A.C.A.B.

So how many scratchies can four strung out punks scratch? Well the box said a hundred and fifty, but no one was fucking counting that’s for sure.

    It’s a scam. Who would've thought eh? Despite the promises of big money and oodles of instant prizes, all they managed to win were twenty-nine chocolate bars. Two hours of scratching for a fucking flake. The punch line to the joke? That they’d managed to steal a fridge full of chocolate in the same burglary. Duh. That’s what happens when junkies go stealing. Beagle Brothers that lot.

Not their fault though eh. Circumstances an' all. I mean petrol station smash an' grabs wasn't their bread and butter - just plan C. So if you bare with me a sec, lets flick back up the alphabet to plan A which I guess isn't really a plan, it's just what they did everyday y'know? A is for any day, any time and anywhere. Yep. Y'see Doug, the guy they usually scored off, just had his arse busted big-time: sneaky little cameras over the road and a phone tap, probably even the odd cute undercover with a couple of crisp new twenties for all we know. Why? Well he brewed good clean homebake and I guess that sort of police shit just comes with the territory; it’s usually just a question of when, although round here the question was  “why goddamnit why?” Unfortunately he also sold nice fat tinnies and that meant everyone inclined to the odd toot was filmed passing through his front door. The old suburban supermarket, always a bit of a give away those thirty-second visits. So now pretty much every one we knew was sweating it out, waiting for that heavy knock at the door.

    It was a good time to spring clean.

    My flatmates were sweating as well, but only cos they were strung out tighter than the clothesline and quickly sliding into full-blown withdrawal. It was late summer, the days gloriously long and hot and the city just one endless party. Everybody was a mate. Spending your dole at the chemist on various codeine based pills earned you double and was an easy days work that put smiles on a lot of faces. Sadly it wasn't long before the paper warned us that 'Codeine Cowboys' were this weeks terror threat to community values and it wasn't long before the traps were set and the party was over. It was stink really. I mean, shit, victimless crime and all that.

    The timing of this shit-storm was impeccable. Not only was our town’s five star 'tick to dole day' dealer in the cells, but the poppy season had been winding down for a while now. Poppies were plan B. Not such a good high, but okay. Total fucking hassle to find and to prepare though. Still, poppies were a great freebie for when you had to pay a bill or something eh. While they were getting scarce out their in cottage garden land, there were a few intentional crops about, but by now it was well past the point of sharing with the more paranoid growers/users  sleeping out amidst the butchered remains to defend those last milky drops from the likes of my flatmates. Nothing for it then: desperate search parties scour random backyards, Tony casually strolling down driveways swinging a dog lead and calling for his runaway pet, eyes peeled for fat juicy bulbs begging to be slit with a razor.

    Bingo; opium that is, not the fucking dog. A black-clad posse is dispatched late to fill rubbish bags and rush back to begin the tortuous bleeding process in the bath; the night shift begins and the chances of anyone getting a shower in the morning are pretty slim.

    And so I found them one day when I got back from school, happily parked up outside on our collapsing couch looking like death warmed up, catching the last of the day’s sun. Head to toe in black, combat boots and heavy lids; I pretended to machine-gun them as I walked past. “Ready for the revolution eh guys?” Smart arse. Tony managed a sly smile that quickly dribbled off his face. One hand held a smoke that appeared to have stalled on the way to his mouth; he completed the journey and sucked greedily, but it was long dead. “Got a light mate? Nah, shit you’re no good; wait I got one somewhere, yeah here.”

    Sweet.

    Tony spends a good chunk of his days smacked out on something, but he scrubs up pretty good if he needs to. Or wants to. It had been a hard road: poxy South Island towns, white power gangs, a lot of violence, a bold , but slightly foolish Molotov attack on a police station that earned him a decent lag in Rolleston. Yeah, just not a lot of the feel-good stuff happening really. Decisions were reactionary, impulsive and often not the best choice in hindsight. Even though he was past thirty, here was a man still unable - maybe incapable - of taking charge and making something of his life. Tony was okay, wouldn't want to fuck with him, but he was nice enough. 

    So ah, welcome to our home. It's a nice enough house, but our presence has lowered the tone just a little. Minimalist style, well kinda bare actually at the moment what with all the furniture now on the front lawn. Some rather brutal Crass posters pass for decoration and a battered stereo sits on an overturned beer crate with half a dozen records leaning inside it; ones deemed fucked enough to risk leaving in the lounge. That's it.

