K Road

by Ted Dawe

  ‘Twenty.’

  ‘Bullshit, you’re twenty.’

  ‘I’ll be twenty soon, I just need to turn nineteen first.’

  They both laughed loudly and looked around together, to see a sea of faces looking their way. Roxy came closer and spoke right into his face. Challenging. ‘Well, what are we waiting for?’

  As they neared Taupo it was beginning to rain again. The wind had turned to the south and the big drops sliced through Jazz’s thin clothes. The green op shop coat that Roxy had scored was still damp from the downpour outside Napier, and now was heavy and sodden. Darkness was not far away so the priority was a place to sleep. Bridges were best because at least you knew the only people who would bother you were people like yourself. Bus stations and half built buildings rarely gave you the whole night. Chances are you would be woken at 2 a.m. by a goon with a torch and a barking Alsation at full stretch. They sat in the bus shelter while Roxy lit up. Behind them the huge lake was an evil grey force reminding them of their smallness.

  Jazz put his arm around Roxy’s shoulder. His leather jacket rode up leaving a strip of skin exposed to the cold. She leant her head against his cheek and even above the sound of the wind he could hear her breath. It wasn’t good.

  It had been days now since their flight from Hastings. They might be looking for her, she was only 14, but then again she had run away before, maybe they wouldn’t bother.

  In Jazz’s case it was different. When he got done for the dak, he was already on probation for car theft. Supervision, the courts called it. They were determined to make a citizen of him. Living with his aunty. Taking him and a mini bus of others out into the bush each day to prune pine trees. Seven o’clock pick up. Travel for an hour. Everyone in the van hung over and pissed off. Arriving in the middle of god-knows-where in the half light. This Pakeha guy from the forest service dropping them off at their patch of trees. Each with just a pruning saw and a pair of long-handled secateurs.

  He didn’t mind being in among the pine trees. They smelt nice to breathe in and there was no wind at ground level. It sung softly among the tips. Stuff happened too. One kid found a patch and they ripped it off, a plant each. It wasn’t ready but a bunch of cabbage was better than nothing. That night they had all assembled at Kehi’s place after his parents had gone to the pub. Everyone dried out their stash in the oven, sampling along the way. It wasn’t a great stone but it got them off, that was the main thing…

  After Roxy had finished her smoke it was time to move on. Jazz knew she would just get colder and colder. Then she would catch something, probably. They couldn’t afford to get sick, that was for real. He could feel her rib bones right through the green coat. There was nothing to her. He looked down at her face in amongst the curtain of hair. Her eyes were closed and she had this little almost-smile. It was beautiful. That was what did it for him. The doll face. He kissed her on the mouth. A long drawn out kiss. The sort you never wanted to end.

  He stood up and pulled her to her feet. She looked at him expectantly but said nothing. Where he went she followed. She called him her rock. He’d never had that before. The weight of it was scary sometimes, because before this, he’d only ever looked after himself. His brief back in Hastings would say not too well, either. Now he had something much more precious, more delicate. He struggled. Learning on the job.

  He picked up the backpack and the guitar case. He and Rox began to walk along the foreshore in the drizzle. No point in hitching here. It would just attract the cops. Didn’t need that. They were the only ones walking. Not surprising in this weather.

  It was a busy road, though. An endless stream of cars and trucks in both directions. Some making the long haul to Wellington, across the Desert Road, others going to Hawke’s Bay where they had come from. They were welcome to it. So good to be out of that shit hole.

  On the left there were all these big motels with names like The Oasis, The Mirage or The Dew Drop Inn. They had all been built between the road and the lake so people could sit in their warm rooms and look out towards the mountains. He was going to mention this to Roxy but decided against it. They were cold enough already.

  The rain got heavy again and Roxy’s coat got heavy with it too. Time to bale. They couldn’t take much more of this. The town centre loomed up ahead a couple of ks away. They both put their heads down to staunch it out. There weren’t a lot of choices. He noticed that Roxy had developed a bit of a limp … was favouring one foot. She never complained though. She was a tough nut. Never complained about anything.

