The juxtaposition of these antipodal desires is something Barry seldom examines for long enough to find puzzling.
Mick: ‘I really think I should drive, man. It is one’a my paramount roles within the Brotherhood, after all.’
He’s been at Barry to hand over the keys for near half an hour now. Whether in search of thrill, or to shoulder the gauntlet of the squealers personally, Barry can’t be certain. Under different circumstances, in another mood, Barry might have acceded to the demand, if for no better reason than his instinct for chaos wishing to learn how so much potential disorder might manifest itself.
But not tonight.
Flat: ‘Fucking forget it, man.’
When Lefty at last returns he seems to have more steel in his step. His eyes appear somehow graver. Barry’s instinct for chaos is piqued: Lefty looks primed for friction.
Barry, licking his lips: ‘All right, dragons, jump in the wagon and we’ll puff right off.’
Lefty’s relegated to the back seat; this goes without saying.
Pulling into the main road, Barry squeals the tyres, cuts off some pinhead in a TX5, flirts briefly with the notion of stopping when it beeps condemnation of him, insulted more by the horn’s tinny shrillness than by its import. Just to demonstrate the sound of a man’s horn, he sits on that of The ’Dan for a good few seconds, childishly gratified by the deep whommmp.
Mick, mumbling: ‘Yeah, get a real horn, ya fucking yuppie wanker.’ Then, as if alerted by the incident, he suddenly rips down his window — hand slipping from the handle twice — and hollers at passers-by: ‘You’re all a herd of fucking sheep!’
Barry, head in the warm breeze: ‘Four legs good, two legs bad! ’
Mick: ‘The Revolution will not be televised!’
Barry: ‘… The Revolution will be live!’ A cackling whoop: ‘Yeeeeeee — ha — ha — haaaa!’
That his blood/alcohol level must be at least four times the legal limit is a statistic, a consideration — an accolade — that barely registers with Barry. He’s watched a pissed Gator in the driver’s seat before, and the dude drives as if he were a cyborg, the road-code chiselled upon his datacore; ‘fighting fascism furtively’. But Barry, when younger, had read and re-read the autobiography of some captain of the fledging SAS in its WW2 infancy — he had been fond of the genre — and focused on adopting the man’s mindset. Through torturous mental discipline, it became instinctive. This fellow had purported that the only way to emphatically succeed in one’s chosen field, against large odds, is to carry out each and every action at full-throttle confidence, as if one has a manifest right to encounter nothing but auspicious fortune. ‘In this fashion,’ wrote the VC winner, ‘fate Herself was cowed into batting for me.’
Fiddling with the radio, Mick tunes in some Bowie cover while Barry crosses the median line (Yeah, they hauled us outta the oxygen tent …), floors it, hoons past three leading cars (and we rasped for the latest party) flicking The ’Dan back from oncoming traffic with a good second to spare.
Stopped at lights, Lefty beckons to a couple of tarts, starts yakking with them through the window. After a minute of this they seem keen, and Barry’s surprised when Lefty makes no effort to up the ante. At last they get a green light and Barry pulls away, suspicious.
It takes Lefty a minute longer to psych himself to the sortie.
From the back seat, all earnestness: ‘Gagging for a shag. We should’ve tried to get those two back there along.’
Silent, Barry listens for the incoming.
Lefty, ingenuous: ‘Did that brunette remind you’s of Josephine? Same kind of face, I thought.’
Peripherally, Barry watches his torched co-pilot stiffen. And at this point he almost feels sorry for Mick … but the anticipation felt by his instinct for chaos is by far the dominant urge.
Barry, baiting: ‘I s’pose she did a bit.’
Lefty, chuckling amiably: ‘I got a hard-on as soon as I looked at her, ’cause that’s exactly the type of root I could use right now: fully submissive.’
Lighting a smoke, Mick inhales hard, his silence suddenly deafening.
A year or three back, before Josephine, Mick hadn’t exactly logged an awful lot of sack-time. In fact, his fantasy had been a partner. And rumour claimed his wallet contained a condom, the instructions on which began: Before servicing thy wench …
Josephine, though, had been Mick’s apprenticeship, the skirt on which his carnal teeth were cut, his first ‘love affair’. And, according to the progress reports with which he’d regale the lads, she’d rogered the very arse off him, rooted him ragged, broken him to her saddle. Josephine had been around a bit, loved shagging, and loved calling the tune. To which Mick had danced happily.
