Look Back At Regna

This story was written in 1990. It is set in 1975 in Auckland, New Zealand

Auckland, New Zealand, 1975On a sultry Summer midday in an Auckland chemical warehouse, a head storeman sniffed the air and narrowed his Viking blue eyes at an intruding dark eyed waspish spectre.

Whaddiyawant!!!?

I've come for a student job.

Pick up that bag from the trailer!

The spectre smiled mysteriously and picked up the bag and waved it into the air.

You'll do! roared the head storeman with a slight tone of waggishness.
Start tomorrow at eight thirty!

The next morning Clive Morosophos was shown around the warehouse. The head store man revealed his name was Bill Robertson. The fork hoist driver, a burly man with a thick moustache, was Mike Noon.

In a good mood he answers to Mr Cunt, explained Bill.

Clive was soon put to work unloading and stacking charcoal bags alongside a fellow student named Ian and a boy who answered to the affectionate call of Short Arse. Their job soon completed, they, following Short Arse's progress, picked up brooms and shot marble‑like crystals into obscure corners.
Bill opened the window and roared:

SMOKO!

Everyone was soon seated in the smoko room in anticipation of the whistle of the zip. A truckie came in to load. After he had been given his cup of tea, he muttered sidelong to Bill,

So Piggy got in.

Give the man a chance, he's not Idi Amin yet, remonstrated Bill.

Aah, politicians – I never waste my time with them, firmly exclaimed Mike.

Labour's socialism has shattered the economy. We need a tough bastard to tell the unions and lefties where to go, surly replied Bill.

It's quarter past ten, back to work, squealed Short Arse and he rushed out the door.

Bill raised two fingers behind his back.

Aah, boss's son. Keep him at that speed and by afternoon he will fag himself out.

Clive soon settled into the politics of the warehouse. In his heart he knew he was indolent and incompetent. But there was a reward to be reaped in working himself every day into an animal exhaustion. His brain at last ceased like a clock with a broken spring. If there were any uncertainties in the operation of the warehouse, the solution for everyone was to follow Short Arse.

Bill most of the day was safely hibernating in the office. But every so often when the warehouse had slackened into a pleasant lethargy, Bill would burst out the door and drive on the workers with an example of brute male industry until they were panting and bathed in sweat. Then he would return to the office and put his feet up for a nap.

One evening Clive was standing outside the office while he read the newspaper. He looked up and cried out with alarm as the fork hoist that Ian had parked with the engine on rolled down a slope towards the warehouse. He raced after it, jumped onto it and pulled the handbrake. Bill poked his head out the window and remarked that if Clive hadn't been motivated half of Parnell would have been blown up.

Several days before Christmas the manager visited. At afternoon smoko, he chuckled to Mike,

Your predecessor, Shane, ended in disaster. One night he returned to the warehouse, opened the door with the company key and went for a joy ride in the company car. By 2 a.m. he had smashed it up and was in hospital.

The manager was a chirpy little man with a passion for his bach and the arcane mysteries of ancient Egypt. From the curse of Tutankhamon, the conversation drifted to the New Zealand army. The manager argued the army was a useless encumbrance. Bill replied that for seven years the New Zealand army had sat on top of a hill in Vietnam and the Vietcong went around the hill. When the Socialists ordered the army out, the Vietcong occupied the hill.

The next day at lunch time, Mike who had kept a stony silence at the appearances of the manager began to reminiscence about his youth in Gisborne. When he drove cattle trucks, he used to drink on Friday nights at the Jolly Stockman at Patutahi.
He knew two mates there, Trev and Rangi. They were always together at dances, rugby, at the pub. Rangi had a glass eye which he used to put into his beer glass.

One night while Rangi was at the bar, Trev for a dare from Mike swallowed it. Rangi was wild and told the hospital superintendent. The superintendent said if he didn't get it back the hospital would bring a charge of malicious destruction of hospital property. So a few days later, Trev returned it to the hospital. They soaked it in a solution, then popped it back into Rangi's head. Rangi went straight to Trev. He grasped his hand and said,

We're mates again Trev. I've seen through you at last and know an arse hole when I meet one.

Bill laughed uneasily and knowingly and replied,

When I was at high school and won championships at swimming, the headmaster would personally come up to congratulate me. But if I did a caper like Mike just said, he would whip out the cane.

The election was like that. Muldoon was the champion. Labour got the cane for their socialist capers.