    Dumping my gear in my room I backtrack to face a kitchen that makes me queasy on a good day. Tinfoil, burnt spoons, needles and a couple days worth of dishes; to say it’s a health hazard is a fucking understatement.  I know it sounds like I'm the up-tight kitchen bitch or something, but no, it was just that I had to get on with prepping some tea – I mean, no one else was going to eh - plus all the light bulbs had been thrown out onto the road during the last party and it would soon be dark.

    It was a relief that they’d scored cos the general bitchiness was getting unbearable and flat relations were getting seriously strained. They were pussycats when wasted, on the nod and out of harms way for a good four or five hours a hit. By the look of then now they should all be sweet till the morning and I would be gone. Obviously no one could be arsed getting up to grapple with the stereo and the stillness in the house was nice; hell you could almost say I was alone.

    I put New Order on knowing they all hated it, cranked it up loud.

    Dishes, wiping benches and the stove, filling rubbish bags. Energy to burn after a day in the classroom despite my early rise to catch the bus. Tomorrow I’d be getting up as they were going down; down in as many ways as you can think of. Funny thing being high yet so low. No need to move, nor talk or even think; you just float in a haze, life flat lined. It goes something like this:

Beep                     Beep                        Beep                               Bee

    Luckily the cops usually provided passive entertainment for them on most nights. They were our TV substitute: Y'know, insultingly stupid. Our flat was tucked around a bend on the main road and there was plenty of room for cars to pull over so they always set up their checkpoint right down in front of us. Good-humoured insults would inevitably sink with the sun and surliness rise once more. Poor bastards.

    Zip. That was time when wasted on this sort of shit. This wasn’t a dance till dawn; yabba away till your jaw aches and then head for the fridge type of drug. Cooked over a hot element till it danced on the spoon, sucked through a cigarette filter, banged into a willing vein and zip, the day was gone. Dole day came a lot faster when four or five days of the week went like this. Living the lives they had, I’d imagine it made it all quite bearable; when things were going to plan that is.

    It was Thursday night the following week when things started to seriously crack. Funny to start with, but then not funny at all.

    Bruce was our semi-permanent couch dweller and had gone out to earn his keep by re-visiting a garden for some leftover poppies, but he'd gotten the whole bag load caught in the spokes of his bike and instantly shredded the precious bulbs all over the road. He was crushed, said "sorry guys" more times than I could count. Fuck it was funny; I mean dumb shit just trailed after Bruce: he'd get the sack from some crappy job for something really fucking stupid like turning up pissed, then lose his pay cheque at the pub, miss his WINZ appointment, 'borrow' the flats bill money, forget where he parked your bike and then smash the front door in cos he'd lost the key. "Oh shit I'm really sorry guys eh."

    It paid not to get too close to Bruce.

    It was time for plan C.

Cheap bourbon passes quickly around the lounge floor and like Chinese whispers it all comes together: rob the service station on the highway south and invest the winnings on a drug buy-up. The Valiant would hopefully make it to Christchurch and from there it shouldn’t really be a problem with the all the dodgy fuckers these guys know.

    Well there was no trip to Christchurch. We ate a lot of chocolate instead.

    I suspect that Plan D wasn’t really a plan at all; desperate stupidity was probably more like it – but that accounts for the other plans, so I'm not sure really. The first I knew of it was when Tony crashed in through the door one night pissing blood everywhere.

    Fucking hell, fucking hell. “Just deal with it,” snaps Tony; bursts into giggles. He’s cold, pale and shaking like crazy and I’m wondering if he’s going into shock or something.

    Nah; just straight, just excited.

    He’d booted in the backdoor of a chemist and grabbed a courier package.  This is at like nine thirty or something and smack in the middle of town. Some guy wandering past starts yelling like crazy at him and it’s then that he gashes his arm open on some glass as he pulls away to run. They’d put the dogs out after him of course, but by leaping backyard fences for several blocks and then wading up a stream he managed to lose them. Jesus Christ. Then it was across the soccer fields until he got to the track that climbs up over the ridge and pops out only two houses up from home.

His sneakers went into a bucket of soapy water to soak under some stinking towels. Everything else was chucked into the washing machine while we gingerly extracted tiny shards of glass from his forearm. No worries; Tony was euphoric with his success, the knowledge that soon he would be high and feeling something resembling normal again surpassed our clumsy attempts at strapping the wound shut.

    Santa had called; but what did he bring? No one new what the boxes of drugs were and attempting to turn the mass of letters into a pronounceable word would’ve made us scrabble heroes. Shoulders were shrugged; fuck knows.

