Rattus Aucklandicus.

This is the text of a monologue I wrote. It was performed by Dan Veint last September, at the 'Masculine Monologues' directed by Tom Sainsbury.

I finished high-school in the Year of the Rat. Call that prophetic. Me and all the other rats, we’re left to nibble at the flotsam and jetsam of life. My early teenage years were soundtracked by emo and hip-hop. And you wonder why I’m so confused. How the hell were we supposed to dress?
The principal of my school was a stubborn bastard with a rapist moustache. His favourite line was ‘your high-school education is preparation for the real-world. Most of you will be always wearing a uniform: whether a suit and tie or overalls. Learning to wear one correctly is part-and-parcel of your time at school.’ They’re trying to make me dress like a man; their conception of what a man looks like after he’s attended a private-school. I think all my nervousness about authority stems from enforced uniform policies – of course if I never looked right I’ll never relax around people that make me do something I don’t want to. When cops drive past me, my shoulders tense and my hands become fists in my pockets. It’s my armour, my turtle-shell.
Preparing me for real life… Jesus Christ. That’s how it is, always bowing to someone. Like Bob Dylan’s Fixin’ to Die. Fixing someone else’s problems till I cark it. They didn’t tell me that part. That bastard principal, he told us that real-life was a great place where the individual was able to flourish, find your own place in the world marked out by a house and a picket fence, leave a legacy in achieving a family and a job. You could do whatever you wanted to do; the world was your oyster. All you needed to do was spend 7 hours a day, 5 days a week in a prison, rote-learning a curriculum for the betterment of your teacher’s ego. Maybe it was good preparation, not much has changed. Here I am spending 7 hours a day, 5 days a week on the phone. But they might’ve had the decency to let me know I’d never escape it, rather than dangle the keys in front of me. Let the rat smell the cheese before the execution.
Did your tuck-shop sell mousetraps? Mousetraps are fucking rank, especially the ones with tinned spaghetti in them. It reminds me of school camps, someone’s sweaty dad cooking a massive saucepan of it. And ‘camp Milo’, you’d get really excited, and then you’d get a cup of bitter, lukewarm, drainwater. Half the time the milk formed that skin on top, and as you drank it’d get stuck to your teeth. I can feel that skin now, between my teeth, trying to suck it out but it just gets wedged further in. it’s a goddamn horrorshow. That’s the kind of milk that makes someone write A Clockwork Orange.
In hard-tech, I tried to make my own eyeball cuffs, like Alex has in the film. Tech was probably my favourite subject. I worked on the eyeball-cuffs between assessments - making alarm systems and CD racks and shit. Tech was great because you could work by yourself on your own design, in your own time. I liked that kind of achievement. You can hold it in your hands; it’s like the physical manifestation of your psyche. And you could get a little dirty; your uniform could get a bit ratty. After sanding MDF for a couple of hours your shorts would be covered in this fine dust, we all had big white streaks down our fronts and caking woolly jumpers. No one could tell you off, ‘cause you can’t break the rules if you’ve just been following them. So these cuffs, I never finished them. I’d gotten as far as a vacuum-mold for the actual eyeball part, which I’d carved myself. Someone suggested I could’ve made them out of ping-pong balls, but I didn’t like that idea – it didn’t seem to have the same realness, you know? My molds are probably still sitting there in the cupboard of the tech room. I imagine it a bit like Gollum’s Cave, my molds protected by the tech teacher. He was actually called Mr. Schollum, so the connection isn’t that crazy. He stooped and limped about the classroom, ‘hello boys, working hard?’ ‘Yes, Mr. Schollum.’ ‘Good good, back to it then.’ And then he’d limp off to his backroom, to do… something. I never knew what teachers did in their mysterious backrooms. It’d be nice to imagine they were all secret alcoholics. Maybe they just washed their teeth with milky instant coffee to ensure their breath always had the appropriate smell.
Mr. Schollum that suggested I try Engineering at university. The University of Auckland, ‘Where I went my son. get to know what you’re all about. Join the Engineering Society. I was there for that incident in ‘79; you know the one, where we were attacked by those Maoris. John Harawira, he was there. Pita Sharples too. I probably gave John a bloody nose, come to think of it. Don’t take yourself too seriously, that’s another piece of advice I can give you. See we were having a fine time, practicing the old haka. Couple of the boys had penis-mokos, ha-ha! We’d changed the lyrics a bit, we were just lads being lads yknow. And it was damned funny too. Then we were attacked by those Maoris! Bloody attacked! Let your hair grow long. Join some clubs. Participate a bit, you know, get to know yourself.’
