One Night Out Stealing (13 page)

Eyes mostly on Jube, or they didn’t stay off him long. (He might up and disappear! Hahahaha! And so would our freebies.) He’d cracked it, but he still hadn’t said; say that for him for a big mouth: he hadn’t said a word. Plenty hints, though, but they were the usual Tavi shit of breaking into a flash house and finding sumpin or other. If it wasn’t a mechanical cock, it was evidence of some straight not so straight, how they were round here. Lies, but. All of it lies. (Long as the drink still keeps flowing who’s arguing?)

Jube telling little jokes, and everyone laughing like hell, even though they were weak ones ya get from bubblegum wrappers, roaring with him, whacking his back, Jube, you’re sumpin else, hahaha. Seeing as how he was in the chair. Ha-ha-ha as ya helped yaself to one of the jugs, oh, and may as well grab a smoke while you’re at it, seein as Jube was so kind to buy a load of packets from the machine, Thank you, Jubesy babe. You very kine. Hey, tha’s alright, Joycie honey, hahahaha. (Ha-fuckin-ha, whiteman, trying to buy your way in with the Maoris. But you won’t. You ain’t one of us, can never be. And it ain’t juss your skin, it’s the coldness of sumpin about you. And your sex too. All the damn time you get it back to sex. Well, us Maoris might be bad, specially in here, but most don’t go for that sex stuff. Not like you, Jube McCall.)

The jugs, first of the (free) day going down quick (real quick). Oh, now would ya lookit that: the jugs’re done gone – HAHAHAHAHAHA!! Everyone laughing along with one of the guys, a
white guy too, at how he dropped his hint so cheekily, but the rest ofem with their dog-cunning eyes on the floor, at their street-scuffed footwear, or on a new pair of runners from a shop bowled over the Shore a few nights back and ended up here for only twenty bucks a pair (well, they’d hardly sell em singly – HAHAHAHA!), or around em – hi, Duke; Hey, Lonesome, how ya been, kid! – but only very fleetingly at Jube, cos it was careful careful don’t rush the man, don’t crowd him it might scarim off, he might take his generosity elsewhere, or he might stay put but only buy for himself, in which case it weren’t no point in putting up with his wanky company, the guy is an egg, make no bones.

So they stood there in this kind of awkward silence, which only Jube’s telling of another little joke filled, cept no-one did much laughing at this one, or not till Rula Jones piped up: Hey, any chance of some refills there, handsome?

A brief moment of silence, of Jube stopped halfway through his (stupid) joke, then his hand dived into his jeans pocket and out came a fifty. So everyone broke out laughing and some were saying, Hey, good-looking, how bout over here? Hahahaha. And it felt, it seemed, as if a good time was being had. A real good time. They must be. Or why were they laughing?

Hey, no worries, no fluckin worries – HAHAHAHA!! – Jube at himself, his generosity, his funny play on the word. More, when a few of them echoed the words: No fluckin worries, bud! HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!! And they could see on Jube’s face how he was loving this, lapping up being centre stage; and that he could not see, astonishingly, their barely concealed contempt for him. (But ain’t eggs and dipsticks like that?)

Jube bought another round. Close on fifty bucks it cost him. Ahh, but what the hell, eh boys? (The girls don’t count. Not till later when he’s hanging out for that other side of him to be fixed up. Then they’ll fuckin count alright.) What’s fifty between mates? Not seeing their contempt, nor Joycie’s hatred, her hatred of most things white, most things about white people which she loathed before she was capable of giving it attempt of understanding.

Margie came in and joined the group: Hellooooo! everyone. With her limp wrist carry-on, her hideously made-up face and
hair-do
up in a beehive, her silicone breasts showing ample in a low-cleavaged dress hugged tightly to her falsely represented body that wouldn’t even fool a blind man. But she was alright, she really was;
she had a heart of gold, and anyway she’d been around as long as the city of Auckland had, near. She even had a television
documentary
done on her (you bedda believe it, honey chile) and she was a cheeky sausage so no-one showed any surprise when she
immediately
spotted who was in the buying chair so went straight to the mountain rather than the mountain having to go to her, as she told the mountain: Mmm, what a man, as she rubbed teasingly up against him. Everyone laughing, genuinely laughing, with no edge nor side-on nor undercurrent because the transvestite was very very funny. Though she’d better watch her act didn’t push even the galoot Jube McCall too far, or she’d cop it. She might be funny, but weren’t no-one gonna step in bat for her, not a tranny.

