Stonedogs

by Craig Marriner

  Some just get harder.

  And though at this stage the wars they wage with their own kind intensify to the point where there’s no longer much occasion to target us ballheads, though they begin to look upon Pakeha as little more than a handy source of revenue — drugs, burglary, car conversion, ‘guvmint benafits’ — they haven’t actually forgiven us for whatever it was that drew their antagonism in the early days.

  A practical lesson I’m given now with hideous surreality.

  Picking my way through their midst, an arctic python settles round my chest. Squeezes.

  If I wasn’t pissed instinct would be too loud: I’d abort, guaranteed, right here, right now. Sober as he is, I’ve no idea how Mick makes his legs push him steadily deeper.

  And deeper.

  Joe, to his peers: ‘It’s all right, yu fullas. Charlie wants t’see ’em.’

  A few hackles go down, but not enough for comfort.

  And then one of them steps from the pack, moves into our paths.

  Though mean of face, he’s better looking than most. About my age. Strong features, Asiatic eyes, six foot something and a hundred-odd kilos of loose-forward muscle. Neat dreadlocks frame his face, a few Rasta beads worked into one of them. He’s got style, too. Unlike the ragged woollens and denim around him, he wears a nice white shirt, pressed blue jeans, tan shoes.

  He’s the type of Maori who leaves white women in need of fresh panties.

  In our path, the force of the guy’s presence brings our party to a halt.

  Joe, repeating rather tentatively: ‘They OK, bro.’

  The warrior ignores him, brushes past cavalierly, and, as the distance closes, his scowl’s directed at none but me.

  Lefty and Mick step subtly away from me; I feel Barry tense his fist.

  But the warrior’s too quick for him. In a split-second he’s onto me, throwing his arms around my neck in a feral bear-hug. A brilliant grin lights his face. ‘What the fuck are yu doing ’ere, Gatey?’

  I hug him back for all I’m worth, and not through relief, or to impress anyone around me. I hug him back for no other reason than that this guy was once my best friend in all the world and I haven’t seen him in years.

  ‘Steve, man!’ Grinning like a split watermelon. ‘Long time no see, cuz!’

  Like sorcery, the enmity drowning us lifts, and, confused frowns aside, the prospects return to their conversations.

  It’s funny: I don’t recall ever hugging any of my white mates. Sure, when pissed up we do the old arm and shoulder thing, but a full-on embrace? Forget about it. I’m not even sure when last I hugged any of my male family members. Yet whenever I’m out on the juice and run into the old Maori bros, the first instinct is to embrace. Handshakes come later.

  Why the fuck is that?

  Steve lets me go with one arm, holding me close with the other. ‘This is the last place I thought I’d ever see yu!’

  Me, beaming: ‘Where you been hiding, bro?’

  ‘Oh, here and there, Gatey. Was working in the bush down Wairarapa way faw ’bout a year or so. Then I went back t’tha island wif Mum faw a few months. Now I’m out at Tok’, working in the sawmill.’

  We fall into giggles, trading mock punches.

  On my first day at the programming plant, Steve was already ensconced as a playground legend. A five-year-old hit-man, a figure none of the older kids even seemed to fuck with. Rugby and bullrush at lunchtimes consisted of Steve versus all those mad enough to go against him.

  A shy little pale-face among eighty per cent Maori, for months I stood in awe of Steve, maintained a prudent distance. Until one day, walking by a building, he’d happened to come barrelling round the corner at full speed, sending me tumbling like a doll before a freight train.

  Hurt like fuck.

  Now in those days — even more so than these — I was no Captain Courageous, but a good dose of inflicted pain serves to subvert fear and deference like nothing else. So with Steve looming over me, I’d bounced back up, tears mingling with blood from a graze.

  Steve, imperious: ‘Watch where yaw going next time, honky.’

  I married a couple of phrases I’d overheard from someone, thought sounded pretty cool.

  ‘Get fucked, you black cunt.’

  I watched Steve reel with shock … and then his eyes had narrowed perilously. We stared off for a good ten seconds — it was a bright day and I remember studying my reflection in his eyes — and as the immediate pain faded I found myself in large regret of those words, whatever they meant.

  I didn’t let it show, though. And neither did I look away. Not once. Had I, and things would have gone differently, of that I’m convinced.

