by Alan Duff
Well … Sonny shrugging, for what it was worth in the part-dark and Jube’s eyes on the road anyrate. Hearing Jube’s tch-tching, and telling Sonny, Sometimes I wonder about me and you, what we got in common, what use we are to each other with me doing all the criminal thinking and you doing all the dumb-star-stuff thinking. Ya know that? Well, I have thought about it, Jube, I must admit. And? And like, you know – Don’t keep saying you know all the fucking time. Okay, and like I’ve come to the same conclusions – but … Sonny pausing, just to irritate. And it irritating: But fucking what! But there’s other times when we do need each other. Oh yeah, since when? Since every week when one of us runs out of bread first and the other one carries till Thursday or the next burglary. And that’s it then? Jube turned his head for a second. It’s a start, and I ain’t heard you complaining before now, other than your, you know, usual grump with the world. Hey, man, you are taking the piss outta me, aren’t ya? Nope. Ya are. I said nope, Jube, so come on. Jube not saying further. Onward.
Jube, you ever think about us, where we’re going? Oh yeah, all the time, Sonny. (Oh?) Like now, we’re headed for Wellington, Sonny, and in a few days we’ll be headed to Auckland. We’ll be loaded up with hot goodies we might even have a hired truck full a the stuff, which’ll head us for the different fences we – I mean I – know. We’ll have ourselves, with Pete and his Wellington boys, a massive celebration party with half a k a dope, heads a course, and piss coming out our ears. We’ll order Kentucky Fried and McDonald’s at a hundred bucks an order, which we’ll feed our party pals with. We’ll go to sleep where we fall, we’ll wake with a fridgeful a cold piss. And they’ll be no shortage of sheilas; I’ll pick who I want from the Tavi, hire some I have to, long as I have myself one within easy fucking distance. So, that’s were we’re headed for the next lil while. That answer your questions?
Sonny waited. HAHAHAHAHA!! for Jube to do just that. Sonny sighed. He gurgled a can from opening to emptying, nearly threw it back up, but held it. He lit a smoke. Didn’t answer Jube’s going, Hey ya still talking to me? Hahahaha. Not till a kilometre or two went past and the one-hit can’d done its work. Sonny felt better. Better able to cope with Jube, their tangents of difference. He asked again: But seriously, you think about – Oh, every minute of the day, Sonny. Yep, I think about my life, you know, how I wish I was a brain surgeon – no, make that a motor mechanic – Hey, really, Jube? Yeah, really and truly; don’t tell me you didn’t know that about your old inside cellmate and outside flatmate, now come on, Sonny? You’re kidding me, aren’t ya? Oh no, Sonny, I wouldn’t do that. Why, only yesterday I was gonna ask you, Sonny how do I get myself qualified as a motor mechanic, cos I’m sick of being a thief. Aw, you’re having me on, man. Paying me back, eh? Yeh! I’m paying you back. And I don’t wanna hear no crap bout going straight, cos I never wanted that not in my entire life. I can’t even lie straight in bed, and that’s cos I don’t want to. I was born bad and that’s how I like being. And I’m beginning to worry about you, Sonny-fucking-Mahia.
How come? Cos you all the time think-think-think. Nothin wrong with that, man. There is; it’s not right. It don’t sit right, ya know? It sounds like – makes you sound like some fucking con ready to turn into a nark cos sumpin inside you is busted. Jube, I wouldn’t nark on – I know ya wouldn’t, but there’s plenty who’re asking me questions about you, Mahia. Like who? Like half the dudes in Tavistocks for starters. Yeah, well, they hardly count. I mean, who the fuck are they? They, Sonny, are your peers, whether you like it or not. Ya got that? No way. They are, Son, and they can sense you ain’t one of them no more. One day they’re gonna get a little delegation together and sort you out. Nah, come on, why’d they do that? Who’ve I ever harmed? That don’t madda a shit to them; it’s how they see you. You know the score anyway; inside you got hassled for being what you are, which is too much of a head-man. Our kinda people, man, they don’t trust those who live in their own heads, ya know? Half your sentences you spent in the library. And you wonder why your own kind are a bit iffy about you?
Sonny shook his head. Nothing to say to that. Nothin. Not sure if it hurt or he was pleased that his Tavi bar peers saw him as something different. (But, man, I don’t wanna be sumpin I ain’t. I just want, like, some sorta peace. In my mind, and from there in my life. I wanna turn this fuckin life around; that’s what it is, what it’s always been – But how? How, man?) Oh, crack another can. That always cures it, eh Jube? Hey, now you’re talking a language I understand, lil man. Onward.
