I prepare for Tokyo by quitting vapes. One week until departure, and I’ve not bought a single item on my list. I’m a zombie, moving through life in a cloud of smoke.
My share house from the last six months is ejecting me. I have nowhere to live. It’s a repeat of last January, when my parents sold our Ipswich home to my older brother without consideration of how having no backup apart from a couch might fuck a girl up. No job. No partner. No stability.
Now I really am desperate enough to invade their living room, or I will be in the new year. First, I’m vanishing to Japan for a month-long writing course.
It’s Monday. I leave in five days. Dad arrives at 9am sharp in his two-seater Mercedes Sprinter. They have plans to renovate it into a campervan, but it’s still empty enough to transport furniture. We spend the morning dismantling the $50 Ikea bed frame I was so proud of sourcing all those months ago. It collapses as we loosen the screws.
I was too high the night before to realise it was my last in the house. I’m holding back tears as I hug my best friend goodbye. We’ll never live together again; not when letting me stay was a favour she hid from her grandma for far too long. The law has been laid. Today is eviction day.
I’m going to miss her and her boyfriend. We were a family once, when we were seshing daily. Now I’m the brown-headed cowbird infiltrating their nest. Always underfoot and out of place. The luxury of living with your bestie wears away faster than you’d imagine, especially when there’s no weed softening your interactions. They want their space, and I’m being forced to give it to them.
Everything is in. The heavens mourn with me as Dad shifts the gearstick into first and starts on a tangent about 3D-printing or metal sculpting or the mouse trap he’s inventing. He talks so much it’s not hard pretending to listen. I gaze out the window like the protagonist of a coming-of-age teen drama. The rain increases my self-pity.
“We’ll have to unload tomorrow. And I have no clue where we’re putting all this, my shipping container is full,” Dad says. I grunt in acknowledgment and his brain reels him back to the previous line of thought.
We continue farther into the countryside, retracing the route my primary school bus used to take. I grew up on a two-acre property on the corner of a farm, only a two-hour drive from Brisbane city and civilisation. There are three pubs and four churches crowding the main street of town. I never thought I’d go back.
The sun is shining in our valley, though the potholes in the gravel drive have become puddles. Mum’s lounging on the porch of their studio granny flat when we pull up. The main house – less than a hundred metres from the front door – is occupied by renters.
“Hello darling!” She leans over for a peck as Dad beelines for the kitchen.
I chuck my backpack inside and join Mum. I can’t wait any longer.
The glass mouthpiece is sweeter than any kiss. Smoke tickles my lungs and I cough. Chuff, chuff, chuffing until my head is lighter than my body. Anything to forget the fact I’m a homeless 21-year-old with no aspirations.
I’ve been rolling and re-rolling clothes for hours when exhaustion grabs my hand, dragging me onto the futon. What I want is for Mum to tell me what shouldn’t be in the suitcase, but my parents have already passed out. Their synchronised snoring lulls me under. I don’t dream; I never do. Another piece of myself I’ve lost to stonerhood.
I wake up with the sun, brew a cuppa and join Mum in our spot. She’s serene, crocheting to the early morning birdsong, hook twining the wool into a beanie for my upcoming trip. She could be happy if she wasn’t chained to the curse of shift work. Nursing is sacrifice. I’ve never wanted to be my mother.
“Morning,” she chirps, and hands me the bong.
A week later I’m in Tokyo. My feet are planted firmly on the ground, the skyscrapers clear in my vision. I’m a sober mess. I can’t count how many mental breakdowns I’ve had since arriving. Mum and Dad are sick of watching me cry over FaceTime, so I’ve stopped calling. It was foolish to come here thinking everything would be fine when I’m not.
Horror stories about months-long imprisonment without a phone call keep me from seeking any illegalities. There’s merch in the coffee shop below our co-working space with the tagline Mugs Not Drugs. If only I could find a decent oat milk latte to alleviate my suffering.
Family Mart is quiet this late. I point at the shelf behind the counter and checkout chick hands my quarry over. The box only costs two dollars.
A hollowness resides in my stomach: no amount of ramen fills it. How can I be homesick when I have no home? I drag on the cigarette, sighing at the touch of nicotine. It’s a sorry replacement.