Last November at a National Party social, they showed a movie of the Wellington wharfies in slow motion. It was the funniest thing you'd ever see. And those trendy lefties in television. Always showing that drama series about the depression. They were in for a big surprise too. And the women, they had a thing to learn. His missus had never been the same since Germaine Greer wrote that book.

Only last week he had come home from work and there was a social worker in his house with his missus. He was sitting in his chair. He picked him up by the scruff of the neck and threw him out the door.

That's what's sick with society today, replied Mike, reclining back in his chair with a cigarette.

Before I went to Aussie, I worked on the Council rubbish collection. After half a day's work, the driver used to park the truck out of public view and we would all clear off to the pub. I didn't approve – but what could one man do?
The biggest challenge of the job was going into the office on Thursday and collecting the wages from the boss without falling over.

At 2:15 they left smoko for the afternoon work.
Mike winked at the boys.

That's the way to dodge work, get the boss worked up on his hobby horse. With the last boss it was fishing.

Mike get your lazy arse back on the forkhoist!!!! roared Bill from the office window.

At the end of the day, Mike's wife drove into the yard and parked. Mike opened the driver's door and bellowed,

Out! Out!

His wife, blushing furiously, sharply ordered a Great Dane in the front seat to get into the back. It complied with an extreme show of reluctance. She got into the front seat and slammed the door, and Mike drove off. Bill and the boys watched the ménage‑a‑trois and laughed uproariously.

Have you ever read Borges? mused Clive to Bill.

No, who's Borges?

He's an Argentine writer who writes about men like Mike. In South America they're called gauchos.

Uuh, what's a gaucho?

A gaucho is a footloose man with attenuated ties to a culture and religion. He is bred in new world societies. In South America he is haunted with medieval superstitions, in New Zealand with Victorian hang ups. In South America, he values his horse and woman in that order, in New Zealand his hot rod and his woman.

In South America he reveres and blasphemes his priest, in New Zealand his police and traffic officers. He is a mestizo or mulatto in South America, in New Zealand he associates with Maoris and will in time be part‑Maori. But while he is an inspiration for intellectuals and poets in South America, in New Zealand he remains undiscovered maybe because he can not be heard above the roar of his hot rod.

Clive seemed transformed from a blunderer into the sublime.

To be a New Zealander – even if you sit in the bank manager's chair – is to be, at heart, a gaucho. The New Zealander carries his briefcase the way a South American carries a knife.

What's the make of Mike's car? replied Bill.

I wouldn't have a clue.

That shows your head is filled with that fancy varsity stuff and you don't know the things that matter in the real world that will get you a job.

When I get home, I will look up those words in my encyclopedia,
thought Bill.
I'm not going to be outsmarted by that smart arse.

The following day it was Christmas Eve. At lunch time they showered, shaved and put on their best attire for a company lunch in Queen Street. At the Chinese restaurant, they sat together with the company staff around a circular mobile table. Every so often one would reach out a hand and gingerly but firmly wrench the table towards one.

The General Manager, father of Short Arse, sat beside his secretary, apparently not aware of her sweet cluelessness while he was engaged in earnest conversation with Mike beside him.

Mike, resplendent in a blue suit, drained his champagne glass and gazed through the glass into the dregs.

Y'know, he said to the General Manager,
I have finally worked out why my ancestors stayed in the Irish bog.

I am a Protestant Ulsterman myself, replied the General Manager.

What was the British Empire? murmured Mike,
One bloody big fat insurance rip off. The London company directors grew fat on their starving small shareholders.

My father was an Orange Man, replied the General Manager.
He told me something I have lived by all my life. Give you Catholics a palace and you will turn it into a pigsty.

A sovereign for the British Empire, a penny for the loo. Y'know before I was a bum for you, I sold life insurance. It was then that I discovered what makes the British system.

Droit et mon Dieu, murmured the General Manager in his best schoolboy French.

The English public school tie wrung around Irish necks. The insurance agent from South Arcadia who took me under his wing was a joke in the office. Poor mad bumbling Panky. He could never work out for himself one simple insurance policy. Yet when I went selling with him, at every office, household, factory, the moment he opened his mouth people stood as if the Royal family had entered the room. He told me his B.B.C. accent rose from his toes and just flowed out his mouth.

The Coconuts were so awed all they could stammer out was – 
  ‘Yes, Yes’

For a whole day he moved like a King through Ponsonby, selling twenty thousand dollar life insurance policies. The triumph of Panky. I once went to his home in Devonport. When I met him, he was mowing his front lawn and all he had on was a pair of baggy shorts. He greeted me like I was the Viceroy of India. Even I believed every word of the clown.