  A small crowd developed around us, and some of the advice on offer helped steel me.

  ‘Waste ’im, Steve!’

  ‘Yeah, give ’im the bash, Steve. Honkies can’t fight!’

  Then a teacher happened along — as they do — mercifully taking me to have my wounds dressed.

  The next day, though, as the lunch-bell rang and I left my classroom alone — as usual — Steve was waiting for me. He threw me his rugby ball — which I somehow caught — demanding: ‘Played much rugby, honky?’

  Lying through my teeth: ‘Yep.’

  ‘Let’s go, then. There’s a big match on today and yaw on my team.’

  That was that. Brothers through the lean and the fat.

  Countless sagas on the playing fields; photo-finish at athletics day; school camps and day trips; carnal stirrings; Steve delivering me from older boy rancour, time and again; a team of Maoris and me scooping the regional cricket comp, to the silent disgust of rich district pussies; weekends and evenings at one another’s houses; endless adventures; on together to intermediate and high school; first real girlfriends; sharing the wondrous decadence of a cigarette; parties and drinking; adjacent seats at exams, passing him answers when rep footy kept him from study. Other mates coming and going, but Steve always there, like bedrock.

  And then one day his dad was killed in a forestry accident and Steve just disappeared.

  Through the grapevine I found out later that the death had shaken him badly, that he had started running with dodgy older cousins, hitting the bottle like tomorrow wasn’t coming, busting too many heads.

  Because though he was hard as nails when the need arose, Steve was like most Maoris raised on love: he had a heart of fucking gold. In school Steve had just as much time for the ugliest, wimpiest, shiest kid in class as he did for the hottest babe. He coaxed the best from those around him, jesting and laughing all day, and by Standard One, Steve was loved by all. So long as he emerged intact from teenagehood, Steve was fated to live a good life, with good jobs, raise a good family.

  But the need to prove themselves — perhaps a siren song from that warrior tradition — leaves a lot of Maoris like Steve vulnerable to derailment by delinquent peers. The shock of losing his dad evidently made Steve an even juicier target because by all reports he lost the plot big time.

  Maybe shame was the reason he never contacted me. Or maybe he blamed Pakeha forestry big-wigs for skimping on the safety budget.

  In any case, I heard that his mum made a salvage, dragging him off to live near his father’s marae on Matakana Island, straightening him out with doses of culture and ruralness.

  But now I find him at a Rabble house.

  Dropping my voice: ‘Are you prospecting, man?’

  His look fills me with deja vu — Puh-leeease. ‘Naaa, man. Just in town t’see tha old lady. Got back from the clubs and I wanted some dak, so I shot round ’ere. Cousin’s patched up and ’e’s always got blows.’

  I introduce him to the crew. Steve knows Mick and Lefty pretty well anyway: we all did a year’s programming together in Form Two. Barry he immediately picks as a scrapper and the handshake is icy.

  Steve, mystified: ‘Why are yu’s here, anyway?’

  Me: ‘Scoring some acid. The dude selling it wants to see all our faces so any of us can come bac
k alone.’

  Startled: ‘Yaw going inside?’

  ‘Ahhhhh, think so.’

  Joe’s been waiting patiently. ‘She’s sweet, bro. They wif me.’

  Steve throws him a frown — and your point is …?

  Joe, reassuring: ‘Naaaa, bro. No one’ll give a fuck. I was ordered t’ spread the word and bring new scorers in.’

  Weighing it for seconds, Steve eventually shrugs. ‘Might as well do it, then.’ He beckons us in close, muttering: ‘Yu guys noe the drill, but amp it up a few knots — piss these guys orf in their own pad and they’ll swallow yu’s whole, guaranteed. Don’t look any of ’em in tha eye, or say anything to any cunt, unless yu shaw they speaking t’yu first. Then yu say whatever’s gonna make ’em happy. If it ain’t workin’, wait faw me or Joe t’rescue yu.’

  With Steve’s presence, I’m able to press on with a semblance of aplomb. He’s the single person on this Earth behind whom I’d walk to hell and further.

  So I do.

  Through the front door. The smell hits me before anything else — body odour, stale beer and urine, weed and ciggie smoke, dog-hair …

  Marley wailing.

  Yeah, Bob, whatever ya reckon.