  When they reached the bank of takeaway places and tourist shops they chose the one that looked warmest. Inside there was stacks of stuff … all for the tourists. Maori stuff and sheep stuff. They lingered by the front entrance standing under the blast of warm air that formed some sort of barrier against cold wind. It can’t have been more than two minutes before the manager-looking dude gave them the evils. It was like, ‘Can I help you with something?’ Which is the polite way of saying ‘Fuck off’.

  He checked his wallet. Just one 20 dollar bill. Where had it all gone? He didn’t have a clue. Half of that disappeared at the burger bar ten minutes later. Crap food. Went too fast. Should have got fish and chips, it stuck in the gut longer, but they needed to be inside somewhere, just to warm up.

  After about 40 minutes, Roxy gave him a nudge. He had gone to sleep and there was some kid in a uniform with a boss guy, standing next to them. Time to move on again.

  Back on the street it was clear that the first thing they had to do was get some money. It was a matter of finding the noisiest pub and getting down to business. In the middle of the town centre there was this big place with an awning outside. Perfect. A bit of shelter.

  Jazz cracked open the case and took out Diablo. The juke box inside was loud and distorted. The sound came out in packets whenever someone opened the swing doors.

  It was important to show what he could do on the guitar straight up so people would know he wasn’t just some Maori strummer. He looked at Roxy. She needed something to give her a lift so he did ‘Tears in Heaven’. Almost immediately the traffic in and out of the bar began to slow as people tuned in. He knew he had a voice that people liked but it was the guitar that really talked for him. Almost immediately coins began to hit the case. His fingers quickly warmed and found the chords; he threw in little variations. He could never just do a straight cover of anything. It always ended up with his own twist.

  A small crowd gathered around them and he put a bit more into his singing to fill out the thinness of Roxy’s voice. He kept it going with a couple of extra choruses because there was something building. There was this gang guy who threw in 20 bucks. His eyes, behind the tatts, shining with tears. Another walking wounded.

  After the next song the security guard came out and tried to move them on. They were taking patrons from the pub. They could go and sing in the car park. He was a big dude, the sort you don’t mess with. Jazz kept the chorus going, wondering what to do. They didn’t have nearly enough money yet; they would have to start over somewhere else. Just then something happened. It always did. The gang guy stepped up and said something soft to the guard who straightaway disappeared inside again. It was the last they saw of him.

  Jazz hardly paused between songs. One seemed to flow into the other. Some were sequences he liked to put together because they reminded him of earlier, simpler days. Others were suggested to him by the onlookers. A woman brought a couple of cans out for them. It was like she was trying to keep them going. She sang with them and her voice was strong and mixed with their music. Seemed to water it down. He switched to one of his old songs: the Spanish ones his Uncle Tere had taught him. They were softer; the crowd closed in, afraid of losing a note. There was a beauty to these songs you couldn’t deny. Something way beyond fashion and taste. Something that tore at the heart.

  When he stopped and looked up he knew already what he would see. He had seen it on the faces of everyone he had ever played for. It was the dif
ference between him and other guitarists. Maybe it was in the songs. Maybe it came from Diablo.

  At about 11 things began to slow down as the people thinned out. Jazz put the guitar back in the case and gathered up their earnings. More than 100 bucks. They were back in business.

  As they walked across the car park, Roxy felt someone following them. They turned. It was the woman who gave them the beer.

  ‘Where are youse staying?’

  ‘Nowhere,’ said Roxy, ‘We’re just passing through.’

  ‘You can stop over at my place if you want. I’ve got the room.’

  It was late and they were both weary to their bones.

  She lived in a flat about a block away. The dinner things were still on the table when they walked through into the lounge. There was a sad sort of uncared-for look about the place. As if it had been witness to something that had gone wrong. It was warm though, and they all sat in the sitting room drinking coffee and watching TV. Cheryl, that was her name, asked Jazz if he knew one of her old time favourites, ‘Slow Hand’ by the Pointers. He knew it. How about that George Benson song? Knew that one too. How about the theme music to Mission Impossible? Yep. She didn’t believe it. He smiled. He had had this before and knew what was coming next.

