Once Were Warriors Page 18

  Smoke got passed around. Big fat joints half a fuckin yard long. Heads. Sins, man. None a ya fuckin weed for the Browns we deal in it.

  Smokin, guzzlin, faggin, rappin, bigtimin, hate-talkin, smokin and guzzlin some more. And the music, man, expanding to ya ear … hearin it so clear ya felt ya’d composed it yaself, or so clear ya understood the, you know, the creative whatsit behind makin the recording. Oh you know. Smokin, ahhh, but that is gooood shet, man. Guzzlin. Like our olds, eh? Haha, finding it funny now, after all this time, your olds boozin their lives away and now you doing the same. Man.

  The SOUNDS, keep on callin to a man, tellin im sumpthin, I dunno. Sumpthin about himself, I dunno … Like the art, man: I c’n dig the art went into this music-making. Why they started looking at each other with that mutual recognition goin snap in their minds: Hey, we’re at the same place, man!

  Guzzlin, smokin, rappin, listnin — (So much potential …) — startin to groove in time to it, or move to the offbeats; unnerstandin, mirrorin each other’s movements with sly smiles; flowin flooowin to this whole new unnerstandin in their heads. Then suddenly droppin it.

  Talkin tough and rough, we ain’t groovin to no sensitivity, whatever ya call it, it sucks. So then their sentences had little length. Short spurts. More like grunts. And curses. Fucks. Cunts. Wankah. That sorta thing. (Yet inside all this unspokenness like some uncoiled spring of beauty, unnerstandin, just achin to unleash itself).

  Eyes hardly stayed in contact with each other — those that weren’t hidden or lurking behind the shades — just a flicker, a stolen glance, a shy dart of vision that they, none of em, could hold. But things started expanding again.

  The music did it: brought em out, flowered the little buds in their funny little brains, had blossums bloom in their dirty little ears. The music, man. It loosened em. And when a bad dude gets loose he releases sumpthin.

  All that Pine Block growin-up bottled all them years, havin to act tough and only tough or ya die, man, I’m tellin ya; all them years of learnin to be a supposed Maori, man, what it must do to ya, you know, ya actual potential. Ah, fuck the potential. Only joking. Only joking. But no sooner said than a dude got taken by the SOUNDS again, or else it was whatever it was in his head been set free; so he was walkin down main street of Kingston, Jam-ay-kah, with Bob at his side, and the other cats really thinkin he was hot shet.

  Then the collective mind shifted again: Volume. We want more VOLUME. And fuck the neighbourhood, makin it out as an act of stroppiness, or gang-power display, when truth was (any kid could see) they wanted to hide in the volume of music like they were always hidin behind their shades or in the dope and the booze and the fags; they juss wanna drown out the, you know, the upbringing. The stain of growin up a Pine Blocker. Of growin up havin to fit a role, a race role, man, and thassa fuckin truth you know it and so do I: havin to turn yaself into sumpthin ya mightn’t be. Yeah, thas what bein a Maori is for a Pine Block Maori. Gimme more smoke.

  Passed around again. And again. It’d stone a fuckin elafint, man! Music vibrating the whole fuckin house, all two storeys and two full homes of it. And the truth out in the open now: gonna strut my stuff, man, an I don’t care who’s lookin.

  Dancin. Movin this way — that way — cut this way — hey-hey! — spin — hoooldit — now turn. Yeow! Turnitup! Turnitup! Gimme a beer, gimme a beer!

  Movin with mah groovin this is a cinch, man, a breeze, a doddle — Lookit me. (Yet weighted, I dunno, hard ta explain when ya jussa Pine Block nobody who only went ta school to beat up the honkies and feel their sheilas’ twats up. Childhood. I think it’s to do with childhood this weight thing.) Why so many were doin their thing with eyes closed, as if they were scared of the discouraging adults, the arsehole parents who were always tellin em ya gotta be this, ya can’t be this, don’t be that, juss a wantin to shut out the voices of authority in ya head, the mystery of ya mind tellin ya ya ain’t nuthin but a little cunt no madda how hard ya try not ta be — Oh gimme another beer.

  Swallowing some more courage, see if tha’ll do the trick, shut out that fuckin voice’t stays in my head. Nother one. Ahhh, that feels bedda.

  Swaggerin, staggerin, actin up, actin out, showin up, playin who cares just don’t let the Voice come down a bummer on my, you know, my expression. Juss wanna dance … (with my darling, to the Tennessee Waltz —!?) Oh fuck that, man, thaz a oldie numba. Member em doin that, man? Our fuckin olds, man, they love that wankoff song. Another shift.