So I tried the University of Auckland. I didn’t last very long; I left before the end of the first semester. Straight after finishing high-school, I had my summer of madness. The first one being 18. I drank and smoked for a good two months – going to parties, doing burnouts in Albany, trying to get laid but getting a handjob instead, trying not to care too much. It was like we’d all been released, we’d finally escaped. Just living with my mum, spending days away from home on a bender. I drove drunk for the first time that summer. Weird feeling, it’s like the car itself is drunk. The car moves in a drunken, lazy way. Leaning around every corner, like how some people play Gran Turismo. I think that’s the most memorable part of the summer, the newborn rat driving dangerously. If you put long ropey tails on all the cars in Auckland, they’d look like giant rats. Imagine sitting up in the SkyTower, looking down at the cars. It’d be like looking at one of those mazes scientists put rats in, everyone racing around trying to find the cheese. I didn’t find any cheese at university. I couldn’t concentrate for the whole hour… I’d start thinking about some other shit, my mind was fucking Spiderman up the walls. Thinking about girls, or rats. Examining the person in front of me, some dickhead rugby player with a rat’s tail and a Mohawk. Using a MacBook. For Facebook. Fuckarse. Then I’d try and tune back in, but I’d be ten minutes behind the lecture. That’s the problem; because once you’re gone you can’t come back, yknow? You’re forever ten minutes behind
I worked up the balls to quit after about a month of that. But I don’t really like, own my uni-failure; it just feels like we’re parallel. Me and the failure. It’s like… a certain set of things happened on one side that moved me in one direction, but then me, like, the actual me, was moving the same direction but at a distance. But honestly, I feel like all the fucking time.
Obviously I had to start working, ‘cause my mum wasn’t gonna put up with me doing nothing. She said that, pretty explicitly. ‘Get yourself a bloody job, Andrew. I won’t have you being a layabout like your useless father. Your Aunt Cathy’ll take you on at the fruit shop. Better get some CVs printed, you better be organized. Won’t be having a layabout for a son. It’s time to do something. The world keeps moving, whether your like it or not.’ like it or leave it? So I should kill myself? ‘Don’t you say that!’ I’m being melodramatic. ‘You start being productive; you’ll see that it’s good for you. People are meant to keep busy… this mood of yours is part of your downward spiral, it’s self-defeating. Your horoscope today says: A loved one’s advice is best heeded. As Mercury crosses Neptune you’d be wise to pay attention to your finances. Emotional judgements prove costly, instead, clear-thinking and objectivity benefit you most.’ you just made that up. ‘I did not, look it’s right here.’
Ridiculous, right? It actually did say that. Another prophetic moment in my ordinary life. I should’ve just killed myself right there. Anyway, a couple of days later after I’d gotten over this haunting twist to my life, I found myself applying for a job at a call-centre. Which I call a call-centre, but it really wasn’t at all. A call-centre makes me think of a beautiful woman in an Air New Zealand uniform and a headset. Here they made calls under the guise of Colmar-Brunton, which is that name you hear on the news when they do political polls and shit. Sometimes you’ll talk to some fucking genius who’ll think that your name actually is Mr. Colmar Brunton, then you gotta fend off his retarded questions about your fucking identity. Colmar-Brunton is engaged in market research. They call you up during dinner-time, which is perfect because they know you’ll be home. Then they ask you to do a survey, which has been prepared in accompaniment with the company wishing to gather ‘market research’. The line they feed is: ‘answering these surveys allows you, the consumer, to have an input into how services and products can be made even better.’ Which, I think, is bullshit. Have you heard that there is a list of names and numbers, which you can ask to be removed from so you aren’t asked to do another survey? It’s true; there is a list of consumers. It can be bought and sold, however. There are companies out there compiling lists of names and numbers and selling them to other companies for them to get ‘market research’ out of. Did you know your name is a commodity?
Obviously I got the job, ‘cause that’s how I can tell you that shit. I’ve been here for about two months, and everyday it gets harder and harder to not go postal on these motherfuckers. Every one in charge is a fucking Christian, actual fucking Mormons. Everyone smells like instant coffee, just like my fucking teachers. And they’re all so fucking nice. But shit-nice, like I’m reverse-bullied into being the most number-one fucking employee here. And that about brings me up to right now, and who I am, and why my name is not fucking Mr. Brunton.

