Out of the Dorm

“Josh?” says a voice.
It is far to early in the morning to tell for certain, but I am reasonably sure that this is not my name. I blink awake and sure enough the owner of the voice is talking to someone else. That someone else is snoring.
“Josh.”
The snoring stops in fits and starts.
“Josh, you’re snoring man.”
Josh grunts. He is not quite awake yet. Nor am I. I manage to focus on my watch. It is ten past three. Maybe quarter past, the hands are still blurry.
“Josh.” The voice is more urgent now. American accent. The speaker and the sleeper look similar in the bare light of the dorm. They could be brothers. He’s turned the light on, I think blearily, it’s three in the morning and he’s turned the light on.
Josh makes a sound which the other accepts as language.
“Where’s the weed?” he asks. “We got any left?”
There’s a rustle of plastic bags. Something is passed from one to the other. The speaker thanks Josh, I can hear he is grinning.
“That’s the stuff.” He says. “Good man.”
“Save some for me.” Josh says.
“Is this all we have left?”
Josh grunts affirmative.
“Get some more in Byron, right?”
“That’s why we’re going.” Josh says.
“Thanks man.” Says his brother, he waves the bag at the third guy awake in the room who is not me. A blonde Scandinavian guy who looks like he has modelled himself on every surf magazine cliché he could find.
His eyes follow the bag of weed around mechanically. He does not say a thing.
“Oh, Josh.” Says his brother just as he is about to leave. “You were seriously snoring, man.”
“Uh-huh?” says Josh, almost asleep again.
“Yeah.” Says the other, “Sawing logs like a madman. Lie on your side, right? You’ll wake someone up.”
He pats him on the shoulder and leaves, hitting the light switch as he goes and holding the door so that it shuts without a noise.

The next morning – for unrelated reasons – I pack my belongings and leave. I issue my goodbye’s to the dormitory at large. The dormitory at large ignores me. I leave with uncharitable thoughts.

My new hostel is back in Glebe, and it is amazing what some time away can do to a place. I realise that I genuinely missed it, the cafes, the bookshops, the pseuds in every doorway wearing tie-die shirts and setting up incense burners. New cafes have sprung up since I was last here, but one of the psychic bookshops is still advertising a date in the near future during which punters can have their aura’s read for a nominal fee. A photograph shows a woman sitting in a yellow haze. It looks like bad photography to me, but apparently you can have your aura photographed as well.
My new hostel is homely and sweet, more like a bed and breakfast to be honest, but they do boast a pair of eight-bed dormitories but upon arrival, both are full.
“We’ll have to put you in a single room,” says Veronica, the owner, “Is that okay?”
Veronica has one of those bizarrely welcoming demeanours in which everyone is treated like a returning prodigal son.
“A single room is fine.” I say, actually rather pleased. The room is indeed more than fine, and I surreptitiously check that it can be bolted from the inside.

Saturday sees the arrival of the Glebe Market, which is held in the grounds of the school. The market underlines (several times, in thick pen) the suburb’s bohemian credentials and sells local arts and crafts and more tie-dyed produce than you can shake a hand carved boomerang at. This is clearly the place to come if you want to buy yourself shell necklaces and leather bracelets.
Surprisingly, I run into the two American brothers from The Pink House. They are buying bongo drums.
“Hey.” Says the one who is not called Josh.
“Hey.” I reply.
“Didn’t you, like, move out or something?”
“Yes.” I say, “I did.”
He nods, deciding that there is not really anything else he can add on that subject.
“We’re buying bongo drums.” He says instead, rather unnecessarily.
He performs a little impromptu human beat-box to illustrate, his brother accompanies him with a half-hearted toc-toc-toc rhythm on the drum he’s holding.
“Anyways.” He concludes, “See yous.”
They vanish into the crowd of brightly coloured shirts.
That night, in the single room at the new hostel. I lie awake, unable to sleep. I am not interrupted, I know that I will not be. I wonder if I miss it.