Stonedogs

by Craig Marriner

  There’s enough space to approach the bar comfortably. Barry and Lefty head in for the first round. Steve seeks out the dunny.

  Mick, to me, haggard: ‘That drive was fucking terrifying, man. Every set of lights in the rear-view looked like oinkers. The flash of blue took place in my head at least forty times.’

  I begin to word my reply — How the fuck do you think I felt? I underwent the drive stoned! — but then remember Mick didn’t have a visual — audio — imprint of the incident acting as a sedative.

  Mick, almost pleading: ‘So you don’t think he’ll remember what ya’s looked like?’

  A shake of the head: ‘No chance. It was dark as hell, man. He’ll’ve noticed the races, the height, and the long hair, fuck all else. And me and Steve had Uncle Rangi split between us. Besides, with what Barry did to the cunt if he wakes up this side of Christmas I’ll be surprised if he remembers his own fucking birthday.’

  My words don’t seem to allay Mick overly.

  Shuddering: ‘Oh, shit. That poor bastard.’

  Me, snorting: ‘Na, fuck him. It’s not as if normal people wake up one morning and decide they wanna spend their days strutting round with a baton on their hip. Just get a few brews in ya, have some laughs and chill the fuck out.’

  Barry returns with a beer for us each. ‘I’m gonna go get the suss of the pool table, boys.’ He models a distant smile; seems at peace with creation; ambles away.

  Beside us there’s a half-tidy blonde orbiting the fringes of a circle. She’s presently speaking to no one, seems a little uncomfortable, and Lefty’s on to this like sonar. He takes the time to cadge a fag from me (I don’t object: they were bought with his moolah), then strolls straight up to her.

  Lefty’s rolled the sleeves of his shirt up to almost shoulder level, showing off biceps he took the time to pump up out in the carpark, his heavy backpack brought along for the purpose … and because he pulls with such regularity he likes to keep an overnight bag within reach at all times.

  Guileless smile: ‘Hi, we’re new to the place and we heard there was a band scheduled to play tonight. Have ya got any idea what time they’re on?’

  Blonde: ‘I think you’ve got your wires crossed. It’s just a DJ tonight; there was a band on last night.’

  Lefty, ‘disappointed’: ‘Really? Ahhhh, that sux. Did ya see them? What were they called?’

  Blonde: ‘I wasn’t here.’

  ‘Oh, ’cause we heard Axe Attack were playing, and we were pretty keen to check them out ’cause a mate of mine plays bass for them. Have ya heard of them? Me and him actually founded the band down in Vegas a couple of years back; I was the singer/songwriter, but I moved on when a better spot opened with …’

  She turns to face him fully, sipping at a drink, and Lefty’s off the mark.

  The cunt.

  Not that there’s any shortage of wenches about. Eye-candy of various flavours dot my immediate vicinity — a nice brunette in a mini-dress, another blonde in a crop top, an Asian babe with black lipstick and eyeliner, some hot Maori chick looking set to star in a glam-rock video. But in my stoned state it’s a visual dish for which I’ve little appetite. Only subconsciously, through habit, do I even bother sizing this talent, and then it’s cursory. I’m happy just to breathe the club’s ambience, suck on a gasper with the luxury only dope can offer, sip at my cold brewski, enjoy the sounz, relish our earlier good fortune. I don’t even feel the need to be seen talking.

  Finished already (‘No thanks, bro, I’ll be sweet for now’), Mick scoots back to the bar. Dude doesn’t drink very often, but when he does he tends to do so with style. Barry snags Steve for a pool partner as he exits the dunnies, handing him a beer. Steve catches my eye, points to the table. I flick an acknowledging salute.

  Combined, beer and fag taste of Nirvana.

  ‘So … what made you quit, Tania? I mean, who in their right mind resigns as a restructuring exec’ for ITS HO branch … to become a casual in a library?’

  No expense account. No share-plan or staff dividend. No medical and dental scheme. No paid leave. No incentive bonus.

  Peers spinsters in floral print, forty-year-old virgins, threadbare hard-covers.

  Vocationally happy.

