Stonedogs

by Craig Marriner

  It’s bizarre, though. When he decided to exterminate his sense of reason, before he’d throttled the life from it completely, it apparently found the will to issue one last directive. To occupy the vacuum it insisted Barry appoint some manner of successor.

  And it — or he — chose me.

  Accordingly I, of all the human race, have the ability to control the guy.

  Sometimes.

  Oh, and the second part of my double-pronged answer?

  Though no friend of Barry’s could ever want for a truer ally, he doesn’t always fight for reasons of philanthropy. Indeed, some suspect his spine has a streak of black running right through it.

  I know tough guys who rumble for love of the sport, to assert dominance, to show off, guys who seldom go beyond uncle.

  Barry’s not always one of them.

  At times the thug in him refuses to be contained. A Hyde-like creature dependent on the raw purity of damage infliction.

  When this craving arises Barry usually looks for bad guys.

  Sometimes he can’t find any.

  I fear his soul offers calmer harbour to the Fiendish Beast than many.

  Right from the onset of tonight’s near brawl, then, I was able to assume that Barry’s heart was not immovably fixed on retribution for the martyr’s cause. You see, under different circumstances — say if the guy had chundered on, or around, Barry’s shoes — it could just as easily have been him doing the hunting.

  And, unlike Jabba, Barry might not’ve stopped.

  He’s a bright dude, though, our Bazza: big reader, good student in his day, demon on the chessboard. I’m not sure why he turned out the way he did. It certainly wasn’t through domestic turmoil: his folks advocated ‘family meetings’ over smacking.

  They’re also filthy rich.

  Perhaps, then, Barry’s pubescent metamorphosis was more extreme than most as an unconscious backlash against this, a perceived ‘Little Lord Fauntleroy’ stigma.

  Or was he just born bad?

  Then again, having watched him evolve — competed alongside him in the crucible of teen culture — I sometimes have to wonder if Barry didn’t simply select viciousness as a character flaw.

  Psychosis, after all, has a mystique entirely of its own.

  — Have you perhaps given thought to devoting time toward making a difference on this score, then? Some pro-environment career, perhaps? Gaining a measure of direction through action, so to speak.

  — Nails and heads, Raq.

  — You have given this thought?

  — Correctomundo.

  — And you’ve resolved to …?

  — That’s classified. I could tell you … but then I’d have to top you.

  — Ha ha. You feel you can’t bring me into the fold, so to speak?

  — To do so would constitute a breach of loyalty.

  — Against whom?

  — I’m not at liberty to answer that.

  — But surely …

  — Don’t go there, girlfriend.

  — … You’re serious, aren’t you?

  — Terminally.

  — … Fine. That’s your prerogative. Where were we, then? Ahhhh, yes. Well, this world view of yours is certainly a large impediment to the development of a young man. Together we can work through this, but we’ll need more than the half hour I’ve scheduled you for. For now, let’s …

  — By god, Raq, you must be vastly more talented than looks suggest! Fancy that: an extra hour or two in your company and the looming finale to decades of idiocy is magically made to look rosy!

  — … For now, Gator, let’s focus on the more immediate issues. I hope you’ll forgive a little candour. I want to remind you that anything discussed in this room goes no further without your express permission… This cannabis use of yours: how often do you smoke?

  — Well, recently I’ve made efforts to cut back, Raq. I’m down now to one, two … four sessions daily.

  — Really? And that’s good, is it?

  — All things are relative, Raq. Jim Morrison would’ve viewed my habit as a healthy one.

  — Jim who?

  — Never mind.

  — Well, what about these rumours of harder drugs? For your sake, I sincerely hope they’re unfounded. Does, in fact, your … ‘recreation’ ever digress so far?

  — Your fears are squandered, Raq. I imbibe heinous chemicals only when I can lay paws on them. As a non-Aucklander devoid of legal income, this isn’t often.

  — It’s true then? The rumours are true?

  — The truth is a virus, Raq.

  — … I … I find it quite shocking that a kid with your ability …

  — The ozone layer once had ability.

  — … and intelligence should become involved with drugs and remain so … so unalarmed by it! I’m sure you’re bright enough to see where a life like this might lead. I can perhaps fathom a little experimentation, but why would you let it protract?