    Eyes gleamed; muscles and bones screamed; there were no instructions included, no advice for recreational users - what were they thinking eh?

    “Lets just do our averages.” suggests Tony.

    “Yeah yeah, no point taking any risks eh?” That was Stephen, visiting junkie from the country who had just been refused a repeat on his script by his trusty Doc. He was game for anything - risks my fucking arse. Stephen and his missus were desperate, thieving, scamming junkies famous for passing out on a mate's lounge floor naked after screwing while on the nod. What a morning treat that must have been. Drugs drugs drugs: boring people, totally fucking useless and not to be trusted: perfect dinner guests.

    So tonight on the couch we have four veins just begging for it, but only three well used fits get to preform their ritual dance: BANG BANG BANG. I used to love watching their eyes at that moment the drug hit. The explosion, the orgasm, the “ahhhhhhhhhh....” first Tony, then Bruce and Stephen.

    Ziiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiip. Yep that’s how it usually goes. Not this time though.

    Bruce feels like shit and hits the hay almost immediately, manages to pretty much slept right through his dose and the shitstorm that swirled about him. Later he told me about the horrible muscle cramps and strange dreams. He was the lucky one.

    At the other end of the rainbow was Shane, our mystery fourth man. He was a nice guy, not your typical junkie; you know, straight haircut, nice clothes, asked before he helped himself to your stuff. We had many good conversations. He was intelligent, gentle and very insightful. Why was he here? I don't know. He was a pretty normal guy and not really in our scene at all. Quiet, reserved; maybe a little too much? Well he left with his share (with a cheerful farewell smile and wave) and died in the early hours of the next morning at his girlfriends place; we didn’t find that out for a couple of days though. He’d only been out of the Hanmer rehab for a fortnight or so and according to Tony his tolerance levels would have been way lower than what he was used to. Math, damn. Fatal mistake eh?

    And that leaves two. Audience participation tonight is provided by me and Sarah, on - off girlfriend of Tony who had just moved back in – again. It was mad, no it was fucking surreal, like we were on our own bum trip, hovering about in the gloom feeling useless, waiting anxiously for them to keel over or something, watching them change before our eyes.

    I guess it must've taken a good half-hour for the side-effects to come on cos Bruce was now well asleep on the lounge floor and snoring like an old trooper, his crusty blanket wrapped tightly around him, boots still laced to his feet.

    It was like some slick body builder moves the way their muscles rippled and contorted. Starting at the injection site in their arms it crept upwards towards the shoulder where it had the effect of pulling the whole arm and twisting it back.

    God it must hurt.

    Well no, not yet anyway. They seemed to be sufficiently obliterated enough to still be in the ‘wow freaky shit look at my arm’ zone. Not for long though.

    Tony was the first to panic with a pleading “I can feel it getting into my throat.”  He was lying on the floor, shoulders hunching and crawling with muscle like the Incredible Hulk. His face had changed shape and he no longer looked like the Tony we knew. His eyes were wide with fear.

    Mine too.

    Stephen was crying; fear or pain had brought him back to earth, his head now twisted down to rest on a contorting shoulder. “Call a fucking ambulance; now, fucking now,” he pleaded.

    We had no phone so that meant a dash next door where our long-suffering neighbour frowned long and hard at me. “This is not a joke right? Okay. Do you need me to come over?”

    Ummmm; no.

    When I got back Sarah was already dumping the remaining pills down the toilet, foil packets, cardboard an' all. She sloshed buckets of water to hasten them on their way “The leftover shit!” she yelled out to me. “Clean the fucking kitchen now; don’t worry about those two fools.” I hurriedly collected pill packets, needles and spoons into a pot and ran to dump it into the overgrown yard behind our house where they threw all the poppy scraps

    A heavy pounding at the front door called me back inside. Sarah had shut the bathroom door and I could still here the sound of flushing. This was going to be tight.

    It was the cops. Wicked.

    I spoke tentatively through the frosted glass to the blue uniform: “Who is it?”

    “Police!”

    “Who do you want to see?”

    “Open the bloody door!”

    “Um, do you have a warrant?”

    “OPEN THIS FUCKING DOOR NOW GODDAMNIT!”

    I did. The warrant was a swift punch to the head. I muttered my name in reply to his demand, fist raised in readiness.

    “Ah, Mr Mathews; always nice to put a cunt-ugly face to a name; and I’ve heard yours a lot lately.” He pushed me down the hall towards the lounge. “Shit its dark in here; you guys trying to save power or something?”