  Rumblin, man. LOVE IT. Rumblin. Talkin about it — interrupting each other, climbing all over each other in their haste to get the password in. And havin this unnerstandin of sumpthin else about rumblin, the rhythm of it. Rumble in the jungle, member that dude? who was he again? Ali. Ali, man! What a fidah! Oh yea, what about Sugar Ray then? Sugah Ray? O far out! but he’s the — And that dude foughtim that time wouldn’t fight no more, what’s his name ag — Duran. Roberto Duran, man. Know what they callim in his, you know, wherever the fuck he comes from, language? Hands a Stone. Howzat?! Oh wow. Call me that, man, I’d love it. I seen tha scrap on my brutha’s video; man, what a fuckin rumble. He ain’t no wankah neither that Duran fulla. No? No, man. Well how come Sugar Ray wasted the cunt? Sugar Ray’d waste any cunt. I mean, he’s the ultimit rumblin machine.

  Actin out their fistic hero’s movies: Hey-hey, watch me, watch me, this is Sugar Ray’s Bolo punch … ooooooo! ca-boom! HAHAHAHA! In stitches. In an uproar. At the act bein so, uh, so true. Hey, what about this: ba-boom-boom-daka-duk-duk-kapow! A Leonard combination, pictured in their minds with all the exclamation marks, the sounds, juss like out of a comic.

  Watch me, watchme: a blurring combin-ation — a pause of posy arrogance — nigger cheek; flickin out a lazy left and kapow! comin over with a big right. Bobbin, weavin, bouncin, Ali-shufflin, Bolo-punchin, shoulders goin whiff-whiff-whiff! like oil, man … (I) he moves like he’s got oil in his joints. Eyes goin all poppy: chin juttin out, shoulders going yahyahyah — kapow! Gotcha! Laughin. Like this, like this: … Oh just mirrors, man, of what they’d seen of the world, the creative world, the achieved world doin its stuff, struttin its stuff, on the TV, and every right to, man, cause others’d TRIUMPHED ovah the, you know, the odds. (Juss one fuckin win is all a kid, a man ever wanted. One single victory ovah sumpthin, someone.)

  But then a lull comin down onem. This slowly descending lull. And with it: Truth.

  Truth. Zingin, pingin, a crackle, a sparkle of electric zaps. Man, is it the dope doin this …? Truth about what? Truth about us, that’s what. Why, what we done? Nuthin. It’s jussa, you know, a process ya go thru. Didn’t last long though. Truth doesn’t. Truth ain’t a continual process; it ain’t a game that has a set time length. It’s just a zap. A mili-sec buzz. A (uninvited, unwanted) disturbance of ya thoughts, like God or sumpthin has stuck a mirror in front of ya when ya weren’t expectin it. Nah, it’s just a small-time, short-moment hurt that goes, man. Promise ya. Here, drink up. Drink and be happy. A shift again.

  Fulla went out back to the kennels, came back with a trio a dogs. More like tanks, ya mean. Bull terriers. Built like fuckin tanks. Black and white tanks, HAHAHAHA! And everyone pattin em, strokin, ear-ticklin, sweet-talkin, or steerin clear ofem. The bro bringin em over to Nig to take a sniff atim, the bro tellin his tanks, Is alright, he’s one of us. Pat em, Nig. Nig patting the dogs in turn.

  Air thick with smoke. Dope and fags. The music loud but the ear adjusted to it. The other music of more beer arriving in crates, brought in by more gang members and hanger-on associates, the ones with a bit more bread. Man, must be fifty ofem in here now. (Grace.) Can’t hear myself think. (But sorry, Grace. I’m thinkin of ya, honest. Gonna make a special trip to your grave. Gonna buy a big buncha flow — no, a wreath. I’ll buy her a wreath. It’s dole day tamorrow. Tomowwow, as Mum’d say.) Nig having a private little giggle to himself and this sheila comin up to him and askin: Whatcha laughin about, man? And not a bad looker neither. (Man, I might be in here.) Oh this an that.


  Nother fulla came in with two more dogs. Rotties. And he wasn’t wearin a Brown Fist patch either. Other bro with the three tanks goes up to the associate asksim: Ya reckon your dogs c’n beat bulls? And everyone goin, ooooooo! And the dogs started barkin at each other, and straining on their leashes. Dunno, man. Mine’re mean fuckahs. So’re mine, man. Nah, I like my rotties. Don’t wannem, you know, damaged or nuthin. The Brown lookin at the dude, Okay, man. Spose I’ll have ta damage you then.

  Real casual, eh. Like tellin the fulla his name.

  Fear on the associate’s face. Real fear. Like he’d walked into a nightmare and only just realised it. Nig feeling sorry for him, Okay, lettem fight, the scared fulla agreein. The Brown givinim a wicked smile: Thas cool, man. Make it in half a hour; give my boys time ta warm up. Chuckling at the scared dude. C’mon, boys. Pulling his three dogs away. Y’c’n have ya suppa in half a hour. Laughing.