(… like someone’s opened a door for me. In my head. This door. Opening, but just a peek, to start with. Then slowly swinging open to reveal this other world – that’s inside my head? No? Yet it is. And look, there’s the dancers; they’re men for some reason, and they aren’t any particular race, they’re just neutral faces that are beautiful but in a strange way. Now they’re dancing. And there’s music. Oh, don’t let me lose this.) Sonny fixing his mind’s eye on this event taking place, not daring to move, hardly even to breath. (The music isn’t recognisable either. More a beat. Yet there are stringed instruments, maybe they’re violins. But the dance isn’t like that, violinish, and yet it all fits. It fits. And it’s so clear; yet I’m not dreaming, I’m sitting here in this car watching this dreamlike sequence taking place right –) HEEEEEYYYYYYY!!!
The car lurched wildly, crossed the white line, and Jube shrieking his laughter, AHAHAAARRRRRRGGGGH-HAHAHAHA! at the first possum of the night, frozen in the headlamp glare, every little detail of rat-like face and pricked ears as clear as day; picture of dumbfounded unknowingness, thick tail laid out behind it like a veil, a death veil, if they have such things. Thuck! Death coming in a glancing blow of rubber at a hundred miles an hour. Gotcha! Hahahaha! Man, them possies’re sure suckers for death. Hedgies, though, ya gotta watch for the hedgehogs their prickles don’t puncture your tyre. Aw, come on, Jube, they don’t puncture – They fuckingwell do. (Well, I’ll be damned, eh Nose? I don’t believe it for a moment.) That right? That’s right: hedgies-puncture-tyres. What, you calling me a liar? Would I be so stupid as to do that, Jube? Nah, I don’t think you would. But then, with you, Sonny Mahia, a man can never tell. Pass me one.
Little hiss of Jube tearing the tab on the can, as Sonny lit two cigarettes, handed one to Jube. Ta, man. Jube’s face slightly aglow as the ember switched on like a light. Bubbling sound of him taking a drink from the can. Outside, reflector strips flashing regularly by. Farmhouse lights on Sonny’s side up on a hill. And where, sure as free-range eggs, that window glow was firelight. Fireglow and Mummy-warmth. And her brood sat around the fire, eyes locked into the dance of flames. And Dad reading a story. Tummies full from Mum’s best cooking, a roast, no doubt. Okay, story’s over, it’s dishes time, kids. Aw, Dad. No aw Dads. But can’t they wait till the Cosby Show’s over? Oh alright then. Their dad’d be one of them kind. A good bastard.
(Not like mine. I hated my old man.) After the dishes he’d help put em to bed, then he and wifey’d go back to the fire. Hehehe. Come and sit down here on the rug, dear. Down she be, legs drawn up to catch the heat around her area. Hon? Hmmm? Come a little bit closer. Smiling at him, his hand reaching out for that smooth line of drawn-up legs. Oh, honey.
Blast of air from Jube’s window gone down. Not a sound, though, from the can tossed to the wind. No different, Sonny in an instant reminded, from a borstal minister putting to his youthful, incarcerated audience, Would there be any sound in the case of a piece of ice breaking from a main body if there were no ears to hear it? Really got them thinking. And flummoxed. Stumped the lot of the dunderhead boobheads. Then one dude, Moomoo Jacobs was his name, asked: Whassa fuckin difference? And everyone laughed away their confusion. Sonny still had occasional ice dreams. The break-offs sounded like rifle cracks.
Flash of silver out front and Jube swinging for it. Too late. No thud of impact. Hey, what’s a frog doin out here in the middle of the night? Dunno, Son. Maybe it couldn’t sleep – HAHAHAHA!
C
ans getting warmer. So drinking for effect, not the pleasure of ice chill in mouth, against throat. Just effect. To shut out the whatevers they permanently were with people like them. And don’t forget the smokes: that need to suck, to satisfy sumpin of the mouth.
I ever tell you that poem I wrote got printed in the Star? Yeh, ya did, lotsa times. And not as if it was printed, man. Was the Memorium column and you paid for it. Okay, okay, I wasn’t saying it was a normal poem. But I still made it up. None a that copycatting like other people do in the In Memorium. I composed it all by myself. Wanna hear it? If you insist. But you slow down a bit first. Why’s that? So I can concentrate. Okay man, a deal. The engine went instantly quieter. Ya ready? Come on, man, get on with it. Well I’m sorry, Mr Mahia, don’t want you late for your appointment with the Prime Minister now, do we? Here we go:
My mate Ace, remember the V8s?