  — Because when I’m toasted, Armageddon actually seems worth sticking round for. Arch-drama, you see?

  — What about these fracas you’ve been involved in recently? Does it worry you that violence also seems to be evolving into a staple of your existence?

  — You can’t be fucking serious! I help smack over a few homie goons — members of a caste that’s turned gang-bashing into a divisional sport — and all of a sudden word in the staffroom has me as some kind of crack-crazed street-tough? Jesus Christ, if you Establishment clowns had handed discipline and justice out to the right people in the first fucking place, guys like me wouldn’t have to fight fire with petrol just so we can leave the house of a weekend with our heads high! It’s too late now! Several years ago the homies were allowed to bring to the streets a watered-down version of nigga gang culture and it’s following exactly the same trends as Seppoland, minus the shooters — those come later, when they’ve graduated, when they’re all patched up!

  — Please calm down, Gator. You obviously have strong feelings about these issues, but there are better methods of channelling one’s angst.

  — … I apologise. I don’t know why I’m spitting the dummy at you about it, anyway. It was inevitable; written in the bones. We Westerners thought we’d ‘outcivilised’ the Fiendish Beast. We were wrong. It’s as patient as the ocean, Raq. Just as fucking ruthless and just as unstable. It’s in cahoots with the Juggernaut, and they’ve eased the gates of history back open again. It’s slithering through as we speak, Raq … and this time it’s staying.

  2

  Saturday, 4 March, 12.04am

  Me, bringing Mick up to speed from the back seat: ‘Eh, man, Sonya Kennedy’s out the front of McDick’s. She’s off her tree and been asking for Baz all night.’

  ‘Ahhhh, yeah.’

  ‘We’ve gotta rush, though, eh? Remember, she said those geeks were on their way to pick her up?’

  Mick’s not slow. Never has been. ‘Yeah. What time was she expecting them? ’Bout 12.30, wasn’t it?’

  ‘’Bout then, yeah. How we looking now?’

  ‘12.25.’

  Barry, drooling: ‘Hope she’s still there. Cheers for coming to grabus, eh lads.’

  Me: ‘Honour among thieves, bro.’

  ‘What’s she wearing anyway?’

  ‘There’s no way in the world I’m describing to you what that horny cunt’s done itself up in tonight, ’cause if I were to do such a thing you’d cough your filthy yoghurt all over the shop … and I’ve still got brewskis on the floor up there.’

  ‘Wise precaution. Mind if I grab one?’

  ‘Climb into the bastards. Send one back too, will ya?’

  Phhsst.

  Phhsst.

  The city streets quiet, we slide through the neon disease. The Chilis groove from a speaker near my ear. Mick and Barry blaze up a gasper each, easing windows down. I ran out earlier; find I’m too embarrassed to bludge another. Can’t be that pissed yet. I needn’t have worried: like the gentleman he often is, Barry hands one ba
ck unprompted.

  Down Renton Street, traffic near non-existent. Mick nonetheless remains inside the speed limit and we’ve all donned seatbelts unthinkingly. An act that probably appears anomalous, Model Citizens not being a category in which one would readily group us. Inversely, it’s this very fact that prompts our estimable example: when the law’s a line one crosses habitually, it’s a fun-lovin’ criminal of minuscule intelligence — or rigorous principles — who invites upon himself inessential porcine attention.

  We three don’t spend as much time together as we once did. Barry shifted to the Smoke a while back, lured by the Jism. He returns a couple of times a month, though: our commitments to the Brotherhood demand regular rallying.

  We’re all aware of our roles within the fraternity; are each hamstrung without the other.

  I guess you could call me the brains trust, the CPU, the chief cabalist.

  Mick’s aversion to booze, his ‘pacifism’, his Jewishness, his inherent pragmatism, qualify him to act as our driver, treasurer and editor. His freckled little fist maintains an iron grip on our war-chest, and few of my plans are actualised without Mick’s approval and fine-tuning.

  And Barry? Barry’s our actions-man. The Minister of Offence.

