Sunday, August 29, 2010
There is only today (for Jeanie)
Then:
Fuck, he was barely able to get off his knees after the second heave. Puke oozed slowly down the steps as he fell back onto the grass.
“What a fucking waste of a good dinner,” says phantom voice.
“Mmmmmmmmm, yeah.” Spittle, thick like an umbilical cord, hung from his slack mouth. Nostrils burned.
Slowly leaning back over, arms shaking in protest, not really seeing; he puckered up his lips and sucked up a baked bean, then another and another.
Laughter, cries of disgust.
“Jesus you're a fucking gross cunt.” Another phantom.
His mates were all around, somewhere, ahhh yeah. Had been all afternoon. That was good cos he couldn’t really move and didn’t want to be left alone up here. Not in this state. Not like last time. That was crap; scary. A cop had cruised up and punched him in the face, threatened to arrest him if he said anything. The cop was a woman. He'd pissed his pants in fear.
Later:
No pigs turned up as far as I can remember, but it was a Monday night so it would have been a slow one for them. Big one for us though. Monday night; no particular reason really, it could have been any night of the week. There were periods when it's six, ten, even fourteen days/nights in a row, getting as fucked up as possible to have a bit of fun.
Everyone does it.
Paper rock scissors. We live on the streets, shoplift food, defraud Social Welfare, burgle, sell drugs and stolen property, take countless risks with drugs we know nothing about in order to leave a reality so totally alien, so sick and twisted in its relentless violence and brutality that we willingly become everything they hate: we flirt with (social) death. As if we care what you think.
I haven't changed my pants in six months. Work-shy anarcho-pacifist faggots who loiter all day drinking cheap beer: we park John's Vauxhall outside the council building and play Discharge on the stereo as loud as possible. 'Scum' is printed on the back of my t-shirt but don't let it put you off eh; we're nice boys.
Then:
So far so good this time though. The afternoons fun had been his shout, his turn to sacrifice a record for the super-duper 'one decent punk record for an ounce of cabbage’ deal from Jeanie up at the top flat – so it was a quick flick to the back of the beer crate to find something that rarely graced his turntable: Bad Brains it was then.
Jeanie was so damned pleased he almost changed his mind, but nah, their Rasta bullshit was getting a bit too much. Now, on with the show.
Nathan’s cesspit of a kitchen had produced only oil, flour, marmite and loads of fat flies so the cake came out looking like a sloppy cow shit but it didn’t matter really; down it went.
And up they all went.
Later:
It never fails to amaze me how wasted you can get by eating such shit weed. Could smoke cabbage all night but a slice of cake and kapow! you were flying. Might even sort out another for the weekend; or talk someone else into it at least. No rush. Y'know for a long time my concept of the 'future' only extended to holidays, birthdays and Christmas - like it probably was for most kids eh? All you had to do was sit and wait and before you knew it you were wallowing in joy.
Other wise it was just today and bedtime was ages away eh?
Homework was a curler. And it became more and more serious as you got older with the consequences of forgetting more dire. Then came the school cross-country run, the English speech, exams, and finally the school ball.
The future was increasingly becoming dominated by scary shit.
The fact that school was a finite chunk of life didn't really hit home until well into the seventh form year, but even then it was treated like a half-truth. I didn't even realise that some of my friends actually had plans, actually knew what they were going to be doing the following year.
BA of course; in Dunedin of course.
I assume there was some sort of mental process to reach this decision, but we never talked about it so it remained a mystery to me. But I also wonder whether some of my fellow students simply followed the herd, or treated Uni as no more than an extension of high school – just a different location and more parties. That was the last I saw of many friends, some of whom I'd shared a classroom with since way back in the primary days. The final bell rang: the future had suddenly arrived and it was all bad.
But now I've got it sorted, well mostly. Y'see once again I've no plans, appointments, important dates, homework or a fancy dress ball. Nothing. There is only today and bedtime is ages away.
Then:
English is such a shocker of a language. Where is beauty, love, and the wondrous insight of hallucinations?
“Wow, look at that.” Had to be there eh?
Right, team meeting, gather round gather round. All agree that hours of intense tripping in Nath’s revolting little flat probably won’t be much fun. No shit eh; close call guys, another half-hour and they probably wouldn’t have found the fucking door out.
So they walked; walked and walked and walked until they came across an apple tree who told them he used to be a policeman so they stood around and pissed on it. Ah, the church steps, scene of so many drunken grovels they almost considered it their own. Kinda predictable but so what – that's drugs for ya.