I hear you got one a foot long, Jube McCall, she was saying in that lispy voice they have, as she helped herself to a jug with a glass produced from her handbag, a champagne glass, a tall, flute-shaped one, which she broke from her teasing to describe as just that, but you ignorant bastards and bitches wouldn’t know cos you got no class, now where was I? Giggling. Everyone grinning. Jube
reserving
his reaction, though it was plain he liked his cock being referred to in such terms because he said, Who told you that, Margie? They’re exaggerating. Looking falsely outraged. It’s only eleven inches – HAHAHAHAHAHA!! But no-one laughed, only gave token grins because his timing was wrong. Any anyway his vanity was too obvious and too big. (Like your whiteman hooter, arsehole).

Eleven inches! OOOOOoooo!! now that’s – that’s – itth gi
nor
mus, dear! Margie pouting at Jube, but wary in her cunning eyes. Okay, I was lying, I was lying, it’s ten. Ten? Ten. Really? Yeh, really. Wanna see? Do I what? I mean it. So do I, honey, hahaha. And everyone laughing at the exchange, or they did when they saw Jube laughing. Man, you coulda heard em around the corner, up Queen Street.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA – A –
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!
Laughing at Jube telling a gum wrapper (un)funny. Cos Margie’d brought out some dope from her handbag and they’d smoked up large; the stuff was more’n a buzz, it was
sen-
say-
shan-nell. And life seemed so incredibly funny, everything about it; and every time someone said something – even Jube – it sounded so funny, and when one started, the others joined in
because even laughter, other people’s, sounded so marvellous. And you could’ve looked into the open mouths and read them like medical records, of people not well, unhealthy, furry-tongued, swollen of gum, ulcerated of gum, and giving off telltale stenches; same in the eyes, a knowing person’d read em like charts, like maps, like storyline reading all the way from some hell to another.

But what madda? What madda? Eh Rula? Eh, Rula. This’s our place, the Tavi, it’s where we belong, it ain’t hell. Who said it was hell? It’s fuckin heaven, eh Rula? Eh Mitch? Eh Dave? Eh Joycie? (If you say so.) We’re one big (un)happy family here, aren’t we, boys? Hey, yeow! Yeow! Puddit here puddit here (puddit anywhere you like, honey, cept not up my fanny).

Even Jube here, he’s our mate. Right, boys? Right. He’s been kine to us –
kine.
He’s kine for a Pakeha, how many Honkies you know who’s kine? Not many, eh? Hey, Jube, throwing arms around the tall whiteman, we’re your frens, eh bro? You-are-kine. Ya know that? You bought us drinks all fuckin day long, you-kine.
Kine.
Ya hear? And ya don’t hear, I’ll punch your fuckin lights out – HAHAHAHAHA! Only joking only joking, I wouldn’t hit a kine fulla like you even if you do got white skin – HAHAHAHAHA!! Hey, only joking’gain, only joking’gain.

Uh, Jube, you wouldn’t have a spare twenny on you, would ya, cuz? Juss till tomorrow, you know? You know how it is, eh bro? You’re one of us. You’re white, but we look on you like a brother. And my cuzin, Hepa here, could I ask for a lil old twenny for him too, it’s juss that we gotta go, you know, over to Mangere, and we got no petrol in the car, so it’s juss to get us there cos my brother owes me heaps, eh. Only till we get the bread off him, Jube.

Not a set of eyes missing Jube shelling out a couple of twenties to the Timu cousins, even when Jube thought he was being sneaky. Not one brain behind a set of eyes that wasn’t planning an elaborate sob story for Jube’s ears.

And each man, and the couple of women, as well the transvestite, an aching readiness of timing waiting to select Jube’s demeanour, his changing demeanour, his mood. Like throwing a big punch, it had to be right or you were gone. Then one of them making his move: Uh, Jube, like I been wanning to ask you a fav – No fucking way, Nick. I juss did two ofem favours. What, I’m Santa Claus? Where were you when you had bread a couple a months back and me and Sonny were hanging out? Well you know, man, how was
I – You knew alright, Nick. So don’t play me, bud. I ain’t no wanker the wind juss blew in.

Wrong. Nick’s big hit the wrong timing. Nick sighing, taking his defeat with outside calm acceptance, but inside hating. Even though he’d been recipient of Jube’s favours the whole arvo and into the evening, he still hated.

But the others smiling their fawning dog-cunning smiles at Jube, each believing his story, his timing, his big hit was the one. And the night wearing on.