    More shadows slipped in through the door after him. Then a dog straining at a lead.

    Wicked.

    “Is it the ambulance?” croaked Tony; his voice was noticeably weaker, each word punctured with a gasp.

    “No, no it’s not. It’s the cops; they’ve a dog too.”

    They spread quickly through the dimly lit lounge, surveying the wreckage, the two on the floor. One of them was trying to wake Bruce who was having no bar of it.

    “What the hell is going on here guys?” The lead cop demanded. I could see his eyes flitting about the room, trying to make sense in a place where there was none.

     I bit my tongue; this wasn’t my hole and it was too dodgy to risk accidentally digging it any deeper. Tony groaned softly before kicking into the survival mode he was well known for.

    “Hey! Where’s the fucking ambulance, been poisoned or something. A party on one of the factory ships; fucking Russians.” His breath rattled like it was his last after that and he rolled over to stare into Stephen’s pleading eyes. Stephen wisely stayed silent, his body shaking as muscles continued to seizure.

    Radios crackled; voices muttered in the shadows. "It’s right outside now sergeant.”

    “Food poisoning eh? Right get them in pronto; and try and wake that guy up too.”

    They couldn’t wake Bruce at all that night. He just kept muttering and rolling over, flailing hands trying to swat away the interference. After the medics checked his pulse and breathing they decided to just leave him for the mean time. He wasn’t going anywhere for a while.

    It was surprisingly warm outside that night as we waited, Sarah, myself and a hulking cop who just stood staring impassively at nothing. Hours; two, maybe three, fuck knows, I nearly fell asleep several times sitting out there on the couch despite nightmarish visions of a police cell with my name on the door.

    They searched high (excuse the pun) and low; lost pipes, mouldy roaches, old fits, dusty pills, spotting knives, scraps of blackened tinfoil, and through several leaking rubbish bags of stinking food scraps that also held dozens of chocolate bar wrappers. Just shit, but you could imagine it in the paper eh? 'Drugs and drug taking paraphernalia were found throughout the house…'

    Ah, and now it's my turn:

    “I go to school. No I don’t know about any drug taking. No I don’t know about any burglaries. I don’t know where the chocolate came from. No I didn’t really care enough to be suspicious. I don’t do drugs; I have to get up early each day and go to school remember? No I didn't see them taking any drugs; they told me they’d been at a party on a fishing boat, eaten some food and felt real sick so came back home.”

    No no no no no.

    “I just went to call the ambulance and then you guys turned up. That’s it.”

    Yeah that’s it as far as I’m concerned. I mean Christ they’re adults; there was no coercion, no nasty drug culture stand-over bullshit going down. This isn't a fucking movie. Sure it probably looks like a bum trip from where your sitting, but it's just their way of dealing with a fucked world they had no desire to be a part of. Just trying to cope is all; an alternative to shopping or porn you could say. Zip, zip, zip. Cool, it’s the weekend again; a week gone and a week closer to something else.

    Surely you can relate to that?

    Things had chugged along just fine till the pigs pulled the plug. Just fine. And believe me things were changing, improving. They just needed a chance. Now there was a court appearance, bullshit justice. Now there was Shane on a slab at the hospital. But best to keep those sort of thoughts to yourself though eh? No need to be stupid. A cop did say after my interview that he appreciated my being straight up with him. Funny fuck. I replied that I really appreciated not getting a hiding.

    He had the cheek to look shocked.

     So anyway they were both kicked out of the hospital within twelve hours after being shot up with some intramuscular goo to counter their completely spontaneous spasms. Blank looks all round; fucking Russians. Tony had to show the nurse where to find his last good vein.

The bill for the ambulance came in the mail three days later and went straight into the bin.

    They buried Shane about a week and a half later, but I didn’t know about it until I saw his girlfriend crying at a pub and clicked. Shit. Always the good guys eh. Can still hear him today telling me to keep the fuck away from needles.  

    F’sure mate. Thanks for caring.

    I didn’t talk to her; I didn’t know what to say.

First they came for the terrrorists

A little man with a tape recorder up to my face, his squeals incomprehensible. Jabs a pudgy finger at my pocket. Creepy crawly. What the fuck? Oh shit; the chocolate raisins...

Damn. And damn him too (cos he's heard it all before).

Listen to the store manager high up in his office; wrong job arsehole, you should be writing for Shortland Street. He’s heartbroken, he’s furious. It’s a personal attack on his worth, his bank account: “you’re filth and by God I’ll make sure you never get a job in my store.”