  Out came the guitar and he began to splash out the intros of all the songs she knew. Roxy finally gave in to the warmth of the room and the great relief of being somewhere. Jazz arranged a cushion under her head.

  ‘I’ve never seen a guitar like that before. Where’d you get it?’

  ‘My uncle gave it to me when I was seven. It’s hardly been out of my hands since.’

  ‘Where’s it come from?’

  ‘It’s Spanish eh? This uncle, he brought it back from the Spanish Civil war.’

  ‘Never heard of it. Not the Vietnam war?’

  ‘No, he was a really old dude. A communist. This all happened long ago. Before World War Two.’

  He held out the guitar so she could see the top surface. There was this woman in a red dress, legs slightly bent, arms above her head, wrists almost touching. She faces the upper part of the guitar where the word Diablo has been painted.

  ‘She’s a flamenco dancer. She’s meant to be like a bull about to charge.’

  ‘What’s Diablo?’

  ‘Diablo is devil.’

  He tucked the guitar under his arm and began to pick out something rapid fire and Spanish sounding.

  ‘My uncle told me this dance is like the haka for Spanish people. It speaks to them, past words.’

  ‘What’s the devil got to do with it?’

  ‘That’s another story.’

  ‘I’ve got a boy like you. Called Mana. Haven’t seen him for a couple of years. After me and his dad divorced he was straining to get out. He left soon after. Only came back once, to get his rifle. I don’t know where he is now.’

  ‘Seeking fame and fortune I guess.’

  ‘That what you call it? I just keep waiting to see him on the six o’clock news. Him and that rifle. He was a bit of a wild one, like his dad. Felt the world had ripped him off.’

  ‘Maybe it had.’

  ‘What do ya mean?’

  ‘We ain’t all got the same chances, eh?’

  ‘Oh that, you sound like you a bit of a communist too, like your uncle.’

  ‘Well, I play his guitar.’

  ‘You ever worked?’

  ‘A bit. Didn’t like it much.’

  ‘I don’t either, but every morning I get up and head for Bowen’s Supermarket. I don’t own it, just work for it.’

  ‘How long you been doing that?’

  ‘About sixteen years.’

  ‘Jeez, Trev.’

  ‘Cheryl.’

  ‘That’s a long sentence. No time out for good behaviour?’

  They both laughed. Cheryl began to talk about her life. She wanted to be a singer. The nuns said she had a voice. Got pregnant with Mana at 16. That was that. Mana’s dad never wanted to marry her, but his parents were old fashioned. ‘Do the right thing.’ Sometimes the right thing’s the wrong thing. Her divorce came after years of arguing and beltings.

  All the time she talked, she was drinking little glasses of wine from a box in the fridge and was getting a bit loose.

  She said the beltings got worse: she had to leave or she’d be dead now. Still, it was a lonely life and if you didn’t grab a little bit of fun now and then what was the use? Might as well top yourself.

  ‘Still, what y’ got here is better than being belted all the time.’

  ‘Maybe. It wasn’t all the time. At least he was someone.’

  She suggested he carry Rox into the spare room, and her son’s old bed.

  She was light, Roxy. Under the layers of coats and sweaters was a thin little waif. Jazz slipped her out of the heavy stuff and put her between the sheets. He was still feeling a bit restless after the long day. Cheryl suggested he chill for a while, maybe have a shower.

  After he had got his clothes off he realised it had been some time since his body had seen warm water or soap. He stood in the shower with the water blasting off his face. Then he felt a hand on has back. He turned. It was Cheryl.

  She had changed into a nightie. There was an unspoken expectation on her face. He knew then it had been there ever since they got to the flat. He hadn’t seen it for what it was. For a moment he was torn. He had no taste for this. Before Roxy came along it would have been a no big deal thing, but now, other chicks didn’t rate.