  Tania seethes into her drink a full five seconds before replying. ‘Which part of this answer did you not catch the last hundred times I gave it to you? I just woke up one morning’, hung over on coke and cocktails, ‘and realised I hadn’t painted anything in six months. Or even contemplated it!’

  Art, the former love of her life. Part of the sacred triumvirate: art, books and good rock guitar.

  Sarah waits for more. Prompting when it doesn’t come: ‘And …?’

  But Tania’s had enough of the conversation. Had enough of it weeks ago. Her friends, family, paper-boy, can speak to her of nothing else. Curt: ‘And I just decided to start living again, all right? Now can we drop …’

  Sarah, snapping: ‘Living? As opposed to what? A travel allowance, jetting to conferences, an office big enough for volleyball, a company car upgraded quarterly, money most only dream of? If that’s dying, Tan, I’m off to play on the motorway!’

  Plain Janes at her beck and call; purges plotted from board-rooms; quick fucks in Daimler limousines.

  Scaling the ladder on the world’s oldest currency.

  A harried frown: ‘You obviously can’t understand no matter how I break it down’, you or the rest of the human race, ‘so can we please just drop the bloody subject! I didn’t come here to have my well being “tended”.’

  Sarah relents, but only grudgingly, exasperation palpable. A sharp sigh: ‘… All right, then. Have it your way. Stay with your bloody books if that’s what floats your boat … And, by the way, I’m never coming out with you again.’

  Confused, angering: ‘Why the fuck not?’

  Grinning: ‘Because since we walked in nobody’s even looked at me.’

  Tania’s eyes roll in boredom: another ‘plaudit’ she could do without.

  Sarah, hardening: ‘I’ll tell you one thing though, Tan, I’m not letting you walk out of this place alone again. You haven’t had a shag since you quit your real job, and if you’re not careful, Mt Albert Library’ll turn you into a complete geek.’

  A dismissive scoff: ‘I’m here to have a few drinks and a bit of a dance, nothing more. An arsehole male’s the last thing I’m after.’

  ‘Is that right?’ Sarah lifts her eyebrows. ‘And you’re really dressed as if that’s the case, aren’t you?’

  Stilettos. Leather pants that might have been painted on. A white sleeveless showing more navel than cleavage … just.

  Glad the low lighting hides her quick flush.

  In all honesty, Tania herself can’t put a finger on the motive for the raunchy garb. She says to Sarah it’s because of the conservativeness with which she must dress for work these days: needs to OD on the ‘rock moll’ thing to compensate. She tells herself it’s to flaunt in Man’s face what he’s no longer gonna fucking get.

  But sometimes she worries that her former career has left her a power addict; that this is her sole remaining pusher.

  And at other times she dreams of meeting a guy, while dressed just like this, who chats with her all night … and doesn’t once stare at her tits.

  Sarah: ‘I’ll get another round in before it gets too busy up there.’ Stern: ‘And while I’m gone you’re gonna decide which of these ogling guys you like the most.’

  Muttering: ‘Yeah right.’

  In truth, when she’s dressed for raging, the stares of males affect Tania like gravity: ubiquitous to the point of ignorance. She’s more likely to notice if one doesn’t eye her over.

  Sips at the divinity of a G&T, shifting gently with the beat.

  And then she freezes; loses her sense of place completely.

  Amusing itself, her eye had happened upon a guy whose level of contentment, considering he stood alone, seemed noteworthy. She lingered for a moment, shrugged inwardly
, and was about to move on when his gaze found hers. He glanced down once, then looked away, apparently indifferent. All in less than a second.

  What the hell?

  A guy like this — young and loose, OK looking, clearly a rocker — failing to stare after noticing her happened so infrequently it called to Tania like a bugle. But a guy like this catching her looking at him, and then looking away first? And with such nonchalance?

  This was unprecedented.

  She forgets Sarah. Forgets her recent renunciation, her values reassessment, the endless flak she’s copping over it; forgets general Male arseholehood.

  Because she’s suddenly in strange waters and can’t decide how to feel about it.

