Single fin, p.5
Single Fin, page 5
‘Did ya see my reo? More spray than your average fireman’s hose!’
‘A fuckin’ barrel that’d make a caver jealous!’
‘A pummelling? Understatement, bro. Held down for way over a minute, maybe two.’
My walk back was neither, my strides feeling more like a waltz with only two beats. I held my board close under my arm, dangled the left, and looked anything but focused. My reflection was a re-enactment of a scene played out an hour earlier. The lines in the script had been short, yet I persisted in repeating them over and over in my head staunchly. It would continue until I was convinced the situation had been handled with a level of bravery on par with the Terminator, Rambo, or Mike. A young boy stopped his bike to stare, while the words slipped out in public:
‘Go fuck yourself, ya chickenshit muthafucka!’
Our eyes locked, an expression of shock from my two-wheeled friend, then he scuttled to a safe distance.
That’s right, tough guy!
Onwards I walked.
Deeper I dwelled.
The rot setting in — a rocket-fuel concoction of testosterone, adrenaline, endorphins; ready to be sculled with the sniff of a dare.
Or excuse.
The guilty party had not given me any trouble afterwards; perhaps Davo had underestimated his intelligence. Not that I forgot about him. I surveyed him like the CIA on Bin Laden, watching his every move, every further drop-in on other unsuspecting punters (waiting for their retaliation — still waiting). Davo, true to his word, had actually paddled backwards to let him have his wave. He was alone too, prowling the line-up like a Great White swimming with a school of minnows. One gutsy bastard, and it fascinated me: like a jack-in-the box set on random; like a dog that could smell fear; a maniac who thrived on a challenge.
Or just an ignorant guy, unaware of rules and wrongly accused, trying to have a Saturday morning surf.
And Colin Meads shops for fluffy slippers.
I reached under the chassis to the front tyre and felt for the jingle of car keys, my fingers fumbling with the keyhole. I found my towel and held it to my face to savour the warmth in darkness. Dropping it down, I scanned the waves, watching a surfer halfway through his ride — ol’ Jas should really learn to lower that elbow. My stomach groaned; I wondered how much longer Mike was going to be.
I’ve never been a fan of gangsta rap; can’t understand the whole egotistical side of it. Being in New Zealand especially — semi fuckin’ automatics? Cop bashing for fuckin’ fun? Muthafuckin’ drive-bys? Comparing fuckin’ bullet holes? Like we haven’t got our own problems here, we have to glorify someone else’s too?
The deep, pounding bass vibrating behind me had all the signs of America’s finest export: like the repetitive sound of a steam train. Normally I wouldn’t have given the vehicle another look — there’s plenty of back seats sacrificed for speaker space in this town; heard one, heard them all — so I stood with my back to it, ignoring it like I was sitting in front of an air-horn at a test match.
It reached its peak behind me before beginning its descent further down the car park, where it stalled in volume and began backtracking slowly, finally coming to rest like it was breathing down my neck. A window wound down, allowing the hip-hop diarrhoea to escape for everyone to hear:
… Poppin’ fuckin’ caps with my boyz
To protect our ghetto from other noise …
‘Oi! Fuckface!’
I raised an eyebrow, trying to decipher whether it was part of the lyrics.
‘You ’eard me, bitch!’
Like ice with that concoction of yours, sir? Sculling it straight, I see? Perhaps a nice bottle of ‘Flight of the Chickenman’ instead? It’s a very popular drink. No? Another shot already? And make it a double? But sir, no one ever asks …
I turned around. Turei held the driver’s door under his armpit, exposing a series of red-dominated tattoos, feverishly tapping the panel, exposing all intentions. His head was tilted back, emphasising a thick chin. The silhouette of another in the passenger seat glanced in all directions — keeping a lookout for the lion returning to his den.
‘Fuckin’ tough with your mates around, eh. Whadda ’bout now? Still a ’ard bastard?’
… tap … tap … tap …
‘Depends, bro.’
‘On what?’
… tap … tap … tap …
‘Whether your missus has finished with me.’