Later:
Getting wasted is very predictable, but at the same time it takes very little to plunge into chaos. Puking your ring out is pretty much the same each time and the way I feel right now is pretty fucking familiar as well. But getting up at seven-thirty each morning and going to work is also very predicable eh? Ditto Shortland Street each night, after work drinks on Friday, mowing the lawns and Sunday brunch at a trendy cafe. All very very fucking predictable. That's why it's good to occasionally drop a few psych pills with your beer. Unpredictable.
Even better is a tasty concoction invented by the late Howdy Blackmore called 'The Bucket'. From the bottlie score Old Mouttre, apple wine and a cheap cask of vodka and orange. Then duck into the two-dollar shop to pick up a plastic bucket and head for the church steps where you mix them lovingly together. Best when drunk. I don't seem to remember ever actually finishing one of these and in fact I think that each time at least one of the participants has ended up in the cells for the night.
The Bucket is Howdy's legacy to getting wasted.
Then:
The moonlight streaming through the trees had him fucked for a while there, trying to hop over the rays one at a time so he could get to the toilets. Crashing into shit; the grass shimmering beneath him like it was 3-D, electric. Fucking toasted. Toast.
His mouth ached from laughing so much.
And then the fucking Christians turn up with their paper cups of chicken soup yet again; never fucking listen that lot: “Is it vegetarian?” The following week: “Is it vegetarian?” and so on. Duh; target audience research. Like flies to goddamn shit they are. But none of them are young and spunky and while the banter can be entertaining it’s still kinda like hanging out with your parents so the party slowly shifts a few steps further up.
Shit, it's reality. Always strikes at the worst time eh. His arse feels like a couple of frozen chops and probably has for a long while now; fingers are clamped numb around a can of flat beer. Visions of piles distract him for another good chunk of time but it never takes long before the Nelson frost pulls you back down from whatever glorious heights you’ve conquered and eats you. It just depends on how wasted you are to when it becomes too much of a drag to hang in there. Bit like the Christians really. The city though is deliciously quiet; so still. The tourists have stopped loitering, stopped click clicking and fucked off to where ever they go, so the view down the main drag takes you right to the night sky.
Two am is so the best time to be here. Wasted.
Wasted.
Wasted.
The streetlights no longer pulsed. He cautiously staggered to his feet, arms wide for balance and squinted about; there was only Shane clinging to some schoolgirl.
Shit, close call.
Shivering with cold he scouted about him to see if he'd dropped anything. Nothing, not even a few brain cells. “Right I’m off home. Been a choice night eh.” No reply.
Crashing down through ruined flowerbeds he finds the path that curls around the hill, out towards Vanguard Street and the couch that is currently home. The road is flat, wide, and empty of danger. The cold is brutal, clinging damp; he walks fast to loose the shakes. Hopefully Jeanie would run out of cabbage soon. It was getting harder each turn, painful even, with his more cherished vinyl getting dangerously close to the back of the beer crate. But it was just too good a deal and in the quest for obliteration sacrifices must be made.
Could always buy another copy someday, but a night out like tonight...
Priceless. Damn straight. Right then, home.
Later:
What shall we do tonight guys?
Now:
No regrets.
Except for the records.
I was never a cunt, never hassled anyone, assaulted anyone, never took advantage of anyone...
No regrets.
Except for the records.
And Jeanie. RIP.
Monday, August 23, 2010
Neighbours
There's punk out there, in the suburbs. Stands to reason I guess. I mean where do old punks go?
He came to fix up our neighbours fence or something. Late 30's maybe, big, friendly looking guy. We played him Aus-Rotten and Tragedy at a horrendous volume; accidentally of course as we weren't aware of his presence until he played some Dead Kennedys on his old paint splattered tape deck.
Holy shit. But, that's our music, ours.
“Hey there's someone playing Jello; outside.”
A stranger, outside. Should have seen the jaws drop round here, all the sly peeping through the old net curtains.
“He's old.”
"Fucken' straight-as eh.”
"I wonder where he's from?”
Jeez; what, were you thinking Mars or something? He's from right here of course. Right here.
He came to fix up our neighbours fence or something. Late 30's maybe, big, friendly looking guy. We played him Aus-Rotten and Tragedy at a horrendous volume; accidentally of course as we weren't aware of his presence until he played some Dead Kennedys on his old paint splattered tape deck.
Holy shit. But, that's our music, ours.
“Hey there's someone playing Jello; outside.”
A stranger, outside. Should have seen the jaws drop round here, all the sly peeping through the old net curtains.
“He's old.”
"Fucken' straight-as eh.”
"I wonder where he's from?”