Them were the days, weren’t they, mate?
Rums and bourbons, washed down with Coke
Hey, givus another bottle, along with some smokes.
You drove the meanest V8 in town.
Had to be you Ace, stead of some clown.
But now you’re the All American boy in the sky …
Hey, Ace weren’t American. Jeezus, Sonny! you interrupted me – and I never said he was American. Yes ya did. No, ya spoon, that’s just a saying, it’s a – You wouldn’t understand. You gonna let me get on with it?
But now you’re the All American boy in the sky.
But we’ll always remember you for giving us those highs
Our day’ll come, old buddy of mine,
When we’ll be cracking a bottle – No, make that nine.
And we’ll toast to speed, and to thrills.
Only wish to God it was me, not you, got killed.
So farewell, dear friend. Your turn came too soon.
But Jube’ll see you again, on the dark side of the moon.
Silence. And the car still at its reduced speed. (I can hear his heart thumping. He thinks he’s on the tv, in the movies. He’s sucking on the emotion like a kid on a last bit of lolly. He thinks –) Makes you feel, don’t it? Uh well, yeah. Guess it does. Guess it does. But did it, like, sound okay to you? Yeah, it did. Ya sure? Sure I’m sure. Not having me on, are ya? No way. Thanks, Son. I, uh, preciate that. You know? Yeah, I know. As the speed gradually increased.
The shifts. Beer shifts. Of mood, and perspective. Now attitude as Jube went Huh? at an oncoming set of lights not responding to his foot tap of dip to full to dipped beam. A pause of his anger coming up, then: Give me full beam, ya cunt – wrenching the wheel over, taking them to the other side of the white line. Now muthafucka, see what ya made of. Through his clenched teeth, Sonny could hear it even over the constant roar of powerful engine, the shift in Jube’s mind. From ten, fifteen kilometres back of getting all sentimental over his late pal Ace killed himself in his V8, to this: Come onnnnn! and the floor dip switch a staccato hammer of Jube’s foot hitting it. COME ONNNN! Sonny’s eyes opening and closing about the same rate as Jube’s foot was going on the dip switch. (We’re gonna die.) Jube? Come onnnn, muthafucka. Jube! Come – HAHAHAHAHAHA!! Sonny opening his eyes to see the victory of the other car pulled over off the road with its light going from dip to off. Jube’s window belting down, and an arm going out, GOTCHA! Hahahahahaha!! His triumph bellowing no different to the earless break-off of ice in remote Antarctica.
Did ya like that, Sonny? Yet nothing genial in his tone – cold. The beer shift had him in that cold mode, and only extremes would briefly warm him. So next it was a truck that wouldn’t dip its lights on instant command from Sir Jube. And over he went, to the oncomer’s side. As oncomer barrelled towards them maybe half a kilometre away, lit up like a Christmas tree how they like to these truckies, something childlike in their make-up; the dackadackadackadacka of Jube on and offing the dip to full. Me and fucking you, buddy. The cab outline doing a little wobble of no doubt disbelief. Hey, come on now, Jube … Once was bad en – You and me, cunt. Come on, ya fat prick of a truckie, let’s see who breaks first.
The full beam of truck headlight getting through Sonny’s closed eyelids. So he opened them – shut em again. Jube! Fuck up. Then came a horn blast. Coulda been a fucking great ship bearing down on em in the night. Jube? (Hate your guts, Jube McCall.) Foghorn blast and juggernaught rumble closing. Then it was a violent swing of movement as Sonny caught the da-dada-da-da! of horn. It could have been a long, echoing laugh.
But Sonny not prepared to taunt Jube on conceding. Too risky; he might play chicken to the bitter end next time. Bigger than us, eh Jube? Took Jube some time to respond, and then it was just, Yeah, was a bit. And silence.
They pulled over at a rest area layby. Not far back the sign’d said Wellington was forty kilometres to go. But nowhere to crash, put their heads down. And too dangerous to sleep in a car in the city, ya might get mugged. Eh Sonny? Jube from the front seat and Sonny laid down in the back, be a bit of a downer we got mugged by our own kind? Sure would, man. Like my sound system, eh Son? Stolen by our own kind. Who’d do a thing like that? They must’ve seen the paint-job on the car, shoulda told em it belonged to one of their own? Any fucking wonder I got so upset, eh Sonny? Yeah, I don’t blame ya, Jube. Was a good system, wasn’t it, Sonny? (Shifts. Now he’d shifted to his wanna chat mode. The whining lil boy kinda chat, of just before tuck-in-time: Mummy, guess what happened? But I don’t wanna hear his voice. It’ll enter my dreams, gimme nightmares. I been to sleep with that voice in my ears, echoing in my head well over a thousand nights of imprisonment. A break. Gimme a break, will ya, Nose?) Night, Jube. Hey, ya not going to sleep already, are ya? Sure am. I’m tired. The thump of Jube turning his sulking form either facing the seat or the underside of his dashboard.