Slam!
The door flung open and Turei stormed forward, the right angles on his shoulders and height startling — he seemed much smaller-boned in the water. I prepared for sudden impact: arms out straight, leg placed back, head down — the last sight being the whites of his eyes expanding and his hair trailing behind like a flag. I froze — a concrete statue cowering in the middle of a railway track — closing my eyes tightly, limbs vibrating, and deciding which vital organs were going to be best protected during phase two.
Instead, I heard a strained noise like an asthmatic’s cough, followed by the sound of flesh impacting with metal. I opened my eyes to see a tangle of arms and legs in the dirt after Turei had been driven violently into the side of the Sub. And looking down on him was Mike. Turei spat out a mouthful of car park and blood, wiping his lip and taking a second to look at the red on his fingers. He rose, obviously pissed off with being caught out: where the fuck did he come from? Mike positioned himself in front of me with a right hook cocked. He waited for his target to gain composure:
‘Don’t bring your fuckin’ habits down to our place.’
Turei exploded in a series of thrown fists. Mike dodged nimbly before releasing his right arm and stinging Turei in the temple, only to follow through with a left, shattering the bridge of his nose. His blood gushed like a burst water pipe.
The remaining occupant of the car had already appeared and started his charge towards me — a massive-looking prick with a ring in his eyebrow and a chain tattooed around his wrist. I had a swing at him as he came into range, managing to connect with his chin — he never flinched — before I had another go, his thick arms blocking it. He brought a fist hard down on my head — I had a flash of bright vision — followed by another punch, then another. I doubled over, doing my best to withstand each blow. Then I charged him, wrapping my arms around his keg-shaped waist to spear-tackle him into the dirt. I got to my feet quickly.
The sound of me swinging kicks into his torso soon attracted the rest of the locals; new voices and shouts reminiscent of a lynch mob quickly had our rivals cutting their losses. Turei, trying to catch the flow of blood from his nostril, pointed with his free hand to Mike, and then me, before backing away quickly, starting the vehicle and eventually sending debris flying. The first of the verbal crew launched themselves at the car in a series of hits and thrown rocks.
We made our way over the hill and parked up on a vacant plot nestled in between houses for the wealthy. We’d stopped at the bakery, as always, and picked up our standard lunch — me: a mince-and-cheese pie, raspberry bun and can of drink; Mike: a savoury muffin, free-range-egg sandwich and a bottle of spring water. We sat overlooking a crowd of surfers battling for the smaller waves that made it past the headland and midday onshore. Mike flexed his fingers in and out slowly, a flap of skin barely hiding the flesh exposed on his tallest knuckle.
‘How’s the head?’ Mike asked, sitting on the Sub’s bonnet, resting a foot against the bumper.
My fingers glided over the swelled bruising where the fists had connected; every new bump tender like an open wound, a feeling of clouds of pain gathering before the storm.
‘Sweet as. He punched like a girl,’ I said, tapping my head hard to prove it; returning to my pie quickly for comfort.
‘He’d have sore ribs after you played soccer with his kidneys.’
I shrugged my shoulders and avoided eye contact.
We’d always come to this spot, unofficially claiming it for ourselves in the process. A place to hang and dwell, watch the tide go out, enjoy the ladies coasting past in summer attire, or a winter southerly blowing lightly offshore, to crack open a Tui with the crew after a memorable session, a patch of grass to have yet another World Cup four-a-side touch tournament when the tide was too far in.
Four months ago, though, we’d arrived to see a large real estate sign stating that it was on the market. It had direct access to the beach over the road and freehold tenure, plus the option of further subdividing into two smaller lots, which, the agent had told me over the phone, was a huge advantage. Then, within two weeks and before we’d even attempted to gather some sort of deposit, a new sign had been erected in its place — a car-sized watercolour painting showing an apartment block with fancy architecture, a mass of verandas, expensive-looking rooms, many levels high, reminding me of a wedding cake. And people, lots of them: some with fishing rods, children with spades and buckets, lounging on deck chairs or swimming in a pool, playing tennis on their new court, with boats and expensive European and four-wheel-drive vehicles parked out the front.
