I used to know a man called Fat Mike. This wasn't his real name, nor did I know of anyone calling him that to his face. But his name was Mike and he was fat.
He never said much. He didn't need to. He used to walk around the place with a half-smile that suggested he knew something that you didn't. He liked pizza, computer games and wearing fishnet tank-tops. And spending money.
The most he spoke to me was when he knocked at my door on a summer's day. I hadn't seen him for around three years - he had moved towns for reasons I will divulge later. He stood on my doorstep sweating and without a "hello" he pointed at my car and asked: "Do you want to buy an engine for that? I've got one."
I told him I was OK thanks, as my car already had an engine. "Oh," he said. "Well, do you want to buy the body of a Vauxhall Viva? It doesn't have an engine though."
It is worth pointing out that this Fat Mike never sang for NOFX - nor did we even know of a band called NOFX fronted by a man named Fat Mike when our guy had the same name bestowed upon him. This was 1991 in a far flung Southern Hemisphere country, we were still getting used to the idea that Elvis had died.
Anyway, back to our Mike. He went to university, which is where I first met him, for about a term. He arrived in town with $3,500 to his name - after paying his fees - which was more than enough to get him started with a place to live. Back then a lot of students got Government grants to live on, so he was OK.
Or he would have been if he hadn't rented the 46in TV, the top-notch washing machine and dryer. Not to mention the fact he bought a Nintendo whatever-they-were-called back then, with a stack of games.
He wasn't exactly frugal with his energy consumption either. As well as having a clothes dryer, he used to use the oven to deal with his wet clothes. And when he wasn't drying stuff with it, it was kept open to heat the house.
His room-mate - who commented that Mike displayed the territorial instincts of a wolf by leaving underwear in every single room except his - once found a couple of pairs of kecks under the grill. When he asked why, Mike apparently replied: "I need them today and they are wet." His room-mate moved out soon after.
As the oven was used as an express clothes dryer, you'd be right in thinking not a lot of cooking went on in it. In fact aside from the fridge, nothing in the kitchen saw any use whatsoever. But the local pizza delivery soon knew Mike on a first-name basis.
I have been told that within weeks of Mike moving into his apartment, pizza boxes littered the room - to the point where he put one down on the floor so as to get himself a drink, only to lose it among the detritus when he stepped back into the lounge.
I know this because another man I knew - let's call him Shane - went round to his house three days later, found the uneaten pizza still in its box and polished it off.
Predictably, after this high living, he landed himself in a spot of debt. In fact he ended up in hock to the tune of around $7,000 after one term. That's over $10,000 spent in less than three months. It may not sound very excessive to many now, but back then many students lived for an entire year on $7,000.
So Mike did what any self-respecting young man would do: he moved back with his mother, in a small town about two hours' drive from where the university was. But just because he was under Mum's roof didn't mean the debts disappeared.
They followed him, because when he signed up for his apartment, he had left a forwarding address. He hadn't planned on skipping out on bills; it just turned out that way.
So he did what he felt was necessary: he looked around his mother's house for something to sell. And he did find one object, in a small downstairs room. In fact it was in the smallest downstairs room.
Yes, that's right, he sold his own mother's toilet. I am unsure as to who he sold it to or how much he got for it, but sell it he did. And to this day, despite many enquiries, I do not know what his mother's reaction was when she found a space where the bowl and cistern should have been in the downstairs bog.
I hope for him she was understanding. Because he was living by the (not-so) age-old adage: If life gives you shit, sell your mother's toilet.
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