  But everything had a price. There was this debt, a bed for the night. No point in complaining. That was just the way things went. He turned off the shower and stepped out onto the bathroom floor. She put her hand on his chest and looked into his eyes. She wanted too much. He couldn’t give love, or even something that looked like love. There was only this. He turned her slowly round. She resisted at first, and then wearily complied. It was all there was. They both knew it. She readied herself for him, gripping the sides of the wash basin and bending forward. He was tired. It would take ages to come. He kept catching sight of his face in the mirror behind her mop of hair. Mostly he watched her face. Her eyes were closed and her mouth slightly open, gasping. Eventually, just when he thought it never would, it happened. He slowly withdrew and she turned and tried to kiss him on the mouth. This was something he couldn’t do. His mouth was Roxy’s alone, even if nothing else was. She stood, clinging to him waiting for something to happen. Nothing did. She pushed past him roughly and went into her bedroom, closing the door with a bang.

  It was a relief to finally slide into the narrow bed. Roxy instinctively put her arm around his neck squeezing him hard. She murmured something to him which he didn’t get before she slipped back into the oblivion of sleep.

  He awoke to a silent house. Roxy still slept. He could hear a slight bubbling in her breath. It came from deep down in her lungs. He slid out of bed and crept through the house. It was empty. Cheryl had evidently gone off to work. That was a relief. The clock on the stove said 10 a.m. All the mess that had been there last night was still there. Not touched. He went into the bathroom. He wanted to eat some toothpaste to get the bitter taste out of his mouth. As he stood in front of the mirror for a moment he revisited ‘the scene of the crime’ and felt a stab of guilt.

  The toothpaste was in a cupboard behind the mirror. There was something else too, a wedding ring. He tried it on his finger. Too small. Maybe Roxy would like it. There was an asthma puffer too. He went back into the living room and slipped the items into his coat pocket.

  He could feel something nagging away at him. It was the fuck. There hadn’t seemed to be any choice, but still, he knew it was wrong. A betrayal. He hurried back to the bedroom and woke Roxy up by kissing her on the neck.

  ‘Hey! What’s this?’ she said feeling him pressing against her. ‘Dawn breaker?’

  ‘It’s way past dawn, Roxy.’

  Making love to Roxy was different from the hard sex with Cheryl. It was like the difference betwee
n talking to someone, and shouting at them. Their mouths hardly parted until they finished.

  Afterwards, Roxy sat up and grabbed his jaw. ‘That was nice, but I’ve got a bit of a sick gut.’

  ‘That’s the effect I have on you?’

  She laughed. ‘I’ve had it for a few days, but it usually goes away by lunch time. Hey, it’s nice here. We should stay a while.’

  ‘No. We got to get to Auckland.’

  ‘What’s the hurry? It’s a real bed.’

  ‘She’s starting to ask questions. I reckon she’s onto us.’

  ‘She seemed nice. She liked you. Didn’t you notice the way she kept looking at you?’

  He shook his head. ‘Let’s get movin’.’

  Roxy had a long shower while he looked around for stuff to eat. There was no milk so that cut the options. He fixed them toast and honey with black coffee. Roxy appeared at the end of the hall, doing a strip routine with a towel. He frisbeed the slices at her. She dodged them with an easy grace that made him hungry for her all over again. After a brief chase around the tiny flat he managed to pin her on the big bed in Cheryl’s room.

  ‘What’s the hurry, man? I could easily just hang here, for a while. I’m sick of the road already.’

  ‘Not here, that’s all. Like you said she’s got an eye on me. You never know what might happen.’

  ‘Fancy yourself eh? The stud.’

  He replied by shoving his tongue in her navel … something she found unbearable. It was a good way to close down these sorts of talks.

  An hour later they were back on the road again. It had stopped raining now but the wind from the south came straight off the central mountains and passed through their clothes as if they were wearing nothing. They trudged on silently, he with his backpack and guitar case, she with her shoulder bag. Her shoes were the ones she had run away in. Strictly for inside. He knew her feet were sore, but she said nothing.

  By the time they made Hamilton it was late afternoon. They got dropped on the southern outskirts and there was a long walk to get to the far side. Roxy remembered she had this aunty in Hamilton. Maybe they could stay with her. Jazz wasn’t keen. ‘She’ll be straight on the phone to your mum. Get real, Rox.’