Lying there, sleep not yet signalling it was near; and a man knew his sleep pattern off by heart from them days of prison introspection. Sleep, it was a trickle, Sonny was certain, of this chemical coming from someplace in the brain. And it didn’t come then, nor did sleep.
The night chill coming in through the breeze of Jube with his cowboy-booted feet stuck out the passenger’s window. Sonny curled up like the fetus every crim is: huddled unto himself, lost of the womb-warmth, Mummy-warmth (that wasn’t there to start with), just this curled thing taking comfort from itself, since there weren’t no-one nor anything else to take it from.
The stars. Just one opened eye out the window away. A twinkling up there in the forever mystery for all men. Sonny staring at them. Wondering about em. Nothing deep, just a small curiosity and a little larger puzzlement. Hearing Jube’s movement then the window going up; must’ve got too cool even for him, Mister Tough Guy who don’t never dance cos tough guys they don’t. Watching the unending vista of stars, till they gradually disappeared behind the fog of Jube’s always troubled breathing and his not-untroubled quieter own. Till that tiny leak of chemical told him sleep was on its way, if not necessarily peace.
3
In this bar. The same one they were in last visit. Two hours they’d been there, since just after nine this morning; an early opener, like Tavistocks back home in Auckland. Caters for the desperate and the fancy-free. Not forgetting the dregs of society who can’t conform. Started off with a handful plus Sonny and Jube, then grew to about the two-dozen mark, and not yet noon. Look atem, they’re scum, Jube every so often scowling. Giving off this eerie hum of collected talk. Alkies, near to a man, and no women to be seen. And look at him over there, that wanker, jeezuz fucking chrise but ya don’t see that even at the Tavi, eh Son?
At this dude, he wouldn’t be more’n forty, meant to be in the prime of his accomplished or contented life and here he was in a sleaze pit, staggering in a tight circle round and round and gibbering like an animal. A fretting one. And lookit them packa arseholes over there. Jube sparing no-one, a group of derelicts huddled at a standing table, in threadbare clothing and with filthy matted hair, but it was their teeth, their mouths that gave them away: gaps, gums,
gaping holes in acts of insane laughter – Man, what the fuck are we doin here anyway? Sonny wanting to know.
Pete. We’re waiting for Pete to show.
And if he don’t?
He will.
But if he don’t?
Sonny, he’ll show.
By four o’clock, and both of them getting well on the way, the guy hadn’t showed. Sonny came back with two more jug refills, asked Jube for some small change for the jukebox. Jube laughed, No way, Maori boy, you’ll only play your coon music, hahaha. Then Jube’s face changed: Hey? You’re not saying you’re broke, are ya? Yep. Broke as. Aw come on, Sonny. No come ons. Broke is broke. Was my turn to do the power bill Friday. Left me with about thirty-five from my dole. I’m here, I been here, what, eight hours, and it’s done run out, my main white man. Sonny breezy on the beer and no food from since the night before. Jube shaking his head in dismay. But you shouldn’t be broke, Jube, are ya? Jube brought out a twenty-dollar note as answer. That’s it? This is it, Sonny. How come, man? You didn’t have no power bill to pay. I bought half a dozen bullets. Half a fuckin dozen? At ten bucks each? Yep. And you smoked em all since, when, Friday? Jube nodded, And you helped. Hey, I had one lousy joint on Sunday; why I agreed with your fool idea to go on the cruise. Let’s go cruising, Sonny, that’s what you said in your stoned state. Let’s go south again, but try the east coast through from Taupo, we might even pick up some Swedish hitchhikers and they are just born to love fucking, that’s what you said, Jube McCall.
Pete’ll show.
Pete won’t show, and why didn’t you organise sumpin better?
Oh? Like me phoning my secretary, This here’s your boss, Girl Friday. Can you phone Pete the Wellington burglar and make an appointment with him? That’s a good girl – Oh, and remind me to feel you up next time I’m passing. Come on, Sonny, don’t worry so much. Pete and his boys’ll show.