Fragments/taxiride.

-Hi, New North Rd?
-Yes, ok.
-How’s your night been?
-Not bad, not bad.
-Any good fares?
-Some, yes. Some ok. Some, ah, you know the prank call?
-Yeah. No good.
-Yes, no good. Man, I tell you bro, in India, these ones, we prank call them back.
-Oh yeah?
-Yeah bro, call other taxi company to their house…
-or call pizza to the house
-yeah bro! All of this bro.
-Fuck yeah.
-Yeah, fuck man, sometime, you ‘cause in India like, it is very easy to know someone that knows the person, you know. The one that has prank call you.
-Yeah?
-So you know, sometime man, we know who this person is, and we call their relatives or whatever, their friend. And we say to them this person is dead, man.
-Ha ha! Wow…
-Yeah, wow man, so you know, their parents get a phone call - ‘oh I hear your son is dead, I am so sorry’ and they are crying you know? So the parents – ‘What! My son is not dead!’ and then some relatives or whoever come to the house.
-Ah, haha!
-And all night you know bro, people are calling the parents, crying on the phone. Sending them flowers, all of this bro.
-haha, that’s sweet as
-Yeah, used to be a bad-boy man, get in lots of trouble you know. I joined the army and it all stopped.
-You were in the army?
-Yeah bro, Indian Army for 7 years.
-Rad.
-Indian Army is hardcore man. Hardcore. I got shot 14 times.
-You got shot 14 times?
-14 times bro. Indian Army is hardcore. Lots of enemies, you know. Terrorist…
-Pakistan?
-Pakistan, yes. So you know, lots of fighting, fighting. Shot 14 times in 7 years bro.
-That’s insane!
-I know bro, so after my dad found out, I have been shot like 14 times, he say ‘enough’ you know. So I leave the army.
-You come here.
-I come here bro.

The Noise.