Jeez; what, were you thinking Mars or something? He's from right here of course. Right here.
Friday, August 13, 2010
The Hole on The Hill
“Right-o then.” Matt announces the end of afternoon tea by plonking his tea-stained mug onto the table, encouragingly makes the first move. “Concrete trucks arrive on Monday so unless you're keen on a Saturday...”
The lads ached, had had enough. They all knew Matt was going back into the warm site office to gaze at the plans, play with his calculator. It was only about 15 metres from the shipping container that was their smoko shed to the hole, but it was far enough to kill any pleasure the reprieve had given them and by the time Casper's hand gripped the top of the ladder to check its steadiness, he was once again wet and cold.
Down they go. Paul was the keenest, still had spring in his step. Then Colin, Neil and Sean; now his turn. The view of a grey rain-swept world was replaced with layers of West Coast history: mud, mine tailings, old mud, and clay that would soon be mud. The rain and sleet hadn’t stopped for nearly two weeks now and each morning he marvelled that the hole was still just that – a hole and not some evil water-filled death-trap. If Casper had known that this blanket of misery would eventually last for twenty-seven bone chilling days he’d have cried at the prospect.
As a kid he loved the rare thunderstorms that rocked the family home. “Rain from the east, three days at least,” his old man would intone as the first big drops exploded in the dust. Back then rain was a treat, the drumming on the roof as he snuggled into bed as good as a Christmas eve.
Precious rain: living east of the main ranges meant each summer the land would curl up and die of thirst with cracks in the lawn big enough to put your hand down, road tar trickling into the gutters to snare bare feet, water restrictions and gossip about suspiciously green gardens. Pausing on the ladder, Casper looked upwards at the swirling layers of grey. He could see himself as a boy on the porch hopping with glee, shrieking as lightning tore open the sky to finally let it all come down. Looking down at his boots he carefully resumed his descent, not wanting to slip and fall. Maybe on a Monday, but not a Friday afternoon. That would be stupid.
The hole on the hill was a quiet spot, like a mass grave awaiting the bodies and bulldozers, and as he hit the bottom with a splash the dread quickly returns. Picking their way along the shallow trench destined to one-day become part of the floor, his "so what were we doing again?" draws an exasperated laugh from further ahead as they find their places amongst the steel, but no more. No one likes it here, no one wants to work Saturday.
The hill had no proper name that he was aware of, it being an appendage of a steep ridge that loomed above Rununga, but obviously it was in the way of progress. On the Coast a lot of things are in the way.
“This place is like Poland,” remarked a sodden German hitchhiker he’d rescued from the service station one day. “Stinking coal smoke, endless rain and poverty,” he'd peered out through the rain splashed windscreen, his relief at escaping evident as they swept past the last house. “Look, the people are all soft and gooey like your white bread.”
Casper cracked up at that one. "Yep, no wholemeal round these parts mate."
Before the rain and sleet had settled in, the gang enjoyed views of the surrounding bush clad hills, the town slumbering below with its unemployed and retired filling the pub each afternoon, century-old houses quietly rotting into the sodden earth, the cycle nearly complete. The local’s bitched about the rain as much as they did about any dry spells, the water tanks always half-empty. Two weeks without a good downpour was considered a drought and from their hilltop they watched tankers deliver precious liquid to homes not connected to the town supply. The last 'drought' was now a forgotten memory, as was summer. It seemed only the weka's were happy. “The rain makes the bush grow,” he'd replied to the petrol station dude's ritual whinge-greeting. "I mean, could you imagine this place with no bush? It’d be like fucking Gisborne man.”
There really shouldn’t be people here; it was fragile, beautiful and precious. One day their hammers went quiet to watch the rescue helicopters and ambulances race up the highway towards Cave Creek. Fourteen dead on the rocks at the bottom. The West Coast didn’t want Coasters anymore; it’d had enough of the whole blundering about fucking shit up thing they call ‘progress’. The mountains were unforgiving; the rivers treacherous, and simple human mistakes had tragic results. This hilltop was just one more ugly scar. A betrayal and an embarrassment.
Hungry loggers had cleaned up anything worth a dollar, bulldozers stripped it naked flat and a massive concrete pad poured with wall framing due to start the following week. In the meantime they continued with the ‘tunnel’ that would be used to train coal miners. Of course at this stage it was simply a monstrous hole, concrete slabs would eventually be lowered onto it to form its roof, then a layer of mud to make it look authentic. He wondered if they’d plant something or just let it go to gorse, West Coast landscaping.