That really hurt. I've always dreamed of working the checkout.

The fat cop is well known locally for punching drunk kids 'up to no fucking good', but under the glare of fluorescents he kindly pushes my trolley out towards his car which is parked dramatically across the supermarket's entrance. I wonder if he slid it in sideways, clambered out the window. Nah, not with that gut. First they came for the terrorists, then the shoplifters. We navigate the field of craning necks: the boy in blue and the boy in black.

The hostility is kinda intense (“that's the third one they got this week”). Perhaps I'm the reason prices are so high. I'd love to chat; y'know, the economics of food, benefit cuts, globalisation, profit and all that, but I've places to go as you may well understand. So it's a matter of chin up and look 'em in the eye as they clutch credit cards and discount coupons. It's a long walk.

“What did the man do mum?”

Wouldn't, couldn't, pay.

“He's a bad man honey.”

That hurt the most.


(Originally published in Takahe Magazine 2009)

You can't eat poverty

The dude's real tall and lanky and he's wearing jeans that fit okay long ways, but make him look like a clown sideways; fucking genes eh? He's also got a whopper of a thumb like that cowgirl who had the blues and the way he was waving it about you'd think it was having a seizure all of its own. There's room enough in the Torana so he squeezes on in. He's a JAFA, doing his OE south and keen to party. Tousled hair, unshaven, and an easy laugh, he's more than happy to sample the bucket brew – a homemade speciality of vodka, fortified apple wine and instant Raro; hell by the time they hit Nelson he's already one of the locals.

The JAFA is introduced to Sharon, a randy forty-something only two weeks outta hospital who takes an instant shine to him. He even blushes; like a jaffa. They leave the love-birds to explore the magic delights of Sharon's rented caravan: whisky, a weeks supply of psychiatric pills, and a big messed-up bed. The rest of them head out for a spot of stealing.

Welcome to sunny Nelson. Enjoy your stay!

***

Muz at cabin fifteen sleeps the weird fucked-up hours of someone regulated by pills and he had taken note of the two boys who came into the campground some mornings when they think no ones up and about. They're scrawny, unkempt and look like they sleep under a bridge; one wears army boots and the other is always barefoot. The barefoot one looks right fucken' mad, the other always heads for the showers.

The clean one and the mad one; they flog food from the communal kitchen left by unsuspecting tourists. Permanents like Muz have long wised up to these two; are working around them. Muz has a chilly bin.

Sometimes the cheeky little fuckers even cook their booty right there in the kitchen which had resulted in a couple of juicy confrontations between bleary-eyed tourists in dressing gowns and two feral bastards with not much to loose. Fucking cheeky.

Muz chuckled behind his faded lace curtains as they drift back towards the boundary fence that runs along the beach front, ducking once into a doorway as a cleaner on a quad bike cruises lazily by, buckets filled with bleach, sprays and cloths swinging from each handle bar.

The mad one clutches a plastic bag tight against his body. Cheeky cunts.

***

Vanessa gets the old brown tea pot onto the table without spilling too much, goes back into her kitchen to gather mugs; chipped, mismatched, ugly: everything is from the Sallies. The guys have brought raspberry buns with them and the conversation soon dies as they set about devouring them, stodgy dough and cream tasting all the better by its theft.

“Nothing like a good sugar rush eh?” says the blond one, Brent. Grunts of affirmation. Vanessa wonders if they'll split soon, leave her alone with Paul so they can fuck the night away. Kinda mean though, she scolds herself, seen as they were all homeless – literally.

“So they won't give you back your tent? Is that right?” She asks.

Casper replies; it was his dads tent. “Yeah, no proof of ownership, photos, insurance, what ever.” He licks his fingers clean before continuing. “Only heaps of family camping stories eh; wrong sort of documentation!” he laughs.

“Cunts just laughed at us,” interrupts Aaron. She can remember him from school. His older brothers would get him stoned before class, hence the poetry: “Walking away from the cop-shop in the rain, fucking laughing at us...”

“Want us to be like them is all,” from Paul's young brother, whatshisname.

“So now what?” asks Vanessa who is partly concerned about where they'll end up tonight, but also that maybe they'll all want to stay in her tiny flat and so no shaggin for her.

“Ah it's warm enough, moons up as well,” offers Aaron. Heads are nodding in agreement around her and she smiles.

“And tomorrow?”

“Fuck tomorrow.”

That's the spirit lads.


***

Homelessness can be the tipping point into serious mental shit for some. Brendan eventually tipped, fell over his big feet. Spent a whole weeks dole going to see a psychiatrist who told him to get his arse on home.

