Huia Short Stories 11 (7 page)

‘He whakatairite i te wahine ki te whetū ātaahua o Kōpū,
Venus
nei.'

‘Nō reira, kua horahia he kai i muri i tō kōrerotanga atu?'

‘Ā, kāo.'

‘Tēnā, he kupu pai mō te hinengaro engari me pēhea rā e patipati putiputi kia kaua e kaiponu?'

‘Ki tōu kāinga, ki tōku kāinga rānei? Whakaotioti ai ee …'

‘Ha ha.'

Pakā! Pakā!

‘Ko tāku – kei te hiahia parakuihi me au?'

‘Tō tero!'

‘Me i a au te marama hei whakakai maripi māu.'

‘Āe, ka ea i a koe?'

‘Ā, kāo …'

‘Ha ha. Pokokōhua! E kore a Tama Ngarengare e kai ki te kōrero pērā ki te wahine.'

‘E koe! Ināhea kōrua ko Tama i kai ai i a Tonetone?'

‘….'

‘He aha? Kāore au i rongo?'

‘Kua whakana toru marama.'

‘I tō kōrua wehenga …'

‘Āe.'

‘Kīhai ia i hiahia tamariki, nē?'

‘Āe. Engari kei te hiahia pā harakeke au.'

‘Kei te pai,
Bro
. Pai te Pākehā mō te parakatihi, engari moea te wahine Māori. He nui ake ngā werewere hei tōtō i tō waka tauā. Mmm.'

‘
Fuck you're a dick, Bro
.'

‘Hei, he kōrero noa iho,
Brother
. Engari he tika tonu. Kāore ia i te kōrero Māori. Whakana maumau tāima.'

‘…'

‘…'

‘He aha te werewere?'

‘Ko ngā ngutu whakaroto o te puapua.'

‘E tama, he tākuta koe? Pēhea koe e mōhio ai?'

‘Ko ngā kōrero i te hanganga a Tāne-te-wānanga i te wahine. Inā, ‘Ka pokaia te tara, ka kumea ngā raho, ka whakanohoia ngā puapua, ngā werewere, ngā hanahana, te kaitohe, ka kumea te tonetone, ka pokaia te kumu …'

Pakē! Pakē!

‘Taihoa, taihoa. E mea ana koe kua mau ā-ngākau tēnei kōrero pai mō te hanganga tangata, engari korekore rawa koe e mōhio tahi ki te kōrero tika ki te wahine?'

‘Ā, āe. He kōrero whakapapa. Pai te kōrero whakapapa ki a au.'

‘Koia kei a koe,
Bro
.'

‘Kua rongo au i tētehi whakapapa whaiāipo.'

‘Mmm?!'

‘Areare mai. Ko Karu. Tōmuri ko Arero. Tōmuri ko Ngutu. Tōmuri ko Ringa. Tōmuri ko Pito.'

‘Tōmuri ko …?'

‘Koia! Mai i te tirohanga ki te whakapānga pito. Tōna ātaahua!'

‘…'

‘Kāo. He maroke. Tōmuri ko Tone. Ko ia te kaikaranga kua reri te kai. Tōmuri ko taku hoa pūmau ko Ihi Rangaranga!'

‘HARERUIA!'

Pakō! Tekē!

‘Kua tata ki
Mermaids
?'

‘Tōna tata. He aha te mate?'

‘Hōhā noa te whakarongo ki a kōrua.'

‘Eo, ka hīkaka koe,
Bro
. Purotu ngā mea hou.'

‘Nē? Purotu pēhea nei?'

‘Āe rā, i te marama nei, ka mutu pea te ātaahua o te wahine rā. He urukehu.'

‘Eo, ko koe me tō urukehu.'

‘Hehe, me e kore tātou e panaia atu anō.'

‘He aha ai?'

‘Aaaa?!'

‘Kaua!'

‘I te hongihongi te kurī rā i te whero o taua urukehu.'

‘E koe!'

‘Hei! I te hongi kē au i te kakara o ana makawe! Ka tūpou ia.'

‘Wē! E rua e rua he anuanu,
Bro
!'

‘Hātekēhi,
Brother
. He kaihongi maromaro. Hi aue hi!'

‘Ha ha! Whaiwhai pīhau!'

‘Titia ki ō kōrua koito!'