“Fuck I'm a bit over the weather eh?" Casper lobbed into the stillness. Ditto with the humour. Fumbling for his wire cutters, he shuddered. While the rain didn’t really get down this far – it mostly blew horizontal – everything was wet, the mud slimy, and his tools were rusting along with the reinforcing mesh that lay about him.
Paul stretched up, flexed his back. “Jeez, really need a crap after that coffee eh. Gonna be a long wait.” The others laughed while Casper, the butt of the joke, worked silently on. He was the only one who lived on site – security officially, but it was more about free rent and a ten second walk to work if you asked him – and relied on Matt's idea of 'facilities'. The long-drop for a while was pleasant enough as far as long-drops go, but it leaked like a sieve and had filled up with foul smelling water, making his morning fumble with layers of wet-weather gear a depressing ritual. The places you end up in eh? As a boy he'd soaked up the back country exploits of Barry Crump like the bog paper that would swell almost instantly on it's wire cradle. Good old Baz huddled in wet tents with wet dogs and no smokes left. Jeez, what an adventure eh? His old man would throw in his own back country exploits: dragging their arses up ‘the puffer’ by candlelight on a Friday night to beat the Uni wankers to the best bunks. He would always be laughing at this historic misery, never realising just how high he made those mountains seem to his only boy. Casper wondered if he’d ever felt like crying as he sometimes did, living like this, on top of a hill yet under water, or if they were just tough bastards back then.
He wondered when tough crossed the line into stupidity.
Snorting water and snot out of his nose, he straightened to flex in a futile attempt to ease the pain. He laughed despite it all. "Fucking Barry Crump, pig."
He'd jacked up the house truck to take weight off the springs and tires, but the chocks had sunk into the mud and the wheels themselves were now slowly following. Could read a lot into that eh? Home was parked up on the eastern side of the site, chosen mainly because it was out of the way more than for any aesthetic reasons and while the sun was shining it had been sweet. The solar panel powered the lights and stereo, the leaking skylight had been forgotten about... but lately things were pretty grim. None-the-less, inside was a warm sanctuary and for that he was grateful. He would be there soon; he would be home.
Quietly humming a song he stepped methodically from one steel junction to the next; two twists and a snip. Next one. Next one. Colin was dragging lengths of steel past him and paused in head-shaking wonder as Casper raised both fists high to shout towards the sodden world above them: "I am a loser, I am Satan, I am Jesus Christ, I am me, there are no winners in this fucked reality." Laughing out loud he stepped back to survey the mess. “Colin!" he exclaimed with a laugh. "What the fuck are we doing in this wet version of hell building a pretend mine out of concrete?”
Yeah, how did we draw this reality?
Colin cocked his battered cap back on his grey hair and had a good scratch; his face was filthy and wet; Casper knew he ached like hell. “I guess cos this is what we do and it's pay day next Wednesday eh, so hang in there buddy.” His shrug says it all – fucken kids.
Colin was from Blackball, a town that really defied description. Massive open drains hinted at rain that fell like an Indian monsoon every bloody day. They're born waterproof up there, like fish; fish with roots. Maybe that was what he lacked – roots. Essentially he was really only a tourist seeing everything in black and white. Y’know, "that town sucked cos it was raining the whole day we were there," type of shit. The secret spots were for the locals only, generational treasures to be only shared amongst family and friends and you couldn't blame them for being so protective eh. Who the hell wants a platoon of Maui campers parked out front of your 'historic' pub?
While Casper took some comfort in Colin’s contentment, he wondered about the lifetime of decisions that had led him to such a place, to this hill. Pushing barrows of cement at sixty couldn’t be a shit-load of fun, and he hoped never to be in a similar situation. What part of his dream did it play?
When Casper broke ranks at the age of seventeen by refusing to follow his mates on the path of the expected and sign up for a BA at Vic or Massey, he literally pulled the plug on life as Mum and Dad had constructed it. Dreams in his family were always solid; things that you saved for and a lifetime of hard yacca was how you got there. That was when the spiral down began. His dreams were just a little more abstract than wanting a Holden or gadgets for the lounge - shit, he didn’t have a lounge anyway – and for some reason that really infuriated his old man. He marvelled at the ability of others to find happiness in just chugging along, doing what was expected as they turned into their parents. It was easy, and he was sometimes envious of this. The lure of conformity, to snuggle up to it like cotton wool, safe in the knowledge that everyone would be mowing lawns and washing their cars again on Sunday arvo’.
That was on a bad day though. Other times he knew that he had a head start on that creeping realisation that the suburbs where a death trap, how the illusions of success can quickly become a noose. They jumped, dropped pills, pulled triggers and ran for the hills.