Then, inevitably, trouble found paradise. Breaks in the relationship, then full splits, decreasing ‘together’ periods. It was outside one these that Mick — not quite tearfully — swore black and blue that he was finished with her, that she could do ‘whatever she fucking well liked’ with ‘whomever she fucking well liked’, and that the number of flying fucks he gave was significantly fewer than one.
His adamance had fooled no one — you just don’t heal from such so cleanly — but all knew the rules; simulated credence well.
In retrospect, a lot of the conviction in Mick’s ‘apathy’ toward Josephine had been lured into wordage by Lefty, who belaboured the point with skilled balance, nobody suspecting a thing.
Within three weeks, however, Lefty had bagged Josephine for himself and treated her to his patented six F’s: find ’em and fondle ’em, finger and fellate ’em, fuck em and flick ’em.
Of course, after the first root he emphatically clarified — in front of witnesses — Mick’s ‘status’ of indifference (‘It just kinda happened, man, ya know? But I never would have let it happen if I’d once thought she still meant anything to ya! Are you sure you’re sweet with it, bro? Just say if you’re not.’)
Then, for months after ditching her, Lefty treated the lads to tales of sexual dominance: how ‘Jo’ liked to be tied down, spanked, adorned in the pearl necklace. How she’d come around on her rags one night, but he’d simply flipped her over and ‘played the back nine’. How he never once let her go on top (‘Fuck that, man! When I shaft a bitch I like to make a decent job of it, let her know she’s been properly done.’) And such was the skill of his parasitism, none could voice a word of protest without ‘betraying’ Mick’s angst.
Lefty, airily: ‘I don’t know why, but I’m in the mood to have some chick on her knees in front of me, begging me to come all over face. Just like Jo used to.’ Chuckle: ‘I’d grab a handful of her hair and twist her head right back, stick it down her throat till she spluttered.’
Despite a lot of pondering, Barry wasn’t certain why Lefty had stooped so low. Perhaps he simply shat on Mick because he could; because this breed of mastery was all that allowed him to face life under the terms his ‘friends’ imposed. But Barry suspected Lefty’s motives ran deeper. Because Mick had been the last of the crew to lose his cherry. Because, this given, to hit back at antagonism all Lefty had to do in those days was allude to the ‘V’ word and Mick was out of commission in a real hurry, Gator and Barry often forced to retreat for his sake.
Then — through Josephine — Mick had liberated the hostage, much to Lefty’s glossed-over pique.
After Lefty’s reprisal Mick had dealt with it well, too proud even to complain when Lefty wasn’t around — well, not to Barry anyway; he might have confessed to Gator. That Mick seldom got shit-faced plainly helped him keep a lid on things.
Lefty, laddish drawl: ‘I hope you rubbered-up when you and her were rooting, Mick, ’cause I certainly didn’t. Screw that. Can’t feel a thing with one’a those on. I’d sooner have a fucking flog, mate. The cunt who invented those things should be shot.’
A while later, sighing boredom: ‘There’s only so much of that absolute devotion shit a bloke can take, though. Well, there is for me, at any rate. Couldn’t ha
ndle any more than a coupla weeks of the bitch. Dumped her flat. Haven’t been back for another round yet, either. She might’ve even moved on by now; stranger things’ve happened … and ya know what they say: one man’s trash is another man’s treasure.’
Mick, low: ‘Stop the car.’
It’s all Barry can do to keep from rubbing his hands together: ‘Why, man?’
Mick, with more assertiveness than he’s ever addressed Barry: ‘Just stop the fucking car! Now!’
Lefty, a little uneven: ‘What do ya wanna stop for?’
But Mick ignores him, and Barry’s grinning openly as he pulls down a quiet side-street.
Lefty, whining: ‘What are ya’s doing? Is this to do with me, Mick? I was only chatting. No offence to anyone!’
The ’Dan swings into the kerb, slows down.
Mick’s out before it’s stationary.
Lefty, crying: ‘What’s going on?’ He slaps his door locked an instant before Mick can lift it open.