‘Ooo, kia tau,
Brother
. Taihoa e riri. Engari kia mōhio koe, nē, he āhua anuanu tērā. Nā whai anō koe i panaia ai.'

‘Mmm. Engari he pai te kakara.'

‘Puuu! Kai a te kurī!'

‘Hei konei,
Brothers
.'

‘E hia te utu mō te urunga atu?'

‘Tēhea kūaha?'

Tingi. Tingi
.

‘
Welcolme, Gentlemen. Can't bring your own beer in. Leave it out here. Happy hour from 7 to 9. Free entry. Have a good night
.'

‘
Thanks mate. Our mate here's looking for a good time
.'

‘
Go on in. Remember, no touching, lots of tipping
.'

‘
You hear that, no sniffing, lots of dripping
.'

‘Kōrero Māori,
Bro
.'

‘Ā, he inu māu?'

‘Ki konei, he aha te mate?'

‘Hei aha,
Bro
. Māku e haute.'

‘Whā, nē, he nui rawa te utu.'

‘Kia ahatia! Hei whakaaro i tō hoki oranga mai.'

‘Ā, ka pai, ka pai. He wihiki,
Glenfiddich
, 18 tau te pakeke.'

‘Whū! E hia te utu …'

‘Nāu te kī!'

‘Purari hua! Taihoa ake. He mimi ngeru māu!'

‘Aī auē! Kuaka kuaka!'

‘He aha tērā?'

‘Te tangi o ngā ngutu rakiraki rā e kai ana i te pou!'

‘Ha ha ha!'

‘Wahuu!'

‘Āna. Kekē, kekē! Te tangi ngutu!'

‘Hei, tirohia ki korā rā. Ko ngā Hapanihi mau hutu.'

‘Ha ha! Mau ana te wehi! Me kopi te waha kei kuhuna te pōro tēpu.'

‘Ka pērā a konei?'

‘Kāore e hoa. Ets, whakatoi noa iho.'

‘Purutia ki tō wēke pēke!'

‘Ei?'

‘Ki tō puna mahara hokihoki mai ai.'

‘E kāo. Kei te hiahia whakatata atu.'

‘Eo! Pokokōhua! āpirana te utu mō tō wihiki.'

‘Anā tō kai!'

‘Kei te hiahia toro au ki te rūma pakupaku. Taihoa māku e whakarite.'

‘Whāia tō ihu, kurī, haere.'

‘…'

‘…'

‘Kia ora!'

‘Kia ora e hoa.'

‘Nō reira,
Bro
. Kua tatū tō noho mai.'

‘Āe, mō tēnei wā.'

‘…'

‘Kāore au i te hiahia hoki atu ki tērā whakana hēra ki tāwāhi …'

‘Mauri ora!'

‘Mauri ora, Bro.'

Pakē! Tingi!

‘E koro mā, haramai rā. Kua wātea a Urukehu mā tātou.'

‘Ā, tēnā aratakina atu.'

‘Kore kaka, kore huruhuru! Hi ha!'

‘Puu! Kāore i te pai kia hutia katoatia. He taitamariki rawa te āhua!'

‘Āe, mā te huruhuru tēnei ka tau.'

‘Hoihoi kōrua, kāti te tāmi i taku wairua manahau.'

‘E noho. Ko koe kei te tūru rangatira. Ko tā māua he mātakitaki.'

‘Ō, oraiti. He pōuriuri rawa o roto nei.'

‘Taihoa, taihoa.'

‘Inā rā, ko Wahine Ngeru me tana ārai kanohi.'

‘Hoihoi, Bro. Mātakina!'

‘…'

‘…'

‘…'

‘
Fuck off!
E hine!'

‘…'

‘Hinetī ko koe tēnā?!'

‘Matua, ko koe hoki tēnā?'

‘Ei?'

‘Ha?'

‘
Fi Fuck sake
!! Kei te mōhio a Māmā kei konei koe e mahi ana?'

‘Ā, kāo. Me pēhea ia e mōhio? Me kaua rawa ia e mōhio!'

‘Whā, e hine. Whakamaua he kākahu.
Gee
, kua hia te roa koe e pēnei ana?'

‘I taku haere mai ki te kuratini. Pai te moni.'

‘Ā, mōhio ana kōrua ki a …'

‘
Fuck off Bro
, tēnei taku irāmutu.'