Hills like this one.
Watching his old man coming home each night too buggered to care was an epiphany he knew many children missed. While Casper was as guilty as any other teenager in that he thought of little else other than himself, because the only stereo in the house was in the lounge it meant that he spent most evenings silently observing family life. With headphones clamped tightly to his skull, screaming punk obscenities - they’d almost paid the mortgage when the system dropped the bomb - attacked his brain as he watched his father down brandy and stare blankly at the TV. Imagine climbing that ladder, on and on you go, only to find that when you get to the top it's leaning against the wrong wall.
"You mean have I ticked up a washing machine, sofa and telly? No," was once his reply to the standard "so have you got a job yet" greeting from his Dad. That was the extent of their communication: expectations, followed by the implication of failure.
How wonderful.
See this misery Dad? All this filthy fucking mud. Ain't it a right laugh all these mistakes I’m making eh? Well love me for my courage at least – and quit bloody worrying that I aren’t riding the escalator up to the furniture department with a credit card in my back pocket.
No; so what was he trying to prove? He watched rivulets of muddy water streaming down before him.
"It was a choice you made mate."
"Talking to the little mud men?" asked Paul
"Yeah, they can predict the future y'know," he dead-panned.
"And and? Glorious sunshine and a female apprentice?"
"Who shouts Monteith's every Friday I believe."
Pack this shit in man and hit the road; that's what the little voice had whispered. Run.
Run? Again?
Dad? Super, love it when you just drop in to chat.
Look this is it boy, the normal working life – and you can’t do it? Or is it that you just don't want to do it? It’s only rained for two damned weeks and those sure pale in comparison to forty years on the job.
A quick look over at Colin, a look into the future.
Bending back down to work, rain and snot running once more, he quickly twisted wire. Did his Dad still have dreams? he wondered. Maybe it wasn’t as screwed up as it looked and there was a cunning plan driving him on that only he could see. He hoped so. He hoped it was all worth it, screaming kids, stressed out Mum and a weekend of maintenance to look forward too.
Two hours later Casper dropped his boots onto last weeks newspapers spread out inside the door of his truck. He lit candles, turned on the gas heater, and after washing and changing, settled himself onto the couch. With a beer raised he toasted: The job maketh the man; which makes me a fool, or is that a good keen man?
The truck rocked in the wind as though it were at sea, vicious rain drumming hard. As he watched the lights gradually switching on down below he pondered the labyrinth of decisions that had led people to Rununga. These people who had chosen to live at the bottom of this hill, was there contentment and satisfaction? Or frustration and a yearning for more? Did the rows of gumboots outside the pub signal a happy fraternity or the drowning of dreams? Was the pub half-full or half-empty? Fuck knows was the answer, plain and simple.
Maybe it was his kinda town; maybe he would be back some day and his boots would join the line-up. Yeah, who knows? Better stop knocking it then eh? Then again the rain shadow was only two hours drive away and he could be packed up ready to roll in even less time. Easy. Easier than this anyway. A phone call to Matt, another apology. He'd done it before and it was tempting... Jeez, you’re running away again; quitting... but nah not this time.
Chicken shit. This is it boy, the normal working life.
Shut up Dad, this time it's different, it's all sorted.
And it was; he had several grand saved and would leave with a good reference. It was going to be a good summer, one long party.
He caught his reflection in a window and it almost startled him, the chin, the narrow face. Again, he toasted. “Sorry Dad, but man, fuck you and your bloody protestant work ethic.” He moved closer to the glass, closer to his old man. “Now I’ve heard you say how mountains can kill you in the blink of an eye, the rivers rise and before you know it there’s no going back. Am I right?” He winked at his Dad who winked right back. They both drunk deeply in confirmation.
Well he was keeping a close eye on the rivers around here that's for sure. Extend his contract? No thanks. Score a cheap flat in town? No. Get a loan from the bank? Start ticking shit up? Are you mad?
He deflated; grabbed another beer and settled back onto the couch. Christ it wasn’t his old man's fault, and no point getting wound up cos he only knew what he knew. That generation of fathers who had lost control over their lazy sons. It's cool, work just meant different things to different people. Shit he'd had more jobs in the last two years than his Dad had in his whole working life. It was funny how a persons reluctance to stick at some boring, monotonous shit made them a lazy shirker, yet pushing the same piece of paper for forty years was admirable.
Stepping out onto the porch step he tossed the empty bottle towards the rubbish pile, heard it clatter in the darkness. He could make out some vague shapes, out there in the misery: sheds, packs of timber, mounds of mud, the leaking dunny. It was shit and he hated it all desperately, but hey, not long now. He stepped back into the soft warmth of his home, cracked another beer, time for one more toast:
“Hang in there sunshine; I’m coming.”