  McDick’s is a little busier than the rest of town. About the carpark scattered knots of night-children gravitate upon the open doors and stereos of muscle-cars. And some not-so-brawny-cars. Most of these cats are a year or two behind us on the learning curve; too young to gain access to pubs and clubs on any recurrent basis. Party-chasers. Parties of those you know, and of those you don’t. Somewhere to drink, toke, sleaze, scrap. Places like McDick’s suffice when the party scene runs dry of a weekend.

  My confederates and I are of an age to enjoy the best of both worlds.

  At least we pretend we are.

  There’s even a few slices of skirt on display here, some of it thoroughly mouth-watering. But sobriety is a state from which I’m not far enough removed to yet suggest a pit-stop. Besides, if we were to go sniffing, chances are some prick would inform Barry that they had been here all night and Sonya Kennedy — not to mention The ’Dan and her occupants — most certainly had not.

  Me: ‘Ah, fuck. It looks like she’s gone already.’

  Barry, wetly: ‘I’ll get out and ask some of these clowns.’

  Mick, executing a quick circuit: ‘No point, dude. She said she had to wait for Phelps and ’em under the minaret, and that if she weren’t there when we rocked back then she’d bailed already.’

  Barry, ardent: ‘Cunt! Any idea where they were taking her?’

  Me, fallaciously gutted: ‘Naaa, man. Didn’t think to ask, eh.’

  Mick, commiserating: ‘Oh, well, bro. At least ya know her ham-castanets are greased for ya. Next time ya see her just slide straight on in.’

  Within a few seconds Barry sighs: ‘Yeah, I guess that’ll have to do. Fuck it, I might even give her a call. I think Lefty’s got her number.’

  Me: ‘On that I’d be willing to stake a lot of money.’

  Though it’s at the forefront of our minds, none of us bothers voicing the lamentable statistic that Lefty’s actually shafted Sonya more times than any of us have even tossed to her.

  Barry: ‘Cheers for trying to sort us anyway, lads.’

  Tandem: ‘No probs.’

  Barry: ‘Where to now, then? I don’t wanna hang with these toddlers.’

  Mick: ‘Speaking of the weevil, I s’pose we should head to Junky Moe’s and collect Lefty.’

  Me, knowing the answer: ‘Must we?’

  Mick: ‘Should really. Running pretty low on juice and he promised to throw in a tenner.’

  Like I said, Mick’s a kike. Were there a market for dandruff, he’d carry a tomahawk.

  Barry: ‘Yeah, and his uncle’s s’posed to take us out fishing Sunday avo. Can’t see that happening if we let him walk home.’

  And so we depart, in search of our missing fragment, the fourth musketeer.

  Lefty, though, is yet to be initiated into the Brotherhood. Or, for that matter, to learn of its existence — no brother can be found to second his recruitment nomination. Come to think of it, no brother can be found to first the fucking thing.

  But this isn’t a barrier to Lefty performing services for us. Obliviously.

  Arch-treasonists can brook few scruples.

  Barry’s soon proffering the packet again. ‘You dudes want another fag?’

  Mick’s an instant starter, and after an inner struggle (of at least three milliseconds) I opt to take one as well.

  Not that I need the damn thing. I’ve been meaning to quit for years. Hardly the healthiest habit for an asthmatic. Still, I don’t regret the decision to start smoking. And that’s exactly what it was for me: a decision. Not some gradual slide into dependency begun by stray, daredevil puffing. No, one Fourth Form evening I simply sat up in bed, took a good long look at my life, and decided to start inhaling the white stuff.

  Hours later saw me the proud owner of a pack of Camel 25s.

  Best move I ever made, really. You see, at the time my social life was enduring something of a recession. Awkward age anyway, socially. Stuck between two realms: the first, a place where hours of amusement are no further from hand than an ancient tennis ball; the second, a vast, forbidden shadow-world beginning to embody Arcadia itself. On one side, go-home-stay-home and backyard cricket; on the other, budding breasts and DB six-packs.

  And here they were, at break times, with their earrings and attitudes, gathering in backwaters colonised by forebears forgotten, the torch handed on, year after year. While their schoolmates played touch rugby and handball, these cats smoked cigarettes. With style. Drenched in the glamour of the rebel.

  Rumour spread of their deeds; claimed smoking was but a prelude, an initiation. The real hedonism lay within. Alcohol! it was whispered. Marijuana!