Mick, yelling: ‘Open the fucking door, you greaseball cunt! It’s over, now get the fuck out here and stand up for yourself!’
Lefty, shrilly wronged: ‘What are you on about? What’s over?’
‘All your tacit shit, that’s what!’
In a mischievous spurt, Barry’s hand strikes backward, flicking the door-lock open.
Lefty: ‘No! ’ Snatches at it …
Too late.
The door is ripped almost off its hinges, and Mick thrusts in a face disfigured. He doesn’t even notice the door rebounding into him, nearly upsetting him.
Is that really you under that snarl, Mickey? Barry gives a quick whoop of admiration. Top effort, my son! Didn’t realise ya had it in ya!
Lefty, scrambling for the far door, begging: ‘Stop him, Barry! There’s no need for this! I don’t want any trouble!’
Barry reaches back, locks Lefty’s escape route. Through smiling eyes: ‘Lefty, my boy, it appears events have moved beyond you. You reap what you sow, and I’m guessing it’s harvest time.’
Clinging, Lefty resists strongly when Mick grips his leg, attempts to haul him free. ‘Fuck off, you crazy cunt!’ But Mick’s too far gone for nicety; simply hammers Lefty’s body with a free fist until pain springs Casanova from anchorage.
Then out he’s wrenched, hand over hand, like a sticky turd from a pile-ridden anus, coming to ‘rest’ with his arse on the kerb, his back against the car, covering up frantically.
Leaping out, Barry skips around the car, appraising events closely … and is quick to judge this by no means the slickest beating he’s ever witnessed. The most touching, maybe, but not the slickest.
Given Mick’s ‘experience’ of martial matters, Barry can only guess that Lefty submits to his fate with such docility through a belief that Barry will involve himself otherwise. And considering this briefly, Barry concludes Lefty dead right.
And wise.
Bent toward him, Mick unloads on Lefty with a frenzied series of windmills, apparently unfazed by half his blows striking The ’Dan, the other half finding only Lefty’s protecting arms. Even as his glasses are whipped from his face, Mick maintains the wild tattoo.
Lefty: ‘Fuck off! Fuck off! I’m sorry, OK!’
Mick, huffing with strain: ‘Sorry? For six years of the shit? Like fuck! This time you’re gonna cease to fucking function!’
At last he catches Lefty a glancing left across the temple, and as Lefty’s guard opens further, head sagging against the car, it has nowhere to go when the next left nails him flush. In a flurry of punches Lefty assumes the foetal position, curled in the gutter.
Straightening, bracing himself on the car, Mick begins to kick and stomp at him.
He is gonna kill him! Barry jolts. Literally! He knows he must put a stop to this … now … but finds he’s having too much fun; can’t squeeze the words from his throat, the action from his limbs.
Landing a clean boot across Lefty’s nose, popping it like a plum, Mick stops abruptly, standing still, heaving breath in shudders. For long seconds he looks Lefty over, leaning down, squinting at his handiwork. Whispers at last: ‘Oh, shit. What the fuck’ve I done?’
Barry recognises him again, knows it’s over, strides past him. Kneels beside Lefty, moves his limp hands from his face, slaps him lightly, hears only groaning, frowns at the blood on his hand, wipes it on Lefty’s shirt. Declaring: ‘He’ll live.’ Then, with cold precision, Barry drives his right fist into Lefty’s solar plexus. Returns his wheezing body to its side for safety reasons. Into his ear: ‘That was for Becky, you sleazy piece of shit. If you feel like more, head back to Bum’s joint; I’ll be waiting for you. And we didn’t do this. You walked away of your own accord. And the sole reason we came to Auckland was to do charlie with Bum. A word different to anyone ever … and I’ll kill you. You know me, pal: I’ll do it for fun.’
From the hip pocket of Lefty’s Levis Barry removes his wallet. He then opens the boot, fetches Lefty’s pack, and drops it in the gutter beside him.
Mick seems shocked into autism, holding his cut hands inches from his face. Barry slides Mick’s glasses back into place; bundles his limp body into the front seat.
And it’s ten balmy minutes before Mick breaks Barry’s afterglow. ‘What the fuck are we gonna tell Gator?’