We put him on a bus back to Auckland next dole day. We all laughed about it later, the JAFA who had crashed and burned on his first OE, but y'know I bet most of the gang wouldn't have minded being on that bus.

We did originally have a flat when we first moved here, but fuck I dunno, it just fell apart. No one was working and when your coughing up big-time for an empty suburban house it just... sucks. We were expected to mow the lawns. It got messy, pigs coming round, parties and drugs, and then a couple split owing rent and that was it. The bond and shit was all paid for by WINZ and that was the only leg up we would be seeing for a while. So from there we just kind of slid slowly down that poverty graph thing where bad luck and bad moves just add up to a whole heap of LOSER.

The motor camps were okay generally, but we eventually got banned from all of them; shoplifting from two and spotting hash in the communal kitchen in the other. That of course also fucked up things even further with WINZ, no permanent address anymore and the great game of cat and mouse thus begins. There was this one real good campsite in a bush reserve only minutes walking from town that was sweet for ages, but we got sprung by a fashion shoot of all things. Vans, heaps of clothes, skinny girls, guys with lights and shit; reckon me or Brent are in a Farmers catalogue somewhere; we're the good looking ones.

And yeah the night shelter was there if you got desperate/depressed, but they debit your dole ten bucks for each night you stayed which hardly helps. Plus it was always mince on toast, lumpy fatty shit with the leftovers reheated for breakfast. Give me the beach and that tenner any day.

So there you have it; from young upwardly mobile suburbanites to a life well below the radar in six months tops.

Paper rock scissors. All about choices eh?


***

“Bones!” the shout drifts up from the waters edge. “Check the fucking rice man!”

The “Oh shit” echoes back as Ruby clambers over wet rocks and up the slope towards their camp site.

The smell that greets her as she reaches the grassy flat reconfirms what happens when you smoke a cone of hash before cooking. Her “man I'm sick of burnt risotto” elicits only a grunt from Bones as he scraps the pot irritably.

“Just need to be more onto it when cooking on a fire eh,” Bones tactfully offers, squinting up at his friend who had only minutes before put the rice on and then wandered off. The sun is smouldering orange and thankfully ready to drop behind distant Mapua hills. With an apologetic smile and a nod Ruby turns back to its dying warmth to continue her meditation.

Aaron suddenly sits up from amongst the long dry grass that he's being lying in for most of the day surrounded by books and a drawing pad. With a hand held up against the glare he delivers a happy sigh. “Fuck people must pay a shitload to live round here with this sort of view,” he says, a big sloppy stoner grin carving his face into wrinkles.

“Pay with their whole lives,” confirms Bones, who having poured fresh water into the hissing billy is now vainly fishing for floaty black bits.

If you over-shot the number thirteen hole at the golf course the ball would usually splash into the sea somewhere just down in front of them. It was an unlucky number for the punters, but was on their side for several months.

The swimmers, walkers and poseurs would gather at the north end of the beach which was as far as they could drive. Their end was lonely and quiet, cut off by a slow-moving stream which backed up wide when the tide was high and so they were pretty much left to themselves. Waves would push and pull against a tumble of grey boulders bordering the golf course; drift wood fed a small fire and its light facilitated easy conversation, the sharing of beer and smokes.

Nobody however was overly surprised when they got told to fuck off.

Casper and Bones had gone early to the motor camp at the other end of the beach for their usual mish before the morning rush kicked off and got back to find everyone lined up facing an interrogation from the cops.

“Hooning all over the golf course must've been fun,” offers Bones in an attempt to lift the blanket of intimidation/fear, but they don't really do humour, too early.

Yeah yeah blah de blah; off they go.

In single file they carry meagre possessions across the flooded estuary. Shadows stretch long across water that bubbles and splashes about their ankles. Brent and Ruby are kicking water at each other, there fellow refugees, laughing, not giving a fuck. Casper suddenly stops and turns to a resigned Bones. He knows his friend has had a gutsful of it all, has stopped having fun. “Hey lets go for a holiday mate," he gently teases.

Suspicious, half hope and half just fucking over it. “Where?”

“Middle Earth, Never Never Land. Come on man, trust me.”


***

Casper and Aaron had discovered the toi toi bush while hiding from the lawnmower man one afternoon. It dominated a corner garden down the far end of the motorcamp which was closed off when things were slow as was the case at the moment. Sleepy Hollow was bloody ridiculous; dry and comfortable, it could fit four or five with a bit of shuffling around. There was even a nearby gate out to a side road for their private use. We figured it was the work of kids bored with the beach and the swings, told to stop hanging around the caravan, to piss off and play.