‘…'

‘…'

‘E hine, ki te hiahia moni, māku koe e āwhina.'

‘Kāore au i te hiahia āwhina. Pai te mahi, māmā, nui te moni.'

‘Whakana hēra, he kairau koe.'

‘
Fuck off
, Matua. Ehara au i te kairau. He kaikanikani noa iho nei. Pai te mahi, iti te haora, nui te moni. Te nuinga o te wā, pai ngā tāne … te nuinga o te wā! Me haere koutou.'

‘E Hinetī …'

‘Me haere rā koe, Matua …

‘…'

‘…'

‘…'

‘… E kore kore rawa koe e mōhio ki taku nei ao.'

He decided to apply for the job as soon as he saw it advertised, even though the closing date was that very afternoon. The corner of his mouth twitched as he read the list of competencies required: good communication skills? Check. A team player? Of course, as long as no one else in the team had it in for him. Hard working? Naturally. He smiled as he re-read the list of competencies and matched his skills and experiences against it. Of course he could do the job; he just needed to apply and get through the recruitment process.

Maybe Bazza still worked there, and could put in a good word for him? Of course Bazza would do that for him, they'd known each other for years. Their wives used to play social netball together, and there was that one time their wives organised for them all to go out for yum cha. It was good fun, that. He and Bazza had had a great time laughing at the strange foods that had been hand-delivered to his table. When was that – two, three years ago? He made a mental note to ask his wife. Now he thought about it, she hadn't talked about Bazza's wife in quite some time, and there hadn't been a second invitation to yum cha, either. They probably stopped spending so much time together when his wife did her hip in and stopped playing sport altogether.

He frowned, and turned back to the job description. He decided it didn't matter if his wife and Bazza's wife hadn't seen each other in a while. Bazza would still put in a good word for him all the same.

Now for the part he hated the most: the cover letter. He sighed, and opened a new Word document.
Dear sir/madam
, he wrote.
I wish to apply for a position in your company
. His hands slackened as he watched the cursor flicker against the bright white screen. How were you supposed to sell yourself without sounding like a tosser? It wasn't easy to get the tone of a cover letter right. Too subtle and you don't look like you can do the job at all, so your cover letter and CV get chucked in the bin before the person doing the shortlist even gets to the end of the page. Too much self-adulation and you sound like a wanker. And no one wants to work with a wanker, do they? Especially not Bazza.

He distracted himself by looking up where the company was located now; at yum cha, Bazza had mentioned they'd had to move because the old building was earthquake prone. He chuckled; it was in one of those flash new buildings near the harbour. He'd heard about how the harbour views were so spectacular, the organisations in the upper floors were lucky if their employees didn't gaze out of the window all day long. He wouldn't stare out of the window if he worked there, he decided. After admiring the view, he'd put his head down and work. That was why they should hire him; they wouldn't get a harder worker. He thought about how funny
won't stare out the windows
would look in his cover letter before shaking his head and earnestly describing his skills and experience in as snappy a way as possible.

When done, he read over what he'd written, nodding his head as his eyes scanned the document, his gaze lingering on the renegade text that had snuck onto the following page. The tone was perfect: not too modest, not too showy. He sounded like a competent person, without any wanker-like tendencies. He just needed to cut out two lines so it would all fit on one page. He made the font smaller, which meant everything sat on one page, but you'd need glasses the thickness of cola bottles to read it. Not new cola bottles either, the old glass ones he remembered from when he was growing up. He briefly wondered if half of the other applicants even remembered a time when most cola bottles were made of glass, before forcing the thought from his mind. He needed to focus on the application; thinking about shiny young people with their fresh qualifications would just distract him. Or, envelope him in a dark cloud of pity, a cloud that would result in him deciding there was no point in applying for the job at all. He couldn't go down that path again, not this time. Not for this job. He needed to put that energy into getting the cover letter onto one page instead. He pressed a button, and inhaled sharply as the text morphed from the inoffensive Times New Roman to Comic Sans. He laughed at the idea of sending the application off in Comic Sans as he clicked around the page to try and change it back.