The lads ached, had had enough. They all knew Matt was going back into the warm site office to gaze at the plans, play with his calculator. It was only about 15 metres from the shipping container that was their smoko shed to the hole, but it was far enough to kill any pleasure the reprieve had given them and by the time Casper's hand gripped the top of the ladder to check its steadiness, he was once again wet and cold.
Down they go. Paul was the keenest, still had spring in his step. Then Colin, Neil and Sean; now his turn. The view of a grey rain-swept world was replaced with layers of West Coast history: mud, mine tailings, old mud, and clay that would soon be mud. The rain and sleet hadn’t stopped for nearly two weeks now and each morning he marvelled that the hole was still just that – a hole and not some evil water-filled death-trap. If Casper had known that this blanket of misery would eventually last for twenty-seven bone chilling days he’d have cried at the prospect.
As a kid he loved the rare thunderstorms that rocked the family home. “Rain from the east, three days at least,” his old man would intone as the first big drops exploded in the dust. Back then rain was a treat, the drumming on the roof as he snuggled into bed as good as a Christmas eve.
Precious rain: living east of the main ranges meant each summer the land would curl up and die of thirst with cracks in the lawn big enough to put your hand down, road tar trickling into the gutters to snare bare feet, water restrictions and gossip about suspiciously green gardens. Pausing on the ladder, Casper looked upwards at the swirling layers of grey. He could see himself as a boy on the porch hopping with glee, shrieking as lightning tore open the sky to finally let it all come down. Looking down at his boots he carefully resumed his descent, not wanting to slip and fall. Maybe on a Monday, but not a Friday afternoon. That would be stupid.
The hole on the hill was a quiet spot, like a mass grave awaiting the bodies and bulldozers, and as he hit the bottom with a splash the dread quickly returns. Picking their way along the shallow trench destined to one-day become part of the floor, his "so what were we doing again?" draws an exasperated laugh from further ahead as they find their places amongst the steel, but no more. No one likes it here, no one wants to work Saturday.
The hill had no proper name that he was aware of, it being an appendage of a steep ridge that loomed above Rununga, but obviously it was in the way of progress. On the Coast a lot of things are in the way.
“This place is like Poland,” remarked a sodden German hitchhiker he’d rescued from the service station one day. “Stinking coal smoke, endless rain and poverty,” he'd peered out through the rain splashed windscreen, his relief at escaping evident as they swept past the last house. “Look, the people are all soft and gooey like your white bread.”
Casper cracked up at that one. "Yep, no wholemeal round these parts mate."
Before the rain and sleet had settled in, the gang enjoyed views of the surrounding bush clad hills, the town slumbering below with its unemployed and retired filling the pub each afternoon, century-old houses quietly rotting into the sodden earth, the cycle nearly complete. The local’s bitched about the rain as much as they did about any dry spells, the water tanks always half-empty. Two weeks without a good downpour was considered a drought and from their hilltop they watched tankers deliver precious liquid to homes not connected to the town supply. The last 'drought' was now a forgotten memory, as was summer. It seemed only the weka's were happy. “The rain makes the bush grow,” he'd replied to the petrol station dude's ritual whinge-greeting. "I mean, could you imagine this place with no bush? It’d be like fucking Gisborne man.”
There really shouldn’t be people here; it was fragile, beautiful and precious. One day their hammers went quiet to watch the rescue helicopters and ambulances race up the highway towards Cave Creek. Fourteen dead on the rocks at the bottom. The West Coast didn’t want Coasters anymore; it’d had enough of the whole blundering about fucking shit up thing they call ‘progress’. The mountains were unforgiving; the rivers treacherous, and simple human mistakes had tragic results. This hilltop was just one more ugly scar. A betrayal and an embarrassment.
Hungry loggers had cleaned up anything worth a dollar, bulldozers stripped it naked flat and a massive concrete pad poured with wall framing due to start the following week. In the meantime they continued with the ‘tunnel’ that would be used to train coal miners. Of course at this stage it was simply a monstrous hole, concrete slabs would eventually be lowered onto it to form its roof, then a layer of mud to make it look authentic. He wondered if they’d plant something or just let it go to gorse, West Coast landscaping.
“Fuck I'm a bit over the weather eh?" Casper lobbed into the stillness. Ditto with the humour. Fumbling for his wire cutters, he shuddered. While the rain didn’t really get down this far – it mostly blew horizontal – everything was wet, the mud slimy, and his tools were rusting along with the reinforcing mesh that lay about him.