A group of six heading for the beach with their surfboards.
Look at them; they’ve already got their damn leg-ropes on for Christsakes. Like we need more kooks in the water.
‘Hope they trip over,’ I found myself murmur.
Mike agreed silently.
‘Their enquiry number isn’t even a local one,’ I continued.
‘That Friends of the Beach community group won’t let it happen,’ Mike said. ‘Uncle Bobby reckons they’ve got some powerful people involved who’ve been long time residents — they’ll fight them the whole way.’
‘Cool. It’d be heaps better to have the Surf Clubrooms here than that fuckin’ snob magnet.’
‘Look at the size of that place,’ said Mike. ‘Fuckin’ millions gets invested — then they have to make a profit in return. Unless you’ve got a five-figure inheritance hidden somewhere, we’re not going to be invited to play on that table. Who knows? Our dads might turn up suddenly and shine gold-toothed smiles … shit, sorry bro. That was a bit rough.’
I scrunched the can hard. ‘That’s OK. Just because you know your dad’s living in Aus doesn’t mean you’ve seen him any more than I’ve seen mine. And anyway, if I can’t joke about mine, then what can I do? Carry on fantasising that one day he’ll show — trying to make up for missing my nineteen years?’ I stuffed the bent can into the paper bag and threw them onto the back seat. ‘You know, lately I’ve been thinking about how Mum actually did a bloody good job at raising me by herself — I mean, I haven’t turned out gay or anything.’
Mike closed the lid of his bottle and slid off the bonnet. He seemed excited.
‘Reach into the glove box and grab that disposable camera.’
I threw the plastic-coated box to him. He caught it with one hand.
‘What you doing with it?’
He held the eyepiece up and took a few steps back, before looking around. A teenager was walking her dog towards us.
‘Becky! How’s it going?’ He lent down and started scratching the Dalmatian’s ears — it leant into him affectionately. ‘You mind taking a photo of us quickly?’ Holding it out, flashing that smile — there was no hesitation as she accepted. He went and posed against the Sub. ‘We might as well get one last photo of this place before we get classed as trespassers.’
I joined him, crossing my arms, giving a look reminiscent of my E-Grade rugby photo. A click was heard, and she offered to do another before realising that it was the last on the film.
Mike took the camera from her. ‘That’ll do. Thanks heaps.’ She smiled and continued on her way.
Half an hour multiplied into four. We felt the sun move directly overhead and into levering shadows as it disappeared behind the landscape. We had conversed between long periods of comfortable silence. At one stage Mike questioned Grace’s commitment to me. I’d always sensed he didn’t approve of her — not in a jealous way or anything, more like he was trying to watch out for me. Like any mate would when there was lust involved. He’d known her at college and mentioned something about a leopard never changing its spots. She was aware of his disapproval as well. Yeah, when those two were in the same room it suddenly felt like a fridge. Still, I explained she was self-centred because I cared to listen — he said it wasn’t my fault; possessing soul meant I was easily manipulated. I took it as a compliment, and we left it at that.
By the time we decided to leave, dark shadows were nibbling at the Sub’s grill. I returned the camera to the glovebox, and pulled out a marker pen. Mike turned the ignition on.
‘Drive up to the sign,’ I interrupted.
I stood on the bonnet and reached to the six surfers; up close they lost all significance, and I saw them for what they really were: smudges from an artist’s paintbrush.
We drove out onto the road and headed back over the hill. I leant back and closed my eyes, an elbow resting on the windowsill, the wind blowing into my smile; Mike turned the stereo up and began singing. We didn’t care that behind us an expensive sign had been vandalised with the words ‘PISS OFF SURF INDUSTRY CLONES!’ — we were merely warning them for their own benefit.
‘What’re we doing tonight?’ Mike asked.
My eyelids opened enough to see blurred native bush. ‘Jackshit, bro. I’ve got a pile of bills toppling over on my kitchen bench that have been neglected for way too long. Probably a quiet one in front of the rugby.’