  With sledgehammers and tools equally subtle, the divided dwelling has been united, a huge arch smashed in the wall, leaving the ‘living room’ the size of a small hall. The carpet may once have been blue but is stained and burnt beyond recognition. Curtains mere army-issue blankets nailed to walls. In place of wallpaper, banners of martial arts stars and boxers, enormous dope symbols, centrefold sluts — even the odd black one. On the ceiling a Rat banner takes pride of place.

  The light is reddish and low; smoky haze thins it further.

  Embracing the smog like a nurse through mustard gas.

  And within their palace the mighty hold court. Lounging on decrepit furniture, slouching against walls. Super-predators basking at the peak of a vile food-chain. This is what remains when the final crumbs of softness and virtue are pounded and baked from the ranks of the prospects.

  Concentrated machismo.

  It’s warm in here, but patched leather abounds; Jesus, the depravities endured to earn it, they probably shower and fuck with the things on. Like lions over productive prides, the patch is their mane, the fat theirs by right, sloth an instinct.

  Bullying pure survival.

  If intimidation has a face, I’m in its presence. Wild afros, filthy dreads, shaven heads. Facial tattooing amplifying the image: skulls, axes, profanity — nothing tribal here.

  Oh, no.

  Their lifestyles spit in the face of their heritage; tradition and history reject them utterly. The one force that may have reversed their upbringings, offered redemption, they chose to shit on gleefully.

  Associates and molls wait on their betters, fawning, laughing when proper, massaging egos with hard-learned strokes.

  Incredulous, one of the larger individuals stands, points us out, hollering for everyone: ‘What the fuck’ve we got ’ere?’

  Mossies in a redback burrow.

  Joe, all but tugging a forelock: ‘It’s OK, Tapeka. Charlie wants t’ see ’em.’

  Theatrically dubious: ‘Oh, ’e does, does ’e? Charlie told yu t’ bring a buncha bawl’eads fru ’ere while we ’aving us a rage?’

  Joe, cringing: ‘Well, ’e said this to me ’bout two weeks ago, an’ I’ve bought a few fullas fru t’meet ’im since, sum of ’em bawl’eads tu.’

  Another patch joins Tapeka, this one smoother and shorter. Black hair slicked back, compact as a kauri stump. Under a patched vest his arms are lumped in muscle enough to punch a man’s head clean off; hands tattooed in chain-mail gauntlets.

  Even among this hierarchy he shines as something of a leader: the authority of the proven headcase guards his personal space like a moat. Aloof: ‘Yu and these clowns beda ’ope yaw fuckin’ right, Joe.’ Unlike the prospects, none of these fully fledged Rats bother scowling any more; with the aura they’ve cultivated, a sneer is more artfully ominous, Il Duce style. ‘Else there’s gonna be sum ’eads kicked in real soon.’

  An expectant sigh caresses the gathering.

  For me one of the most frightening aspects of these people is their very roguishness. When hearing or reading of them, it’s comforting to picture a pack of shambling Neanderthals with the intelligence quotient of dung beetles; drug- and booze-addled troglodytes whom one might outwit or outrun with ease. But this is the case only rarely. Some of them are attractive to look at. Some have wit and flair; charm, you would have to say. Some have what approximates to intelligence.

  And they all possess an animal cunning more developed by far than many of society’s ‘success’ stories: an artfulness to see you ambushed and fed upon should you make the mistake of overlooking it.

  Add to this the depth of the foundations the Fiendish Beast has sunk into their souls, and you’ve raw material Heinrich Himmler may have found fleeting use for.

  Steve speaks up, deferring by virtue of turf only: ‘Ne’mine these fullas, Hemi. I’ve known ’em faw years. They sweet as. They got no love’a the pigs.’ His eyes pick out a few of the lesser beasts. ‘Anyone noe where Charlie is?’

  Hemi, placated by a whisker: ‘’E’s upstairs rootin’ sum pig. Go up an’ tell ’im what’s hap’neen, Joe.’ The prospect scrambles to obey. ‘In the meantime, yu’s wait ova there, and doan touch nufing … or else.’ His eyes indicate an empty corner, which we obligingly occupy.

  Every foot further from the door twists my dread dial viciously.