His mind wandered to how he'd get to his new job. What would be faster? The bus, or the train? He opened a new window and looked up the local transport website. What time would he want to leave in the morning? He chewed on his thumbnail, and ran through the morning routine he used to have back before he'd been made redundant. What time had he woken in the morning? Seven a.m? Or had it been six thirty? It was a while ago now; he couldn't remember the last time he'd been up before ten. He'd have to shave every morning again, so would need to factor in time for that. In order to make work by nine, he'd have to leave the house by eight to be on the safe side. He squinted at the timetable on his screen: the fastest way to work would be the train. He smiled; the train was much nicer than the bus. Maybe after his first pay he could get a smartphone and read about the rugby on the way to work. That would be sweet.

Turning back to his cover letter, he scowled at the Comic Sans script swirling in front of his eyes. All this mouse work was hurting his hand. Maybe it was time to work on his CV instead and fix the cover letter later. He felt more confident about his CV: those young kids might have shiny degrees, but he had a good work ethic and years of experience. The CV was the easy part. He didn't even mind this time about trying to disguise the cavernous hole between his last period of employment and today's date. Bazza was a good guy. He wouldn't judge a fella for something like that; Bazza knew that a guy could work hard his whole life but be dealt a bad hand.

His stomach rumbled, but he ignored it: he had to finish his CV and cover letter while he was on a roll. He only had another hour until it was due. Why hadn't he checked the jobs website before today? His wife's voice echoed in his head, asking that very question.
Because looking at jobs made me feel tired
, he thought.

The first time he applied for a job after being made redundant, he'd told his brother all about it, as well as the kids. They'd all talked about how good the job would be for him, better than the last job where he'd never been properly valued. His ears warmed as he remembered having to confess to everyone that he hadn't even gotten an interview. He got an interview for the next job he applied for, and he and his wife went shopping for a new shirt. What a waste that was; the shirt had only been worn the once, and now it was far too small for him. He'd have to get a new one for this interview, probably new shoes as well. This time it wouldn't be a waste, though. He could wear the new clothes to the job itself, wear them as he bought his new phone, and ate chips at the bakery below his new office. Or would he go to the McDonald's around the corner, the one near the railway station? He smiled. Maybe that could be his treat for Fridays.

He finished his CV, filled out the application form, uploaded the documents, and pressed ‘submit'. Sinking back into his chair, he put his hands behind his head and grinned. It was lucky he'd checked the jobs online that day, fate even. He thought about the job applications he'd sent off for the previous positions he'd been successful for, and marvelled that this was the first job he'd get that involved an online application. All of the other applications had been made through the post. He preferred the old way, he thought. You could go over the application, check for mistakes. Check for …

He went cold. Comic Sans. Frantically, he opened up the documents he'd just sent, and hit his hand to his head. He'd forgotten to change the font back. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to concentrate. Bazza! He could call Bazza! Bazza would help.

The phone beside him rang. Of course. It was his wife's lunch break, when she'd ring each day to pretend that she wanted to talk to him but was really checking he was out of bed.

‘Hello?'

‘Hi darling, how are you?'

He looked at his cover letter on the screen in front of him and felt his mouth go dry. ‘Okay. I had a question, though – you know Bazza? Do you know how I might get in touch with him?' He used all of his energy to keep his voice light.

‘Bazza?'

‘You know, Bazza. Mereana's husband. We used to hang out all the time.'

‘Oh, you mean Barry. I forgot you used to call him that. You know he hated it.'

He blinked slowly. ‘No he didn't. That time at yum cha …'

She laughed shrilly. ‘He hated it. Mereana told me afterward. He thought you were a racist too, the way you kept going on about the pork buns.'

His stomach lurched. ‘Oh.'

‘Anyway, you can't get in touch with Barry. He left Mereana last year and buggered off to Levin. I don't have a clue about how to get in touch with him. Not that he'd want to talk to you anyway.'

He made a sound in the back of his throat.

‘Are you okay?' his wife said.

‘Yeah,' he lied. ‘I just thought he was all right, that we were mates.'

‘So did Mereana. Anyway, I've got to go …‘

He replaced the phone in its cradle, and slowly shut each of the computer windows. The cover letter in Comic Sans, the CV, the train timetable, the page he'd clicked on to access the application form. Lastly, the job advertisement. Before it disappeared, he quickly skimmed its contents. How could he have ever thought it was perfect for him? That was why there was no point in looking. He shrugged his shoulders, blinked back tears, and walked out of the room.