  Whaddid you say your name was? Nig to the sheila who’d come up to him. Tania. The sheila givin Nig the Brown Fist handshake. And Nig thinking he might be in here.

  Up the street, around the corner and down that street a bit, at Number 27 Rimu, several cars were pulling up outside. People gettin out and takin crates of beer up the footpath withem. Went on for about fifteen minutes, this car and beer arrival. Neighbours across the street all eyes between their dirty Venetians.

  Wash-house stacked high with the stuff, and inside the kitchen where the late afternoon party was startin up, the fridge chocker with beer too. And back in the wash-house a fulla’d filled the stone sinks with cold water and filled em with beer bottles. Full ones a course.

  Jake in the kitchen sat at the table sayin, Comin, comin, to all and sundry like he was a fuckin king or sumpthin. Which he was.

  In they trooped till ya c’d hardly breathe. But it was good like that: ya seem to have a bedda time when there’s a lot of yas packed in a room tight. Long as there’s plenty of beer, that’s the main thing. Oh, and smokes. Nuthin worse’n runnin outta smokes. Seen ragin parties just go dead when the smokes ran out. Dead.

  Anyone bring a gat? No gats, man, this is a, you know, a housestamping to, you know, scare away the ghost of the departed. Oh yeah, thas right. Forgot that. Everyone goin all falsely quiet for a bit in respect to the girl. The one who killed herself. Jake’s girl. But it didn’t last long before they were back to their normal buzzing volume, having already been half-tanked up at McClutchy’s beforehand.

  Jake was really enjoying himself: being surrounded by so many people he hadn’t had a party as big as this in years. Made him feel popular; and better too. In his heart. The heart sposed to be grieving. (Well it is. But I ain’t no sook about it. And that’s how people expect of a man. Of me they do.) Besides, he’d had an awful lot to drink the last few days, so his head had this nice permanent buzz to it.

  So where’s the mother? a woman askin out of the blue. She’ll be here, someone answering on Beth’s behalf. What about the Maori priest? the woman wanting further to know. Jake peering through the crowd to see who it was askin these questions. Askin her: What’s with the Maori priest bit? (I know who it is, it’s Nicky. Silly ole Nicky Hodge.) Well I ain’t touchin a beer till you had the house done, Jake Heke. Huh? Jake standing up so to be eye to eye with this bitch. What’s gettin the house done got ta do with — Ya gotta get it stamped of the ghost before y’c’n start boozin, mista, you oughta know that. Ah, shuddup, woman. And siddown. Okay, Jake Heke, it’s your house. The middle-aged woman sat herself down on a beer crate.

  Everyone back in the swing again, guzzling, burping, laughing about that, so someone dropping a real clanger of a fart. The house shakin with their laughter. And people thinkin that why can’t life be always like this? you know, with everyone happy because they got, and had, plenty to drink and smoke, to laugh about. Oh, and sure, it was a terrible thing this girl a Jake’s doing what she did. But that aside, man … I mean, life has to go on.

  So when’s the Maori priest comin? Nicky Hodge again. Shuddup, Nicky. Won’t shuddup. This ain’t right. This — Then fuck off! Jake getting annoyed with Nicky’s persistence. I ain’t. Not till the house is done. Jake up on his feet: Done? Done? Done fuckin what? Everyone going quiet. Oh-oh, Jake is off.

  Done the fuckin spirits, that’s what. Spirits? Where, Nicky? I dunno. Why ask me? I ain’t a fuckin cop. I only know they exist and they have to be done by someone who knows what he’s doing. Like a Maori tohunga. And I ain’t touchin a drop till one comes. Jake outraged at her insistence, and the fact that she was a mere woman. Tellin Nicky, Ya weren’t even at the funeral. Realising too late — And nor were fuckin you, mista. And I ain’t scared a you.

  Jake lookin at everyone, Listen to her, would ya? (Oh they were listening alright.) I don’t like all that speeches and singing fuckin hymns stuff, thas why I wasn’t there, Jake hearing himself explain without consciously deciding he would. Adding, All that bawlin, howlin stuff. Tapping his chest: Ya think that’s for Jake Heke? He nearly’d said, the Muss.

  Mista, that’s what they have a blimmin funeral for — so ya c’n cry. What, ya can’t cry, ya can’t show ya not tough at your own kid’s tangi? Oh man … Jake close to steppin over and smackin Nicky one. Ah, fuck you, woman. Sitting down. Lighting up. Trying to dowse his anger straight from the bottle in one long guzzle. Cept it didn’t work. Nicky’d got to him; sumpthin about her tone, and the way her eyes seemed to know sumpthin that he oughta know but didn’t. Dunno. Can’t quite figure it. Oh have another beer, Jake. Drink up and be happy. Givin that firmly seated and non-drinking figure of Nicky Hodge a bad-eye glare. Fucker.