  We effect ignorance of the eyes canvassing us, engage in some halting small-talk, cosy as nuns in a knock-shop. Steve saunters across to a crate of Waikato big bottles, helping himself, uncapping it with his teeth. No one seems to mind, some patch waylaying him with a joint and a question of the well-being of some cousin or other.

  The party stutters back into life and, to my surprise, nothing dreadful takes place for a whole hour (all five minutes of it).

  And then Hemi swaggers across to us.

  Barry alone stands tall in the teeth of the gangster’s force-field.

  Singling him out — no doubt because of this — brandishing a joint the size of a cudgel, Hemi smirks a challenge. ‘Shotie, beau.’ It’s not a question.

  Barry: ‘Cher.’

  Hemi, to his audience: ‘Ouuuuu, this fulla might look like a bawl’ead, but ’e’s got a Maori tongue.’

  Chorus, on loud cue: ‘Huhuhuhuhuhu!’

  Disguising the act, Barry draws a deep steadying breath, bracing his insides for a battering as Hemi reverses the mammoth doobie, maw spread wide, thrusting the joint into his mouth, ember first, sealing it with his lips.

  There’s something implicitly sensual about shoties. Ordinarily, even men who are close will seldom in their lives find reason or wish to occupy each’s facial space — unless, of course, they happen to be shirt-lifters. Yet the default solidarity shared between stoners often sees even the most macho of strangers trading their very breath without an eyelid batted.

  Hemi begins blowing, Barry stooping to catch the smoke.

  And unless the blower’s of clement disposition, taking shotguns from standard joints is rigorous enough. Accepting one off a doobie this size, from some arsehole hoping to embarrass you …

  But Barry works it skilfully, inhaling a little faster than maximum stoneage dictates, half air, half smoke, yet not so blatant as to cop out: there’s not an eye in the room unglued to the scene.

  Hitting the high-air mark, Barry backs off, nodding gratitude to Hemi quite convincingly.

  Then, for the barest second, as he moves down the line, Hemi’s eyebrows raise in grudging respect.

  Though he clearly struggles for the will to remain still — avoiding Hemi’s stare as though it’s Medusa’s — Mick takes his shotie like a man also, unable to stave off a snorted cough or two towards the finish, but swallowing the fit that wants to savage him.

  Lefty, however, decides to make a point, pa
cing his intake to suck pure smoke …

  … and starts to splutter at the halfway line, jerking away as if stung.

  Silently, I implore him: Hold it down, ya useless prick!

  But, as if to spite me, Lefty erupts, loosing a broadside of coughing that mauls him for a good five seconds.

  Half the room cackle their delight at his failure. The patches, though, are way too cool for that shit, content with sneering grins.

  All we can do is leer our own contempt of the cunt, but I feel Barry seething like static.

  My number comes up, and by his disdainful smirk Hemi expects a quick wicket. As the distance between us narrows to inches, he stares through me blankly, as if at a witness behind the line-up screen: it’s like sharing a wardrobe with a peckish anaconda.

  But I know what I’ve got to do: my precursor dismissed for a duck, I have to put quick runs on the board, smash the bowler from the attack, take the match with an over to spare. Even though, with the amount of piss I’ve consumed tonight, weed’s the last thing my system needs.

  Ironic how almost any doper will gladly deliver a sermon on the evils of toking when shit-faced: a sure recipe for a four-hour stint at the wheel of the porcelain bus. Once juiced, though — the immortality factor well and truly in residence — most tend to disregard lessons learned with a bit of the old ‘She’ll be right’.

  I’ve every belief that the gear in this abomination is primo — one shotie from it enough to blow my lights for hours — but I resolve to face that music when the maestro arrives.

  What choice have I anyway?

  Hemi aims the thick stream at my face and I begin nice and easy, inhaling only hard enough to capture all the smoke, confident — for an asthmatic smoker, you see, I’ve a set of lungs like a Micronesian pearl-diver. Half full, I drop my nose to the stream, blocking a nostril, inhaling smoke through the other. Then I swap nostrils. Then swap again. And again.

  I feel the bowler angering, throwing it out harder, narrowing his cheeks in an effort to concentrate the output, a ploy referred to as a ‘step-up’, an ambush a seasoned campaigner like myself should never fall victim to. I don’t, proceeding with calm ease, switching back to standard inhalation with a triumphant last suck that fills me to capacity.