‘I’ll come back ’round later and join ya, bring some beers,’ Mike insisted.
I twisted the volume control up and played the drums on my knees all the way back to my driveway — joining in with the singing when my knowledge of the words allowed me.
Slamming the boot hard, I picked up my board and filed it under my arm. Mike gave a wave out the window with an outstretched thumb, forefinger and little finger, and drove away with two light toots of the horn. With the hike up the drive ahead of me, I didn’t bother to watch him — he’d be back in an hour or two.
He never made it.
I was sitting in my La-Z-Boy, with a bowl of chicken-flavoured chips and a couple of empty handles on the coffee table in front of me; the TV already showing ten or so minutes of play. I looked at my watch for the fifth time as though to question its accuracy — Mike had never been late for kickoff. I sat forward, began picking at the chips, and jiggled my knee. He missed a great moment of play; we would’ve drunk to that for sure. Then the phone rang. I wiped my hands on my trackpants and answered it.
Looking back, I didn’t know who it was on the other end of the line initially. All they said was that Mike had been killed in a car crash. I thought it was someone pulling my leg, so I laughed and guessed at names. Mike’s Uncle Bobby had to repeat himself. He talked like he was being compressed by a huge force; like he was short of breath, or maybe holding it back. I still didn’t believe him, but didn’t say anything; I just breathed heavily down the receiver. I thanked him, then hung up.
I sat back on the chair and stared at the television. The volume seemed much louder than before. The All Blacks scored a try, a bloody good one. The commentators said anyone viewing it had just witnessed entertainment at its best. The camera panned around the crowd to thousands of people cheering and clapping, and the players were high-fiving and smiling, congratulating each other on the great achievement. I thought we were having an earthquake, until I realised the trembling was coming from me. I reached to pick at a chip, but found myself grabbing the whole bowl instead. I raised it above my head and threw it at the screen. The glass shattered with an electrical storm and a loud smash. I stood up and began throwing the handles across the room; one disintegrated against a cupboard, the other against a far window, taking the pane with it. My teeth began grinding against each other. My chest pulsated with heavy breaths. I needed something to numb the pain quick. I went into the kitchen, opened the pantry and retrieved a bottle of Jack Daniels someone had given me for my nineteenth birthday. I’d never been one for straight shots of spirits, but as the hard liquid flooded into my mouth, its rough edge felt smooth, like milk … soothing, like cough mixture.
Back in the sitting room, bottle in hand, I stared at the broken glass and scattered chips. I took another drink. I looked at the surfing posters on the wall, in particular the one where Mike had put a picture of his own head onto Kelly Slater’s neck, standing with his hands high in a Teahupoo barrel. I took another swig, then another. It had to go. They all had to. I placed the bottle on the coffee table and attacked the posters, ripping them into shreds. I picked up a chair and threw it against the wall. I took another scull, then kicked the table over and over until its legs were free. I picked one up and started hitting anything breakable — ornaments, video, the PlayStation — I couldn’t help myself. I don’t know when I started crying, the tears just suddenly appeared. I let out a yell and headed back to the kitchen, holding the bottle to my mouth.
The cupboard doors were easy targets with their long leverage and small hinges. They popped off one by one. It was so easy. I began punching them hard. I ignored the increasing red being smeared across the wood. Mr Daniels was taking care of any pain; I was looking after the carnage. My hand went through a glass door. I didn’t feel it. The microwave was lifted and thrown to the floor. It bounced, but didn’t do much, so I did it again, then threw it against the wall, leaving a hole the size of my head. I spied a bottle of wine and uncorked it in an eruption of overflowing liquid. What wasn’t caught in my mouth fell to the carpet. My hand was covered in blood — there was a shard of glass buried between my knuckles. I pulled it out, took my shirt off and wrapped it around my fist. Crimson appeared, initially as spots, before it soaked through the material. Around me lay my flat, reduced to something a homeless person would screw their face up at.