What day izzit …? Oh, muss be a Tuesday, the solo mum (sluts)’re out in force with their benefit money; meant to be for the kid or kids, but they come in here with their toyboys attached, spend the day and evening boozing, buying beer for the toyboy. And the toyboys they all have that proud look like they’re bein kept and they’re proud of it, very proud. Crims, most of em, the toyboys; so any wonder it’s pride and not shame they feel, cos how many crims’ve – what do they call it again? – values, thaz it. How many crims’ve got values? None, tha’s how many. Sweet fuckall none. So they help their solo-mum sheila spend her government benefit then when it’s time to go home giver a fucking, they say, no way, I’m off to a party at Joe’s place, and I need some bread to buy some beer. So it’s a gimme gimme, or else. Or else the dumb broad gets her head punched in and then the toyboy still takes her money cos tha’s how the crim is: he’s low. (Like
looooww.
)

But aren’t we all, hmmm? Joe to Jube, and Jube looking at Joe and goin, Huh? The hell ya talking about, wanker? Low, Jube. We are low, agreed? Well, I dunno about that, speak for yaself. Hahaha, ruffling Joe’s hair. (They like that in here, their hair bein ruffled, makes em feel wanted. Loved, even.) You out of it, Joe? Sure, I’m out of it, but, Jube, we are low, man. Lookit us, Joe sweeping an arm around the place. Take a look, bud.

At them grinning, exploding in laughter, being expansive in acts of affection (false affection) demonstration, using theatrical gestures, flowery gesticulations and facial expression poses, ain’t hard to pick up on it, not’nless you’re blind, and ya don’t see many round here tapping white canes on the cigarette-butted, beer-sloshed, spit-spotted, blood-dripped, vomit-smelling threadbare carpet floor, now do ya? And this was only a part of the bar Jube was having pointed out to him. The stoned part.

So they went inside their heads, and saw and discovered things
none of em had a means to convey, nor did a one have it in him or her to understand, that what he and she was seeing was some kind of raw truth. They couldn’t. Fuckin head’d explode. Just as
attempts
at trying to relate what was goin on in the head, the
stoned-out
head, just came out messy, stupid, didn’t make no sense; so the heads moved in perfect time to the jukebox music – to the
sounds
, cuz – they could hear every note of voice and instrument, hear every subtlety; even see the big picture of what means and what is musical composition. (And it seemed so
simple.
)
But they couldn’t word it, couldn’t word it, can’t word it, can’t can’t don’t wanna, won’t ever … What day izzit again? Oh, Toosday, tha’s right, why all the solo mums’re out in force.

They could see each other as well, how each and every of their stoned, drinking companions was, how the dope bled to the outside the different qualities of each person, good and bad, insightful and disturbing. Sillier and sillier.

Some wandered off to the front-entrance foyer, where the pay-phone was. Who zat? Zat you, Boydie? Boydie, get Maku on the phone. Pleese. I
said
pleese. (Fuckin wanker.) Hello? Mak? That you, brother? Iz me. Toby. Yeh, Tobe, bro –
Tobe.
Hey-hey there, brother a mine. How you holding, bro? Come on … Juss till Thursday, bro. Only need fifty. Or they’ll cut the power off. They will, Mak. They did it larse time and they’ll do it again. Pleese, bro. Pleese? Uh? Uh? Man, I’m desperate, brother, really am, eh. Wha? Oh go fuck yaself, gi
mme
a fuckin lekcha. I’ll fuckin remember this –

Be seven soon. Closing time. Head off to the next pub closing time, hahahaha. And outside, out the front doors (not the back one that opens out into the cool shade of bus terminal roof overhang, where ya choke on the diesel fumes, and ya startle for just a briefly sobering moment at the sight of life’s lonelies and forgottens and weirdos and freaks and nature’s fuck-ups of physical disability, ugliness, hideousness, repulsiveness, life’s saddies, life’s miserables, the terribles, and all the poor waged workers, the suffering abused housewives (on earth to be fucked and beaten and made house slaves of), the maddies, and then there’s the children (growing up seeing this and only this as their horizon, some fuckin horizon, cuz, some fuckin horizon) growing up sad and the sad turning bad), well not out that way but out front, out front, outside, man, past the telephone lifeline lieline, this time of year the outside world’ll still
be bathed in light; and even if it’s cloudy there’ll be that extra quality of light when it’s thrown off sea, off harbour; and down a bit the businesses being busy, the joggers, office-worker late-night workers, running along catching their proud reflections in shopside glass, angled shop windows. Other side fishing boats coming and going (and another load of hash slips into the country, come the long way from shady, exotic beginnings and spy-like journey, just to end up, the better part, in the mouths of lowlifes funded by government to smoke the stuff – Oi, pass it on, pass it on, man, I ain’t had a toke yet –)