I
I could stab you I love you so much. I read that on the bus. I could’ve written it; but for the handwriting. I can’t remember. I remember only this: houses and cars and skirts. I look at skirts, they swish past me; patterned, high-waisted, pleated, tutu, the legs moving inside them independently. Some skirts are on mannequins. Some mannequins walk. I know what’s inside them – I know your secrets. I like polyester floral skirts, I thumb the fabric feeling millions of small holes and I think about the atoms squeezing in and out of the holes. It’s all transfer, thousands of transactions happening at a million times a second, it’s just a bank. You see - your skirt isn’t as solid as you think. It’s an illusion. I think it looks solid, but I know it isn’t. That’s how it works. That’s how everything works. The world is polyester fabric, mountains and mountains of stacked holes; they only exist from a distance. It’s safe to walk on, but don’t pick a hole in it. I wonder if God would wear a skirt? I know he isn’t there. I know nothing’s answered. I scream at him though, I still scream. Silently, inside my head. When I’m in the back of the movies, in an allocated seat, inside my head I’m screaming. I’m breathless with rage, begging for a reprieve. You’d never know; I’m as quiet as He is. I always sit at the back, because I like to see. I always look normal too. I tell myself, “Look normal”. So I’ll be there completely normal and ordinary, even whilst my insides are tortured by snakes. I can shut them up. Did you think I could do that? They shut up when I talk, but I had to promise someone I’d be quiet. They don’t like it when I talk. So I don’t talk anymore, I’m quiet and normal. I’m just like you are, I’m old and I hate myself. We grew old young. Now we listen all the time. We listen. I try and listen to people; I lean forward and keep my face open and calm. I listen even though I know you’re lying. And that I’m lying too; inside I don’t care what they say, I’m always screaming. But we remain calm. The turmoil would make a lesser man cry, it’s too hard. Is that what music is? We don’t cry, because we’re old. I nod and smile, they appreciate that. Sometimes I feel sorry for them. I love them so much I want to hold them all inside me and tell them everything’s ok, we can all scream together, there’ll be nothing but us and the noise. Sometimes I want to drown them in saltpeter, and I’ll scream at them till the whole world burns. But I won’t. I shan’t play that role, nor any role. That’s something they can’t have, I won’t give it to them. I could stab you so much I love you. I could love you so much I stab you. I love you, I love you, I hate you, I love you.
II
She was a model. Maybe an actress. I don’t know; she talked too loud and it was unattractive. I wanted to fuck her. I wanted to be the sad end-point of a night of drunken mischief, a cum-stain on her mattress or a trip to the doctor. She was surrounded by boys. They sipped alcohol from green-bottles. Their testosterone made me feel like a fag and their private-school educations made me feel stupid. I hated them, I hated her, I didn’t have enough left for myself. I watched them pass a pitiful joint around their circle. It was badly rolled; it was soggy and had the shape of a vampiric finger. What the fuck was I doing here? My friend had told me to come along. He’d gone to the bathroom to snort lines of MDMA with a graffiti-artist he knew. Our relationship was fickle anyway; I didn’t blame him for running away. His invite to this fashionista/socialista party was probably a formality. Fuck him. I walked away from the foul scene in front of me, considering the possibilities of finding a good Christian girl amongst this filth. I wanted to exact some excitement from one of God’s children – over-the-panty fingering and a listless handjob. I hate sex. I invariably end up hating the girls I’ve fucked. It’s far simpler to hate them first and forget the orgasm.
The night dragged on. Some people got louder, some quieter. I got drunker off someone else’s booze – alco-pops I’d found in the fridge that made my teeth hurt and my stomach ache. A few party members had taken taxis into town so that they could be photographed and spend more money. I was broke, and couldn’t be bothered making that pointless pilgrimage. In my malaise and asexual frustration I had found myself perusing the parental boudoir of this Freeman’s Bay home. I emptied my disgusting drink out of their window and filled it with the father’s top-shelf whiskey, feeling rather pleased with myself. I looked through the mother’s underwear drawer, trying to determine whether she was a fuckable wench or not. She wasn’t – her underwear was of an incredible size. I’d found this brief excursion to be rather funny, so I capped it by taking a Romeo-y-Julieta from the father’s cigar selection and rubbing my testicles with his deodorant. I made my way back out to the main party, stumbling slightly and spinning my new found cigar. I began to feel good about myself again; I was walking on pillows and could barely see. I spotted model/actress again, still surrounded by the fuckheads. With my deodorized balls and gigantic, incognito whiskey I felt prepared to talk to her.
Do you have a match? I slurred, motioning my cigar.
No, she replied, rather curtly.
I lit it with a lighter instead.
What do you do? I asked.
She gave me a Look. I’m an actress, actually.
Oh? I said, swaying slightly. I could feel the testosterone-boys eyeing me up, puffing out their chests and re-arranging their clothes. I turned to the nearest, be-hatted fuckwit and blew him a kiss. The cigar had already begun to disintegrate in my mouth, and I probably had flecks of tobacco in my teeth.
Would you like some whiskey? I asked her.
No.
It’s in this can. I can get you some more.
No, I’m fine.
Do you read poetry? You’re beautiful.
She laughed.
I think you should fuck off, mate, one of the multitude said to me.
I laughed. Suck my dick, I whispered.
What, cunt?
Oh, nothing, nothing. I laughed, or perhaps giggled. I looked at the actress, her flowing dress invited me to rip it off her and tongue every inch of her scrawny body, my nails like claws across her back and our bodies snakes of passion. I kissed her, gloriously on the mouth. She didn’t kiss back. I kissed harder, pushing myself into her and forcing my tongue against her clenched teeth. I kissed her lip, I kissed her nose, I kissed her cheeks, I breathed lurid alcohol into her lifeless body and grabbed her tiny waist.
Someone punched me.
III
He walks slowly; he’s tired, always tired. Someone told him he’d die today. He doesn’t believe them – they tell him everyday. But he’s dressed for his death. Everyday he dresses for his last. Yet nothing about him is perceivable. Where he walks to is unknown, only that he walks and his hands shake – he saw truth, now he degenerates, now he crumbles. An observer could be forgiven for thinking he is mad, but there is no one there to observe. Judgement is moot. The man is alone, sun strikes his face and wind ruffles his hair. That he exists, he acknowledges. You are forgiven too for thinking he exists, and he is forgiven for existing. You exist by proxy, he by force. You ask: is that all? He smiles: the man is past judgement, the man is alone. That man will die, you know. That man will deny, you know as well. Would you hear him if he cried out to you? Would you cry back? You don’t know the answer, yet you whisper the question. The man chose the way he’d look when he dies. This is all he has. He can’t choose his point of departure as he never chose his point of entry. Have you ever seen a man on the last day of his life? You see him everyday.