And so the play goes on.

The campground supermarket with its lone teenager at the till had long been a highlight of our shoplifting circuit, but once we all moved into Sleepy Hollow we got to know all the comings and goings of the place.

Like when the delivery trucks arrived.

Free food was just too tempting. It allowed ones dole money to be spent on substances too hard to steal; like crates of beer, blocks of hash, records, and pills with funny names…

Free food was the key in the door; no rent the boot that swung it open. You could be happy four or five days a week depending on quality. Or how much cream you could stomach. Not having to work made everybody happy. No monotonous crap, yes sir right away sir can I lick your arse sir; no crawling home at dusk to fall asleep in front of the TV. Fuck that shit. We grabbed our fun for free; and that made us even happier. Like taking magic mushrooms and lying down at the end of the airport runway to let the planes thunder over us; pulling at our clothes, bodies, tearing screams from lungs. We were at war; lots of mooching about bored shitless just keeping our heads down, then those flashes of exhilarating terror as we pushed harder and harder against everything we hated.

Yeah, we were fucking hungry all right.

Deviled sausages, Shortland Street and an early night just don’t cut the mustard eh?

***

Midnight; well more like eleven. They skid dramatically up against the wire fence with a spray of shingle. If you came in from the left side the security lights don't trigger so they remained in darkness.

Brent chucks Aaron the backpack. “Over you go,” he whispers before carefully wheeling his bike back to the corner where he can see the main entrance to the supermarket.

Nothing moves as usual. This has always been an easy place to score the throw-outs and they didn't really expect any hassle.

“Fuck!” yells Aaron suddenly.

“Shh!”

“Aw fucking hell, there's barbed wire everywhere,” the volume is lower but his fury remains.

“What? The cunts, round the fucking rubbish bins?” exclaims Brent. “Christ what are they protecting eh?” he continues, scooting quickly back in to survey the recent addition. Shit, three months ago there wasn't even a fence here, just two big green bins chocka with food.

Aaron has jumped down and is examining his hand; steps forward to give the fence an angry kick. “Pathetic little prick.”

“He must worry at night eh?” he continues as Brent tugs gingerly at the wire wound tight across the top of the fence. “Busy hands going through his rubbish while he reads the kiddies a bed time story.”

Despite empty bellies they're both laughing now at the stinginess of it all, the mentality of defending rubbish; mount their bikes, not caring about the lights anymore with empty bags.

“That's ma rubbish you fucking bludgers,” screeches a laughing Aaron as they loop circles through the carpark jumping gardens and finally the curb. The bakery provides bagels and miniature pizza, the veggie wholesalers soggy tomato's, peppers and smelly mushrooms.

Now it's midnight; now it's time to eat.


***

Ruby was waiting. It didn't hugely bother her as there wasn't anything else going on, but they were tourists and just fucking about really. Barbie and Ken had given up on their lunch a while ago and were now flicking endlessly through their Lonely Planet which was cool, but Christ, go and do something real she silently pleaded. It would really suck if an over eager waitress noticed and took it all away.

She blended in with the street pollution quite nicely, tucked in behind a fake colonial lamp post as the clamour of shoppers rushed on past. The swish of Farmers bags, clicking of heels, the murmur of excitement that comes with spending money; it was post-Christmas and raining sales hard.

Ruby’s pockets were empty of cash, a situation that to many people rendered her as nothing more than an impediment to the day’s business. Another shuffler in the fast lane refusing to keep left. But Ruby was no bum, she was shopping all right, she just wasn’t paying. Mirrors, surveillance cameras, security tags, and store detectives; the industry that had spawned around young rascals like Ruby J was staggering, flattering almost. She was included in the equation after all. She was the reason, a number in the statistic, the threat to cheap prices and stability. She was fucken’ real all right. Ruby knew that back in the day when retailers decided to move their wares from behind their counters to where the salivating customers could stroke them, sales were predicted to skyrocket. And they did. Theft was so relatively insignificant when rated against this overwhelming increase in sales it was barely given a seconds thought.

Until the idea was sold to them. Everybody’s selling something eh?

The human tide flowed on past like sheep off the truck, inflated and giddy with that perception of importance, of belonging and being needed. Poor buggers, thought Ruby. Just running running, searching for that sex appeal, the credit card bill already materialising at the back of their minds. She dragged up snot and spat it onto the footpath and began counting how many stepped on it.