Paul stretched up, flexed his back. “Jeez, really need a crap after that coffee eh. Gonna be a long wait.” The others laughed while Casper, the butt of the joke, worked silently on. He was the only one who lived on site – security officially, but it was more about free rent and a ten second walk to work if you asked him – and relied on Matt's idea of 'facilities'. The long-drop for a while was pleasant enough as far as long-drops go, but it leaked like a sieve and had filled up with foul smelling water, making his morning fumble with layers of wet-weather gear a depressing ritual. The places you end up in eh? As a boy he'd soaked up the back country exploits of Barry Crump like the bog paper that would swell almost instantly on it's wire cradle. Good old Baz huddled in wet tents with wet dogs and no smokes left. Jeez, what an adventure eh? His old man would throw in his own back country exploits: dragging their arses up ‘the puffer’ by candlelight on a Friday night to beat the Uni wankers to the best bunks. He would always be laughing at this historic misery, never realising just how high he made those mountains seem to his only boy. Casper wondered if he’d ever felt like crying as he sometimes did, living like this, on top of a hill yet under water, or if they were just tough bastards back then.
He wondered when tough crossed the line into stupidity.
Snorting water and snot out of his nose, he straightened to flex in a futile attempt to ease the pain. He laughed despite it all. "Fucking Barry Crump, pig."
He'd jacked up the house truck to take weight off the springs and tires, but the chocks had sunk into the mud and the wheels themselves were now slowly following. Could read a lot into that eh? Home was parked up on the eastern side of the site, chosen mainly because it was out of the way more than for any aesthetic reasons and while the sun was shining it had been sweet. The solar panel powered the lights and stereo, the leaking skylight had been forgotten about... but lately things were pretty grim. None-the-less, inside was a warm sanctuary and for that he was grateful. He would be there soon; he would be home.
Quietly humming a song he stepped methodically from one steel junction to the next; two twists and a snip. Next one. Next one. Colin was dragging lengths of steel past him and paused in head-shaking wonder as Casper raised both fists high to shout towards the sodden world above them: "I am a loser, I am Satan, I am Jesus Christ, I am me, there are no winners in this fucked reality." Laughing out loud he stepped back to survey the mess. “Colin!" he exclaimed with a laugh. "What the fuck are we doing in this wet version of hell building a pretend mine out of concrete?”
Yeah, how did we draw this reality?
Colin cocked his battered cap back on his grey hair and had a good scratch; his face was filthy and wet; Casper knew he ached like hell. “I guess cos this is what we do and it's pay day next Wednesday eh, so hang in there buddy.” His shrug says it all – fucken kids.
Colin was from Blackball, a town that really defied description. Massive open drains hinted at rain that fell like an Indian monsoon every bloody day. They're born waterproof up there, like fish; fish with roots. Maybe that was what he lacked – roots. Essentially he was really only a tourist seeing everything in black and white. Y’know, "that town sucked cos it was raining the whole day we were there," type of shit. The secret spots were for the locals only, generational treasures to be only shared amongst family and friends and you couldn't blame them for being so protective eh. Who the hell wants a platoon of Maui campers parked out front of your 'historic' pub?
While Casper took some comfort in Colin’s contentment, he wondered about the lifetime of decisions that had led him to such a place, to this hill. Pushing barrows of cement at sixty couldn’t be a shit-load of fun, and he hoped never to be in a similar situation. What part of his dream did it play?
When Casper broke ranks at the age of seventeen by refusing to follow his mates on the path of the expected and sign up for a BA at Vic or Massey, he literally pulled the plug on life as Mum and Dad had constructed it. Dreams in his family were always solid; things that you saved for and a lifetime of hard yacca was how you got there. That was when the spiral down began. His dreams were just a little more abstract than wanting a Holden or gadgets for the lounge - shit, he didn’t have a lounge anyway – and for some reason that really infuriated his old man. He marvelled at the ability of others to find happiness in just chugging along, doing what was expected as they turned into their parents. It was easy, and he was sometimes envious of this. The lure of conformity, to snuggle up to it like cotton wool, safe in the knowledge that everyone would be mowing lawns and washing their cars again on Sunday arvo’.
That was on a bad day though. Other times he knew that he had a head start on that creeping realisation that the suburbs where a death trap, how the illusions of success can quickly become a noose. They jumped, dropped pills, pulled triggers and ran for the hills.
Hills like this one.