Fragments/dogbite

Arf! arf!... arf! Arf!
Shut the fuck up or I'll bloody smack yuz!
ARF!
Right.
*smack smack*
Cunt.

Fragments/Slownight

-Yes, hello Kerre. Now, I have a solution for this dog problem.
-Go on.
-I carry just a little spray bottle of Janola. And if the dogs come up to you, you just spray them in the face with the Janola.
-Just straight Janola? Do you dilute it?
-No, no, just the Janola. And you spray him in the face with it, just, just spray him in the face with the Janola. When the dog attacks you.
-That sounds… a little extreme?
-No, no. so I just carry a spray bottle of Janola in my, in my purse and you spray the dog with the Janola if he attacks you.
…Right. Thanks Diane. Hello Jerry, how are you this evening?
-Thanks, ah, Kerre, Yeah, great thanks, how are you?
-I’m well, thank you.
-Ah great. Listen, now, I’m not a racist, I’m not a racist, by, ah, no means am I a racist.
-Ok.
-But ah, listen, you have to ask the question – these Maoris, what the bloody hell are they thinking keeping these dogs?
-Well, I’m not sure what they’re thinking. And I’m not sure that all the dog owners are Maori.
-Well, ah, perhaps not, but there’s a Maori family down the road from me and they’ve got some of those ah, bull-type dogs, those ah, what was it that attacked that girl?
-Um, pit-bull terrier.
-Yeah, couple of them. And listen, my kids are bloody scared of that house, they call it the ‘scary dog house’ and on their way home from school they run past it. They’ll run kerre, ‘cos they’re scared of the dogs.
-Ok.
-So you know, what are they bloody thinking?
-I’m not sure.
-Well, exactly. You know I wonder about this multi-culture business.
-How’s that?
-Well, I mean… we don’t keep dogs like that.
-…I wouldn’t say that the way animals are treated is, um, culturally specific. I can think of Pakeha families that have mistreated animals as well.
-Yes but, ah, you must wonder about this multi-cultural stuff. You know.
-No I don’t know.
-Well there’s a different way to ah, approach the work there.
-I’ve worked with some very industrious Pakeha, and I’ve worked with very lazy Pakeha. And right now I’m working with Vietnamese, Indian, Chinese, Malay…
-Ah, but no Muslim!
-…uh, no not at the moment.
-Well, exactly.
-…ok. Thank you Jerry.
-Thanks Kerre.

Bastards.