  Chicks who go all the way!

  Because, naturally, the type of girl who took up with the Smokers had morals distinctly less puritanical than those of her peers. Thus, while a little spit-swapping and arse-groping was beginning to come the way of us mortals, scuttlebutt suggested that many of the Smokers were actually getting their pricks wet!

  One pimply lunchtime then, having furtively nailed some Ventolin sustenance, I sauntered across main field to an infamous tree on its far border, swapped nods with a classmate recently converted, then sat down and lit up like I’d been doing it since Dunkirk.

  And yeah, perhaps I did doom myself to a life of ragged respiration. Of perennial unfitness. A premature and harrowing death.

  But I also lost my cherry three days out from the big one five.

  Priorities, people.

  Five minutes and another beer later — I can feel it now; I even lean from the window and yell ‘Howzit?’ to some honeys; the wave one of them returns leaves me giddy, gagging for the fray — we locate Lefty out front of a bar named Junky Moe’s.

  He’s locked in a tight set of tonsil-tennis with a slice of prime crumpet. Lefty spends a lot of time at this sort of thing.

  Mick coasts in alongside, sits on the horn, quashing the tender moment.

  Lefty, surfacing, peeved but relieved: ‘Oh, you bastards aren’t actually here, are you? I thought we said 11.30?’

  Lefty’s the type guys love to despise. Ludicrously handsome; fat lips default set on ‘toothy smirk’. Shaggy blond hair seeming always to fall in a rakish arrangement, even first thing in the morning. He’s of only medium height, a touch overweight too, but in a tight T-shirt and jeans he contrives to make it look brawn.

  Lefty tangoed through puberty without a single zit, has body hair only where it’s wanted, and the TAB have closed all wagers on the bet that he’ll hit sixty with a full head of locks.

  There’s one in every crowd.

  Out here in the gloom, babe in his arms, the nearest street-lamp seems to wash over Lefty as if he’s subject to the wiles of a Broadway lighting man.

  Me, out the win
dow: ‘Half eleven o’ the clock was indeed our agreement, fine sir. Sadly, pressing matters arose.’

  Mick, too low to carry: ‘Yeah, I had to duck home and tape Coro Street for the old girl.’

  Only then do we identify the piece moulded to Lefty’s body: the babe in the tiny black skirt. Brunette and gorgeous. Tallish. Slim. Perky tits. Tight snatch — according to Lefty she has anyway.

  Unlike a lot of high-class fanny, though — which intimidates me witless — Becky’s is the kind of fragile beauty that emboldens as it captivates. And she’s an absolute darling. Caring to a fault, Becky even knocks guys back with a smile. Rejection from her is a near sensual experience.

  Trust me.

  Trust Barry also.

  Given her love most males would launch a life-long campaign to preserve and cherish it.

  Lefty just pisses on it.

  Barry, surprised and pleased: ‘Becky! Howyadoen, baby? I didn’t know you were back!’

  Becky, a voice that has your pulse catching: ‘Hi, Baz. Hi, Gator.’ There’s a melancholic chord in her tone, though. There often is these days. ‘I got back last Thursday. Nice to see you guys.’

  Me: ‘I hope you’re gonna hang around this time, Becks. Vegas ain’t the same without ya.’

  She grins and blushes at that, god bless her. ‘I hope so too. I might have a job working at …’

  Lefty, brusque: ‘We gotta make a move anyway, Beck.’ He prises her off him and opens the door. I slide over for him grudgingly.

  Becky, to Lefty, the rest of us forgotten: ‘Are you sure you have to go?’

  ‘I told ya, darling, I’m working early tomorrow.’ Lefty doesn’t actually have a job. In fact, excepting a yearning to number among the nation’s finest cunnilinguists, Lefty’s got about as much drive as a hippie on an elephant cull. ‘I’ll phone ya next week some time.’

  A slither of desperation: ‘Do you promise?’

  ‘Yep.’

  Shutting the door — sidelong eyes making sure we’re all watching — Lefty pulls her to him through the open window, snogging her deeply, holding the kiss. Her arms seek him, and Lefty’s hand snakes up almost absently, a finger rubbing her nipple erect.