suffocating me. I feel dizzy as I imagine the police holding up the flight and pulling me off the plane, embarrassing me in front of all the passengers. Someone filming the drama with their phone, perhaps posting it online.
Look, they caught the church fetish pervert trying to flee!
I settle into my business-class seat and reflect on the past week. The shit really hit the fan after I woke from fainting inside Father Bob’s confession booth in St. Patrick’s Church. Slightly disorientated, the first thing I noticed was my arm entangled in the mesh separating the confessional booth from the priest, having seemingly punched through it with my fist. Thankfully, Father Bob was not on the other side. The second thing I noticed was my jeans and designer underwear pulled halfway down my thighs beneath a torn, open cassock! My dick was out, still semi-hard and drenched in bodily fluids. The third, and worst, thing I realised was that Father Bob was standing outside the confession booth door. His expression read somewhere between shock, confusion and utter revulsion.
Now, before you get all judgy again, it’s not what you think. Everything happened fast from this point on. Instead of pulling my pants up, my first instinct was to ask Father Bob, “Where’s Jezebel?” Yeah, I wasn’t thinking straight, okay. Of course, Father Bob didn’t answer, only turned away and disappeared. I knew what he was about to do. The same thing Father Bob did the last time I got my willy out in the confession booth.
I totally understand how this sounds. But this is not a story about a pervert. I won’t lie – I am a highly flawed individual, but a church pervert I am not. Besides, why would I wanna tell that story? Just bear with me.
You see, Father Bob was gonna call the police. And rightfully so. I would do the same if I were in his position. However, that didn’t stop me from trying to persuade him otherwise. Only, I could barely move. I was still light-headed. It was like a long-dormant volcano had finally erupted in my groin. I was spent, and my legs felt like jelly. When I attempted to stand up, I got dizzy. So, Father Bob had to call the police. He’d had enough of my behaviour. And fair enough, I don’t blame him.
But I don’t blame myself, either. This one’s on Jezebel.
Jezebel Ekas, a devout church-going Catholic and a professional fighter. I know, talk about an oxymoron, right? St. Patrick’s is her church, a historic cathedral in The Rocks. And she seduced me inside the confession booth. It was so mind-blowingly orgasmic that I passed out. And instead of helping me, Jezebel did a fuck-and-run, leaving me at the scene of the crime!
She could not face up to the shame, should word get out about what had taken place on that fateful day. But mostly, it concerned her burgeoning career which was increasingly attracting media attention. Just as I would’ve begged Father Bob not to call the cops, Jezebel begged me not to tell them the full story. So me, being a fool in love for the first time in my loveless life, took one for the team. The old cliché about “the things you do for love” rings true. Because now, I look like some kind of cassock-wearing pervert. All because Jezebel wanted to protect her precious reputation and career, which involves her beating the shit outta other women. She chose her work over me. Over true love. So, excuse me for sounding bitter but, yeah, that one hurt.
Obviously, I was arrested, and because I was already on a good behaviour bond for a series of other misdemeanours (which we will get to later), I was thrown in the lock-up.
I hired a lawyer, Frank Murphy, who I was fairly certain was on the gear and appeared to be in a mid-life crisis of his own. Frank advised I could be looking at five years unless I could prove I’m not a pervert.
The things you do for love.
Frank did, however, secure me a $32,000 bail, which I paid in cash. Thanks Jezebel! My court date was set for two months down the track. But I had nightmares about going to jail. As I said, I ain’t cut out for it. I know that as soon as some big muscly bear eyes me up and down, takes in my semi-athletic 5’11 dadbod, and then stares into my hazel-green bedroom eyes, I’ll be his bitch in less than a week.
Fuck that.
Of course, Jezebel was forever grateful, and tried to contact me to express her appreciation. Or, perhaps, to check that I was still sticking to my story of blacking out and not remembering what had happened. Not remembering that I made sweet love with Jezebel. Not telling the truth that, after Jezebel heard Father Bob enter the church, she tried to move me but couldn’t so she fled – leaving me to literally clean up the mess!
No, I instead tell them that I cannot remember any of that, leaving them, and the judge, to assume that I was masturbating on my own inside Father Bob’s confession booth, and then falling asleep with my dick still out.
Surely you can see why I resent Jezebel after all this. I told her it’s best we don’t speak until this all blows over.
So, here I am on hot summer’s evening, the Australian fortress borders having just reopened in February 2022, and I’m about to skip the so-called lucky fucking country. So much has happened – lockdowns, the loneliness, an “STD”, Jezebel, my father, my mother, me quitting my job. It’s all pretty overwhelming, to say the least. Never had I ever felt the need to fly the coop before. I know it’s wrong. I know I should face the law, even if I am innocent.
I’m in my window seat now, in the emergency exit row. I consider getting up and running off the plane, but I’ve been too lost in my thoughts to realise the plane is moving down the tarmac. Before I knew it, the plane was tearing down the runway, and in seconds we are airborne. Oh, well, I guess that’s it then – no turning back now. I’m officially a fugitive.
How the fuck did it come to this? It didn’t begin in the confession booth. No, the shit hit the fan way before then.