Come on. Falafel, pasta, feta and olive salad; yum yum rumbled her stomach.

Footpath dining had made table diving a lot easier as far as keeping out of the staff’s view, but it didn’t remove the skulking, nor that little shiver of repulsion that came with the first bite. She didn’t like to think of diseases, lipstick, dribble or stray pubes stuck in decaying teeth. It didn’t pay to worry about hygiene at this particular rung on life’s ladder.

But really, why get all hung up and precious about shop food eh?

Born in a pesticide saturated earth; transported forty thousand k to a rat-infested factory to be rendered nutritionless and then delivered to a kitchen crawling with cockroaches to be handled by a slap-happy teenage staff who all use the same toilet and rarely wash their hands; four hours under heat lamps; zapped once more in the microwave and slapped onto a detergent coated plate… yum.

And somebody took a bite out of it and decided they didn’t like it that much which is fair enough really.

So Ruby ate it.

While table food on one hand was hard to swallow, it did offer the luxury of choice and presentation that the unsold or spoiled food dumped out back could ever deliver. Rummaging through the chuck-outs usually rewarded you with more, but quality was way down, what with the meat juices running over the stiffening pizza ‘n all.

Ruby watched the in-store chaos play out: harassed staff, the flow of bank notes, the overfed stuffing yet more in. Nah, it was way more rewarding to take it from the horses mouth, to slip into that still warm seat, pick up the morning paper and finish off the chickpeas on rice.

Yum; food was good.

***

“It was that fucking mad dude Sharon buys her pills off that narked on us,” explained Aaron. Brent held the trespass notice up like he was about to auction it off: “They got all our names too, two fucking years.”

“Fuck it man I might just split.” says Paul. “Fucking sick of all this shit, I mean now where?”

The famous five cast about. Standing on footpath in a suburban street, packs at their feet and about twenty bucks between them, middle New Zealand scowled from every front. Casper broke the silence: “Yeah I want a bed too mate. How 'bout we cruise over to Nath's and see if we can crash in the band room for the night and take it from there?” Brent and Bones pick up there bags, Paul can't get across the ditch till dole day anyway and his sigh indicates acquiescence. “Might as well go past the bakery dumpster eh?”

"What about Ruby? asks Bones. "We'll need to let her know what's happened, where we are and that we have all her gear eh?

"F'sure," agreed Casper. "Hey lets go past the church steps and see what's up eh? We should have a picnic eh?

F'sure, why the fuck not.

***

They find me. We eat. Everything will be ok.

You can’t eat poverty, but you can eat cake that’s past the use-by date. A full belly is happy, round like a rainbow. A full belly means you can dance, swim or ride your bike.

A full belly means you can grab your fun and run.

It’s hard staying happy on the dole. They make it that way. Hard being happy when you’re homeless, physically and mentally unwell, so far down the fucking ladder that the rungs above you have all rotted off.

But you can do it.

Loaves and Fishes were housed out the back of the Anglican Church and the queues for a free meal were always so damn orderly. Meek and obedient now, drunk and defiant within hours; broken again in the morning and back at church by midday. It was the worst part of playing the game; being poor. When loitering in corner dairies, cafes and supermarkets almost became a fucking job and it was just easier to get up late and join the other down and outs. Immobilised, passive consumers playing roles instead of just playing.

The cops stopped us six times last week. Once we were just walking down the road and they reckoned we'd stolen a car. Right, oh here it is in my pocket, silly me. It’s what you get for wearing rags, bare feet and obviously doing sweet fuck all. Should get a job, they’d say. Smarten up, get some pride in ya. Yeah we could get drunk together in front of the big screen down at the Loaded Hog, mow the lawns on Sunday and wish the weekend didn’t go so fast. Gold Coast for Christmas even, if you saved hard enough that is. Sure, you can’t eat poverty; but you can’t live on their side of the fence either. Not if you’re honest, not if you’re real, if you’re hungry for more. Everyday we grabbed it. Sure it hurt at times, but fuck saving up for three weeks mental health leave.

That drew a laugh from me, and also finally got me noticed by the shops staff.

One day I’ll shop once a week, grow my own veggies, and wake up to a healthy satisfying breakfast. I don’t really know how, but I’m sure it’ll come. I’ll do it, you wait.

Smiling at the woman behind the counter I politely ask, “Can I've a packet of zigzag blues please?” We’d score a tinny and get stoned down by the river; goof off, swim. While her back is turned I pocket chocolate and a bag of mixed nuts.

That was tea sorted.