  Notices a small stab of consternation, as one finding an ace suddenly missing. Then she decides the uncertainty has her feeling more alive than a moment ago.

  Intrigue impels her.

  Socially, it’s been a while since Tania’s initiated a conversation with a strange guy, but from her past she knows how effortless it is; how enormously distant from humiliation such a move could ever be for her.

  Still, she almost drains her drink in steeling herself.

  Starts toward him.

  Someone taps him from behind. ‘Excuse me?’

  Strange voice. Definitely feminine, but deepish, husky.

  Gator turns to the startling sight of the dark stunner he noticed a minute ago, now standing not a metre from him. Well, aren’t you just the hottest thing since Krakatoa! The Maori Salma Hayak. Limits his shock to a pair of raised eyebrows. Stoned, he’s far too conscious of her opinion of him to check her out properly. This despite her body calling in his periphery like a magnet(s).

  In fact, at present he’s too self-conscious to be having any dealings with unknown babes.

  Bluff: ‘Yep?’

  ‘I hate to do this, but I couldn’t nick a fag off ya, could I?’

  Why the fuck couldn’t she have decided she needed a gasper in an hour or two? With more booze in him, this would have presented a nice window for an attempted witty flirtation. Probably earn little more ego boost than a smile, but from her this would have sent him into the fray crowing.

  ‘Yeah, sure.’

  Gator hands one over. When she mouths it, clearly has no light, he passes her his lighter without ceremony, his brusqueness born of an innate need — a need exacerbated by cannabis — to shelter behind barriers.

  The cold eyebrows (What do you want?) almost abort Tania’s fact-finding mission.

  With the smoke in her lips, the script at this point should read: Guy, unprompted, makes gentlemanly show of flicking and shielding a flame for her, holding station until she judges the cigarette on an even draw.

  But Mr Brown here just hands her the thing as if he’s lending her his last twenty bucks.

  She lights it herself — only smokes when she’s had a few anyway — using the gesture to cover a frown.

  He takes back his lighter, nods coldly, and, sipping at a beer, gives her his profile, plainly less interested in her than in looking the house over.

  Now he’s dismissing me? Jesus Christ, this isn’t happening!

  Tania’s tasting an emotion old enough to be almost alien. She sets to walk away, bewildered, but a lick of anger heats her: a traditional defence to adversity.

  You’re not getting rid of me that easily, cunt-face. At the least, I’m gonna know what the deal is with you.

  ‘So, what’s ya name?’

  Staring into space, willing her to leave him in peace, Gator almost splutters on his beer.

  What’s my name? What the fuck do you care what my name is?

  He examines events further. Remembers seeing her standing with another bird who he then saw enter the scrum developing around the bar, where Mick is somewhere. Picks this one as the type to break into hives if left without a chatter partner in a social setting.

  His heart drops, his dazed serenity of a minute ago moving rapidly beyond reach. It seems she needs a body to be seen swapping air with until Tweedledee returns, and the last thing Gator needs in his state is to have to construct a conversation with a bitch like this.

  He notices Lefty appraising him; for an instant debates attempting it for this reason alone.

  Chickens out just as quickly.

  Considers outright rudeness … hasn’t the stomach for confrontation. He finally replies to her, but doesn’t bother hiding completely his impatience with circumstance. ‘My name’s Gator.’

  Uncertain smile ‘What kind of a name’s that?’

  ‘Any kind ya like.’

  Her eyes darken and he feels sudden remorse. ‘It’s just a nickname from childhood I got saddled with. I ran full speed into a gate and KO’d myself. They reckon everyone but me had a wicked laugh.’ Let’s see if a little unbridled candour won’t throw her. I’ll give her the real G. McPike.

  ‘I can see why.’

  ‘Meaning you can see how fucking hilarious such an incident might appear to bystanders, or that you can see why a group of people might take delight in laughing at a prize cunt like myself?’

  Shit, this guy’s a regular ball-breaker.

  His profanity she takes as another setback. Tania hardly boasts a nun-like tongue herself, but she’s yet to reveal that to this Gator. Men with foul mouths, as a rule, keep this to themselves until her own proclivities are laid bare.