He was twenty-eight, possibly going on Bastard. Skinny and lank in his melancholy, he could’ve been a poet or a fisherman. And those hands, jesus those hands, twitching to the beat of black coffee and anti-psychotics and polka-dotted with burns from a cigarette.
Another day in paradise, said he with a wink. I looked up briefly and nodded solemnly. Grey Lynn buzzed about us, the chink-chink from the obese beggar’s ukulele (like a Hawaiian Eskimo!) mixing effortlessly into the eerie hum of the bourgeoisie. Our faux-intellectual stronghold – a cafe, to add to our pretence – elevated us above the mooing crowd and offered unparalleled access to the Human Zoo. A dog walked past. Rommel, the vitiligo-afflicted Rottweiler, waggling his tailless bum in the air, chewing a pig’s ear and daring anyone to ask what Hitler would’ve thought. I think Hitler was a cat person. And what was the point of naming a dog Rommel and giving it a pink, diamante-studded collar? I remembered the owners were lesbians. Must be an ironic statement about patriarchal society, it must be.
He interrupted me: I had a dog you know, beautiful bull-terrier thing, a pig-dog. She had eyes only for me, big brown luscious ones, and her eyelashes, oh (he grabbed his chest with one of those hands) makes one weep to think on’t. My father took me pig hunting, properly and all with a knife and dogs you know. Suzy would bound in front of us, slightly shy, an ineffectual finder, mollified cur I suppose…
We grunted uniformly and were momentarily disengaged. A middle-aged lady had bumped another car in her attempt at a parallel parking, which naturally met with whoops of sarcastic approval from the other trolls of the café. You fucked up! And other witticisms ensued.
He breathed out a nasally Anyway and sucked his cigarette like a lollypop. Anyway, he loved the pig-hunt, my father, big brutish dogs sniffing after swine, ferns and bracken smacking into your dick, all that man shit. Swanni’s and shit, JUMP ON IT MATE CMON GET THE FUCKER. So there’s my girl in the midst of this crap, running up and down the hills with the boys, glimpses of bristle through the gorse, fuckin’ steam rising up off the dogs and all. Would you believe I had a beard? I had a beard.
His cigarette tap-danced on an ashtray. Pinching mine between my teeth, smoke curled into my eye and I squinted at him like a pirate. I had a watery vision of my friend running up and down those exotic West Auckland hills, free amongst the indifferent, vacant flora and chasing dogs alight with the scent of the quarry, adrenaline-stiffened heart and scrabbling legs, ears pumped full of blood and deaf.
So we’re chasing this big bastard thing, the bailer barking madly and the holders close behind. The old man has his knife out, swearing away and heaving his guts out up the hill. He smoked Park Drive without a filter. He was one of those bastards that floats in and out of your life, dispensing his fuckin’ stories and occasionally trying to get me pissed with him. Every so often I’d go and do something with him… you know, fishing, hunting, camping, whatever. Didn’t seem to matter, half the time we just ended up getting pissed with his mates in some shed.
He lit another cigarette.
Inhale.
Oh yeah, that fuckin’ knife.
Exhale.
He used to clean it on the table in his house, big fuckin’ Bowie knife. The handle was dark and worn… pig blood y’know. Wipe it down with a cloth, sharpen it on the leather - he had his routine. I remember Suzy sniffed at it once, Christ, you should’ve seen her jump… the old bastard loved his knife, wouldn’t even let the dog near it. Thought she was after it, I don’t know, but he damn well went off at her. She stayed away from him afterwards… there must’ve been something in his voice made her think that he really would have had her nipples mounted on the wall…
I wanted to laugh, but I couldn’t. There was a boyish earnestness in his voice that mixed exquisitely into his usual malaise. It gave me the feeling of being on acid, this urban environment cut by this contradictory figure, I felt jungle around me and snakes in my veins, we were exiled in our tiny corner that knew only the bounds of our intellect and the dry heat of the sidewalk.
We had the pig backed against a sheer bank. It turned and faced the bailers. The holding dogs were lagging behind; they’d misread its intention and were coming fast up the left-flank. This hog is fucking staring right in my eyes.
I leaned forward. The man’s pupils were huge, his acrid, cigarette-and-coffee breath striking my cheeks.
Suzy’s right in front of my right foot, her ears were cocked up and the fur on her back raised up. BAM! The cunt charges, head down bolts towards us. Suzy goes to leap out of the way, the first holder’s reached us and he lunges like a wolf, sinks his teeth into the top of the fuckers’ neck. He’s too fuckin’ late, this big bastard boar’s tusk has gone through her ribcage, she’s fuckin’ impaled on this boar’s head, the old man’s shouting at the dogs to keep away, she’s fuckin’ howling. He rushes in with his knife, slits the pig’s throat, throws his knife away and grabs both sides of her head, scrunches his hands over her ears like he’s about to kiss her on the forehead, then puts his back into a twist. Her neck cracked like a gunshot. I picked her up, he grabbed the pig in a fireman’s lift and we walked out. Didn’t say a fuckin’ word to me. We got to the edge of the bush and he starts to make a fire. He laid the pig down. He grabbed a stick, wrapped the end with cotton from his pack and poured meths over it. He lit the end of it and started burning the bristles from the boar. That stench of burnt hair began to make me feel sick.
I thought I could smell it too, so close to him with my eyes locked onto his. I could see the scene reflected in his pupils.
Not gonna carry her back are ya? No bloody point. The farm’s ages away, he says. He threw Suzy on the fire.
And I could feel it too; I was in the fire with the dead dog and the two men and the dead pig and the barks and woofs of sad and hungry canine friends and the sobs of a man whose eyes I look into now. I could feel it. I looked down.
His cigarette was burning into my hand.