When I went on the road on my own believing in a fortune, I said the same words as Panky, wore as good a suit, was on the same racket. And what happened?

"Who do you think you are?"
"Push off!"

Mike Noon a nobody. Panky Royal swank. Why? I went to a Gisborne High School. Panky went to Auckland Boys' Grammar. Have you ever looked in a cage at a zoo and admired an ape peeling a banana? That was Panky.

What are you studying at Varsity? a law clerk asked Ian and Clive.

I've been booted out for not attending enough classes at Teachers College this year. Next year I'll go opossum skinning, make enough money to go to Aussie, said Ian airily.

I'm doing a history degree. Next year when I graduate, I am going to write a thesis on Sir Julius Vogel, said Clive.

Who the hell's Sir Julius Vogel? asked the law clerk suspiciously.

I remember something about him in third form social studies, said a business studies graduate. Wasn't he Premier or something?

Vogel, said Clive warily, was Premier of New Zealand. He was most responsible for developing New Zealand from a peasant economy into a modern industrial economy.

Haw, haw, haw, very grand, chuckled a chorus of the worldly wise.

If Varsity taught you how to boil an egg, instead of scrambling your head into one, you might become useful, chuckled an assistant manager.

He had inherited shares in the company and the earth glowed for him.

Come on, snickered an accountant.
We pay taxes to support you. Explain to us our investment.

Clive took a deep breath.

We no longer belong to the British Empire. So we must forge – like India and Ireland – a new consciousness of ourselves as New Zealanders. For example, when you go to a Post Office, you should know that the Post Office didn't just mushroom one night. It was built out of the dreams and sweat of our forebears so we could share a national asset and pass it on to our descendants

But Clive discovered he was talking to the walls.
A scientist was telling a joke to much ‘haw‑hawing’ and ‘wink‑wink’.

Muldoon was one morning digging in his garden. A parrot in a cage next door started squawking, "Muldoon's a wanker, Muldoon's a wanker." Muldoon took the owner to court and a court order put a muzzle on the parrot's beak.

The next morning while Muldoon was tending his tulips, he looked up and saw the parrot making wanking gestures with its wing.

On the first midday after the Christmas vacation, Bill, Mike and Ian were playing darts in the smoko room.

Bully for me! shouted Bill, as his dart scored a victory.

He raised his leg and farted loudly in triumph.

How often have you scored his week? shouted Mike to Ian.

Every night and twice on Sunday, sniggered Ian.

Ha, Ha, ha, laughed Bill, Clive, and Short Arse, seated at the table.

You students are a swineish lot, remonstrated Mike.

But you're just a dumb fork-hoist driver, you're jealous, sniggered Ian

Mike's face turned a crimson red.

I could have been playing golf now, then retiring in the evening to the Gentleman's Club. Instead I ran away from an orphanage when I was thirteen, went bush and worked for my living ever since. To you students this job is just a jaunt. This is how I'm going to spend all my working life. Then when I reach sixty, I'll be another toothless, maybe stomachless wonder.

Ha, Ha, Ha, laughed everyone. Good joker Mike.

I've seen you students, pissing in street corners, vandalising the street. My dog behaves better. And the cops just stand around and watch. I say a bad word to a cigarette machine and a wet behind the ears constable throws me into court and a geriatric deaf magistrate fines me like a criminal. That's the thanks for hauling around their crap all day.

Those powder puffs from the office come into the warehouse. They look straight through me as if I'm Caspar the friendly ghost. One day I'm going to drop a load on their heads. Then they'll know me.
They're now talking about closing down the freezing works. The union officials don't care. All they're interested in is their fat salaries. Why don't they close down the Defence Department? They wouldn't close down the freezing works either if the freezing workers had guns. I may look rough. But I've read books. I know the Russian communists banned Aristotle.

The Chinese communists banned Aristotle. The western communists like Aristotle, said Clive quietly.

OK. But at least I've heard of Aristotle. Those company powder puffs think Aristotle married Jackie Kennedy. The younger ones probably haven't even heard of her.

Ian pulled his dart out of the board. Bill, Clive and Short Arse were laughing fit to split their sides at the bullshit of Mike. He glanced at Mike at the door, his puffed‑up stupid face was crimson red with levity. Ian's own sides felt weak with laughter. His head was spinning with the wonder of being young and popular in a New Zealand summer. He raised his dart above his head and threw it at that stupid face.