  She tries a smile. ‘Meaning anyone stupid enough to run into a gate full bore deserves to be laughed at. Unless, of course, the gate didn’t happen to be stationary?’

  He grins half-heartedly, but it’s better than nothing. ‘Short of being latched, the gate was about as stationary as gates get.’

  He’s human at least.

  ‘Well, Gator, it’s nice to meet you.’ She holds out her hand, pushing her chest forward — only as part of the movement — and has to blink back dizziness when he winces distaste at her painted fingers.

  Dismayed, Tania’s about to withdraw in disarray when he takes her hand like a snatch, smiling almost warmly.

  His sudden grip is strong and sweaty; she loses half a breath.

  ‘Nice to meet you, too …?’

  It’s phrased as a question, but only hurriedly it seems, as though he wasn’t going to ask, changed his mind for decorum’s sake. She takes a quick look around, as if to reaffirm her environment. ‘T–, Tania.’

  He just nods, presents his profile again.

  And then the answer hits her.

  Please, just leave me alone.

  But the handshake’s pretty well sealed it. Gator’s almost resigned to playing ‘mouthpiece’ for a spell. He sees no reason to act any other role, though.

  Then, like a flash of awareness, she blurts: ‘Are you here with your girlfriend?’ And it’s not uttered saucily either, more as the answer to a riddle.

  He considers saying yes, but concludes that, should his quest to regain it succeed, pretence would cheapen the lone harmony he wants back. Instead: ‘No, my girlfriend can’t come out any more: she’s dying of Aids.’

  Her face collapses. ‘Oh.’

  Qualifying: ‘Well, she’s not actually dying of Aids, she’s dying of a brain tumour, but for over a year now she’s been telling everyone it’s Aids killing her.’

  Tania, aghast: ‘Why would she do that?’

  ‘Because she doesn’t want me fucking any of her mates when she’s gone.’

  * * *

  It’s a few moments before she realises he’s joking. And then several elements mesh in her at once. Ease at not having revived his ‘heartache’. Delight in the gag — her sense of humour was once described as ‘more badly sprained than twisted’. More wonder at his aloofness toward her. Relief — just for the sake of prolonging this bizarre encounter — that he is in fact single.

  And she’s suddenly laughing uncontrollably: two high-pitched barks that draw the eyes of many, and then a long spasm into her hand, turning away, gathering control at last.

  Her impetuous laughter moves him.
By his book a sick, dirty, sexist joke should have elicited a diametric reaction from the typical female. Mind you, what do I know about chicks?

  Warmed somewhat, he decides to forsake his own comfort zone, cut her some slack. Fuck it. She seems an interesting bird, nice enough as well, and most people hate looking a Nigel No-friends in a crowded club. I know I normally do. Her mate should be back in a minute anyway.

  ‘So how old are ya, Tania?’

  ‘Twenty-three. You?’

  ‘Twenty.’

  Effortless, he reels her again. Just as it looked as if he might conform to established reality after all — well, kind of: it would clearly have been her sense of humour that won him — he further demonstrates a lack of physical interest. Because everyone knows that women are not customarily turned on by the knowledge that a guy is their junior by some margin. And from this dude she would’ve swallowed a fresh twenty-four.

  Confusion intensifies, and Tania begins to suspect that she must get to the bottom of this mystery or forever live without the revelations it surely contains. She comes close to asking him baldly (I obviously don’t do it for you. Why not?), shies away. ‘So what do you do?’

  Cheery: ‘If you mean what manifestation do my shackles to the suicidal, soulless Juggernaut that is society take … the answer is none. In the terms of reference under which I’m guessing your question is phrased, I do nothing at all. In fact I’m more of an undoer. So what do you “do”?’

  Tania now begins to admit that, aside from the curiosity value of Gator’s detachment, the beginnings of a little more immediate interest in him had been stirring. She was impressed by his frankness and wit, his intelligence, by his easy composure; his free-spirited looks are presentable enough — she’s a sucker for long hair anyway — and some inner spark augments these.