8
Saturday, 11 March, 6.42pm
Bum at last reappears from the head of the alley, loping across the road toward where The ’Dan is parked. Maori kids playing league on an overgrown lawn stop to stare at him, as if at a circus act.
One of them, grinning, hollering: ‘Cher, neat hair, mister Bawl’ead!’
Another taps at a phantom microphone, punctuating the beat with impressively accurate sound glitches, cheeks spread: ‘Testing! One, two, three! Testing, people. Testinggg!’
‘Huhuhuhuhu!’
If not for his outlandishness, Bum would’ve been ignored, as we have been by every darkie who’s walked past the car in the time we’ve been parked here. This is only a ghetto of sorts; Mandela might have called it a rainbow slum.
Still, with a head full of LSD my choice of a two-hour loitering spot would have manifested in somewhere a little more inspiring.
But Bum had insisted on ‘taking care of things’ early.
I’d established contact with the lads near dawn, arranged an extraction. Couldn’t bring myself to wake her; enough had been said earlier.
Perhaps too much.
Informing me of Lefty’s withdrawal (‘He pulled some bitch whose folks had a yacht, were off for a week of sailing up Russell way, invited him along. Said to count him outta the deal. Said it already scared him shitless and he wanted no more of it. Left us some pingas, though. Good of him, really.’) Barry had then demanded, as lads do: ‘Details, McPike. Gory ones.’
I divulged little lewd — I’ve learned that the unsaid impacts harder. ‘We just bonked once, then chatted for hours. Y’all know what that’s like — a nice-looking bird who you think is pretty cool besides; barriers gone ’cause you’ve already been as intimate as it physically gets, but you know nothing about each other, really; still pissed enough to say anything you like; just lying in the dark, smoking, teasing, learning, shooting the shit.’
Even Barry’s eyes had misted.
For once we were free to wax sexually lyrical: Lefty wasn’t there.
Barry: ‘When ya gonna see her again?’
Me: ‘Good question.’
With Bum along already, we’d collected Steve from a pad in Mt Eden, some short-haired blonde seeing him off the front step with a playful pat on the arse. Shirtless, tattoo resplendent, Steve had strolled across to us, catlike in his nonchalance, and even Bum had grinned fondly.
‘That’s one smooooooth brother you dudes’ve got yourselves.’
Barry: ‘You don’t know the half of it, mate.’
But as Steve slipped in beside me, the facade quickly lapsed. Sighing: ‘Jesus fuckin’ Christ, am I glad t’see yu cats. Roll the end credits, Mick. Get
me the hell outta here. Drive t’ the middla nowhere and take a wrong turn.’ To me: ‘I ’ope yu fared better than I did, cuz.’
Barry, puzzled: ‘Why, bro? What went wrong?’
Steve, sneering: ‘She’s a bloody Christian, man! We did fuck all but lie there and kiss all night!’
Bum: ‘Ratshit.’
Steve had smiled, though, as if the irony were worth the frustration. ‘Tell me ’bout it. Bitch wooden even beat me off! My prick feels like Branson tried t’ fly round the fuckin’ world in it.’
Barry: ‘Fuck, she seemed like a goer in the club.’
Steve: ‘I noe. The worst part was in the morning, wif all ’er God Squad flatmates kicking round. I felt ’bout as welcome as a arsonist in a arms factory.’
After killing a few hours in town, we’d motored through the city sun, up to One Tree Hill, where Bum produced his wares.
I hadn’t really felt like tripping, happy and reflective enough on the natural high Tania left me with.
And acid’s a commitment. Drop a tab and the high — not to mention the comedown — removes one from the race for a solid few hours, minimum. As chief cabalist, the Brotherhood in mid-mission, I saw abstinence as my sacred duty.
For about a minute or so.
Gather, all ye faithful; The Doors stand unlocked and beckoning.
Through to a fantasyland of stunned mirth; a pilgrimage to the Temple of Lateral Thought. Brains rewired in a mode to give every stimuli and notion ten connotations never before considered. Powers of insight and reasoning invested with a paranormality to render explicit so many of life’s mysteries, that these solutions had hidden beneath our very noses for so long spicing the trip with bursts of utter hilarity. Under the acid all things are given talismanic symbolism, representative of, and clarifying, some vaster issue.
Answers reduced to sludge when the drug leaves your brain.
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