Then the room seemed to spin out of control. Mike's face froze into a jaw‑hanging astonishment with the dart stuck in his forehead. Mike started to walk towards Ian and his eyes began to roll and his head to strangely twitch. Bill's chair skidded across the floor and Bill had his arms around Mike and was crying. Then the dart fell to the floor and there was Mike's voice,

She'll be right.

It just flew out of my hand, explained Ian.

Bill sat down heavily. The game went on but every time Ian looked at the board all he could see was the face of Mike. Then terrifying images of punishment and stigma shook his limbs like a gale wind with a leaf.

At the conclusion of the game, Ian asked Mike if he had a headache.

Of course I have you idiot, snapped Mike.

Bill ordered the boys to get on the back of the truck to prepare for loading.

One hundred lines for you, Ian. I must not throw steel darts at workmen's heads, laughed Clive.

When they had gone, Bill whispered to Mike,

We'll get Ian.

The truckie asked the boys why Mike was grumpy.

He had a little accident, explained Clive.

Because Ian threw a dart at his head, explained Short Arse brightly.

Oh don't, said Ian tearfully and he turned his head away.

The truckie laughed.

The boys were called into the warehouse. Bill and Mike had mysteriously disappeared. Suddenly from a dark corner, they leapt out and grabbed Ian. While Mike held him by the waist, Bill pulled down his trousers and undies and splashed green dye on his crotch. Everyone laughed uproariously at the incident and Ian smiled in gratitude. Later when Mike was absent, Bill said quietly to Short Arse,

If that dart had gone an inch in another direction, I would have had a lot of explaining to do to your father.

The next day the manager called Ian into the office.

If I had been at yesterday's incident, I would have sacked you on the spot. Go back to your work.

Yes sir, said Ian.

The weeks drifted by like a restless nights' blurred dreams.
One night Clive said suddenly to Bill,

In this job we are coated every day in a cocktail of factory chemicals. I think we should be wearing protective clothing.

I've worked here for five years.
I've had no damage to my health, replied Bill.

What about ten years? retorted Clive.

If you don't like it here, go and work at a hairdresser, snorted Bill.

When the three boys were working together, Ian remarked,

Yesterday I saw in Queen Street the fattest man I've ever seen. He wore thick glasses and long lank hair and so I thought he was soft in the head. But then I saw people gathered around him, so he must be someone of importance.

I've seen him, replied Clive.
I don't know who he is but he has a striking resemblance to Nero.

Nero's ancient history, said Ian.

A police car had just driven into the yard.
The boys fell silent and a vague unease fell upon them all. Through the corner of their eyes, they saw Bill walking up towards them.

They've got Mike on a twenty thousand dollar warehouse burglary, said Bill. He went quietly. He's been sacked. Ian, you can take his job. It's smoko time.

I always have a long baton handy to knock them on the head, said the retired farmer who came in once a week to do the cleaning.

The company won't be paying him what they owe him, said Short Arse gleefully.

They will still have to pay him, said Clive sharply.

For the last week Mike has been trying to sell factory tools to our drivers. We don't know a man's private life. He might have had major debts or split up with his wife, said a truckie quietly.

Ha, Ha, chortled Ian. If I had thrown this dart at Mike, I would have flattened him.

Bill was silent. He had handed over Mike to a police officer, Peter Tame, who had been a good mate and neighbour of his for many years. They had helped each other on home improvements. They had been on working bees together at the local school. Their children played together.

Once he had gone to the police station to meet Peter. Peter had proudly shown him the new police circuit television. He had touched a button and instantly every room in the station had flashed an image on a screen. Bill had stared in wonder. Suddenly he had cried out in astonishment,

Look at that! Look at that!

Two men were holding down another man. A third was brutally kicking him in the stomach. Peter had instantly pressed the button and the image had vanished.

What are you talking about? I never saw anything, Peter had replied coolly.

To startle his friends, Bill enjoyed recounting the story. Their faces always registered surprise and incredulity. Then the conversation would abruptly change. Sometimes Bill himself doubted he had really seen that image.

He was a useless fork‑hoist driver, said Bill. His statement to the company that he had done five years fork‑hoist driving in Aussie was a big story.

They all gazed at Mike's handiwork and soon it seemed to everyone that Mike's presence lay like a contaminating spirit over the premises.