  Nicky sitting in the gutter outside the house when Beth arrived in a taxi with her kids. Asked Nicky what’s wrong? why’re you sitting there like that? Nicky tellin Beth (with pride too) that she wasn’t gonna be like the rest of those animals in there drinkin, partying when the house hadn’t been done by a Maori priest. Quite right, Nicky, the newly converted Beth agreeing with her friend’s stand. He’ll be here any second now. Beth marching up the footpath to the house.

  They — every man and a few women ofem — with looks of disbelief, outrage, anger and even hurt at Beth’s storming into (my own) the house, the kitchen, ordering em out. The lot of you — out. Jake jumping up and tellin em, Don’t listen to her, she’s, you know — Beth, c’mon, dear. These’re guests. Only reason he was being reasonable because of Grace. Not my guests. Now go. The lot of you.

  And this societyless lot, this structureless pack of arseholes not budging, just making out they were moving by milling about without actually making a single step of progress toward the door, unable to bear the thought of being banished from a promising party: and all that beer not yet touched. Then Nicky walkin in and all ofem turning on her: Yeah, it was you, ya bitch! Ya shit-stirrin bitch, whatcha been tellin Beth? Poisoning the lady of the house’s mind! (The lady of the house now, eh?) OUT! at the lot ofem, hating them for their lack of order, discipline. Their mad love of drinking. Mad because it was ruining their lives (killing our children) driving kids to joining gangs and then hurting and killing each other. And they cannot see it.

  Rid of them finally. Just Beth and Jake. She staring at the man — So where was my daughter’s father when she was buried? Told ya, I hate that — Get out, Jake. Oh shuddup, woma — Get out! Okay. Jake shrugging. It’s only cos a Grace I’m lettin — And don’t you come back, mista. What? Ever.

  Jake laughing, HAHAHA!!! Bending over holding himself with laughter.

  And when he rose, Beth spat full in his face. Then closed — or half closed — her eyes waiting for the retaliation. (But it’s worth it.) Up his arm came, except it went no further. His jaw was trembling though. And Beth’s insulting discharge was sliding down his nose. Jake shaking his head, Gonna get you for that, woman. I am. She standing there, feeling … feeling almost exultant. Go to hell, mista.

  Neighbours across the street watchin Jake walk fuming down the footpath not long after the main lot’d come unexpectedly out; followed h
im with their eyes, striding up the street. To his second wife, Dooly, I bet. It’s Dooly Jake shoulda been married to, not Beth. Cos that’s who he spends more time with.

  At cars pulling up, except when the people got out they didn’t start cartin in crates a beer, nope. So who are they? Oh, must be Beth’s people. Man, they well dressed for Pine Block. Well dressed for Maoris, fullstop, eh? Hahaha! they’d better watch emselves, the people round here might think they’re rich and rob em.

  Beth waiting at the top of the path; a great big fulla in a suit leadin the cupla dozen men and women no doubt come to do the house. That’s Bennett. The welfare officer. So it is. What, he’s a tohunga? Must be. Well I’ll be. Watchin through their sly slits of dirty venetians. Oh and that’s the one got sent away by the court a few months back, what’s his name again? Boogie.

  Boogie, that’s it. Funny thing, I think it was that Bennett who, you know, did the damage in his report that sent him away. Now they’re walkin side by side. Well, well, well. Mind you, someone was at the tangi yesterday and seen Bennett and the kid, Boogie, doing one a them whatyoucalls, the old chants they do. A waiata. Yeah, that’s it. Said the kid was neat too. She heard, this woman at the tangi, that Bennett spent two full days at his place with that kid coaching him to do the waiata, and hardly any sleep. Well, I’ll be …

  Watching with increased interest now. Oooo, he’s got tall since the last time I seenim. Who’s got tall? The kid. Jake’s young fulla. Though I heard he’s a proper little sook, eh. Is that right? Clicking tongues at that. Aee, such a waste of a good build too, eh? A waste alright. The oldest one, Nig, he’s a Brown Fist now. Aee, another one joined up with them mongrels? But you wouldn’t think Nig’d turn out like that, eh? Why, what’s so different about him? Well his mother … she always loved that kid. All the years I been here I never saw a woman so much as lift a hand to that boy. Such a nice boy too. Tall, gotta good build like his old man, but oh, I wouldn’t a thought he had his father’s wildness. Not to up and join the Browns. I mean to say: they mean bastards. Maybe he is too. Nah, I don’t think so. Oh well, he’ll find out he’s in the wrong league then, won’t he? Spose so. Unless they, you know, change him.