Watching his old man coming home each night too buggered to care was an epiphany he knew many children missed. While Casper was as guilty as any other teenager in that he thought of little else other than himself, because the only stereo in the house was in the lounge it meant that he spent most evenings silently observing family life. With headphones clamped tightly to his skull, screaming punk obscenities - they’d almost paid the mortgage when the system dropped the bomb - attacked his brain as he watched his father down brandy and stare blankly at the TV. Imagine climbing that ladder, on and on you go, only to find that when you get to the top it's leaning against the wrong wall.
"You mean have I ticked up a washing machine, sofa and telly? No," was once his reply to the standard "so have you got a job yet" greeting from his Dad. That was the extent of their communication: expectations, followed by the implication of failure.
How wonderful.
See this misery Dad? All this filthy fucking mud. Ain't it a right laugh all these mistakes I’m making eh? Well love me for my courage at least – and quit bloody worrying that I aren’t riding the escalator up to the furniture department with a credit card in my back pocket.
No; so what was he trying to prove? He watched rivulets of muddy water streaming down before him.
"It was a choice you made mate."
"Talking to the little mud men?" asked Paul
"Yeah, they can predict the future y'know," he dead-panned.
"And and? Glorious sunshine and a female apprentice?"
"Who shouts Monteith's every Friday I believe."
Pack this shit in man and hit the road; that's what the little voice had whispered. Run.
Run? Again?
Dad? Super, love it when you just drop in to chat.
Look this is it boy, the normal working life – and you can’t do it? Or is it that you just don't want to do it? It’s only rained for two damned weeks and those sure pale in comparison to forty years on the job.
A quick look over at Colin, a look into the future.
Bending back down to work, rain and snot running once more, he quickly twisted wire. Did his Dad still have dreams? he wondered. Maybe it wasn’t as screwed up as it looked and there was a cunning plan driving him on that only he could see. He hoped so. He hoped it was all worth it, screaming kids, stressed out Mum and a weekend of maintenance to look forward too.
Two hours later Casper dropped his boots onto last weeks newspapers spread out inside the door of his truck. He lit candles, turned on the gas heater, and after washing and changing, settled himself onto the couch. With a beer raised he toasted: The job maketh the man; which makes me a fool, or is that a good keen man?
The truck rocked in the wind as though it were at sea, vicious rain drumming hard. As he watched the lights gradually switching on down below he pondered the labyrinth of decisions that had led people to Rununga. These people who had chosen to live at the bottom of this hill, was there contentment and satisfaction? Or frustration and a yearning for more? Did the rows of gumboots outside the pub signal a happy fraternity or the drowning of dreams? Was the pub half-full or half-empty? Fuck knows was the answer, plain and simple.
Maybe it was his kinda town; maybe he would be back some day and his boots would join the line-up. Yeah, who knows? Better stop knocking it then eh? Then again the rain shadow was only two hours drive away and he could be packed up ready to roll in even less time. Easy. Easier than this anyway. A phone call to Matt, another apology. He'd done it before and it was tempting... Jeez, you’re running away again; quitting... but nah not this time.
Chicken shit. This is it boy, the normal working life.
Shut up Dad, this time it's different, it's all sorted.
And it was; he had several grand saved and would leave with a good reference. It was going to be a good summer, one long party.
He caught his reflection in a window and it almost startled him, the chin, the narrow face. Again, he toasted. “Sorry Dad, but man, fuck you and your bloody protestant work ethic.” He moved closer to the glass, closer to his old man. “Now I’ve heard you say how mountains can kill you in the blink of an eye, the rivers rise and before you know it there’s no going back. Am I right?” He winked at his Dad who winked right back. They both drunk deeply in confirmation.
Well he was keeping a close eye on the rivers around here that's for sure. Extend his contract? No thanks. Score a cheap flat in town? No. Get a loan from the bank? Start ticking shit up? Are you mad?
He deflated; grabbed another beer and settled back onto the couch. Christ it wasn’t his old man's fault, and no point getting wound up cos he only knew what he knew. That generation of fathers who had lost control over their lazy sons. It's cool, work just meant different things to different people. Shit he'd had more jobs in the last two years than his Dad had in his whole working life. It was funny how a persons reluctance to stick at some boring, monotonous shit made them a lazy shirker, yet pushing the same piece of paper for forty years was admirable.
Stepping out onto the porch step he tossed the empty bottle towards the rubbish pile, heard it clatter in the darkness. He could make out some vague shapes, out there in the misery: sheds, packs of timber, mounds of mud, the leaking dunny. It was shit and he hated it all desperately, but hey, not long now. He stepped back into the soft warmth of his home, cracked another beer, time for one more toast:
“Hang in there sunshine; I’m coming.”
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