literature

Boof.

Deviation Actions

By
Published:
226 Views

Literature Text

After leaving the hall, waving silently once again to the volunteers who have remained in the hall to clear up before the Sunday school team come in, filing the children in through the left hand side doors, Matiu began to walk across K’ Road, nervously wondering who he’d see today. He didn’t mind K’ Road being the way it was, let people be. God makes the sun rise on both good and bad people, he thought, I cannot judge. But besides his trepidations, he didn’t see the familiar people, and he didn’t have to repeat the same lines about different lives, different courses.

Passing East st, watching the cars go by as he crossed the roads onto the next, Matui felt the soles of his trainers stick to his heels and then drop, remembering their looseness and smiling when he thought back to the shop assistant who sold them to him. She bumbled through the sale, I’m new I’m sorry I’m just. No problem, he waved peacefully, there’s no rush. And when the trainers were slightly too big, he decided he couldn’t be bothered to return them, even though he realised there would probably be somebody there more experienced, or even that she needed the practice, and it might be better him than someone more impatient, aggressive maybe. I could take them back, he thought, and supposed that he was right. He often wore his trainers with no socks, and although the church preferred he wear actual shoes, Matui felt that it helped him feel more peaceful.

When he can, he pads around his flat, contemplating quietly, looking with concentrated peace at the dirtied soles of his feet, and at the second smallest toes curling inwards towards the biggest, trying to listen as they stick momentarily to the browned lino as he walks slowly around his kitchen. His walk is purposeful and gradual as he tries to block out the continuous noise of traffic that pushes on through the night, making a crushing white noise that sometimes threatens to power down upon him. It wasn’t always like this, he thinks, looking at the old yellowing photo of him in his King Kobras jacket. God knows how I got someone to take that photo, he thinks as he fingers the golden frame that hangs in the kitchen by his fridge. Matui peers in closely to the photograph, seeing the Ponsonby Rugby Club behind him and some of the members just out of shot. As the years have passed since he joined PIC, the sickness he feels when he contemplates his past has lessened, but still even now he finds himself in night sweats, sheets wet from the fear, constantly wiping the sweat from his tamoko.

Matui hangs the golden frame back up and tries to concentrate on the noise of his feet on the lino once again, inhaling slowly, letting his ribcage rise as he looks to the ceiling. Lord, give me strength to be a better man than I was. He shrugs his shoulders up and holds them up and then rolling them forward before exhaling. Let me be better.

When the door is rattled, so is Matui. Rattled out of his reverie, he walks to the half closed door and sees his brother, Wiremu. Boof, Wi says, and hugs him. How’s it bro?
Kapai, all good, you sweet? Matui turned and walked towards the kitchen.
Sweet as bro, business is business. Wi cracked a wide grin, and followed it by rubbing Matui’s shoulder.
I dunno if that’s a good thing, my bro. Matui felt that he was joking, but also serious. If his brother’s trade went well then it must follow that he wasn’t scrimping, not living hand to mouth. This was a good thing. But not living hand to mouth, it meant living cock to mouth, cock to ass, and Matui felt uncomfortable. Why he had to degrade himself, to sell his body, he didn’t know. Wi was earning enough dancing, and he also earned enough from clean escorting also. Matui didn’t care about trading in sex, his philosophy was always the same: live and let live. He would often extend that to Love and Let Love, Die and Let Die. For him, he felt that if you harmed no-one with your lifestyle then carry on, even if that extended to suicide. His way of thinking was often apart from PIC, but he often tried to accommodate views, taking pieces from his personal philosophy and throwing them in amongst the teachings and dogma of PIC. But surely Wi was harming himself, despite his obvious pleas to say otherwise.

it was clear that Wi knew Matui’s feelings about his lifestyle, and on the occasions where they crossed paths just off K’ Road, they would walk with each other, Wi gradually bringing himself closer, bringing himself to be apologetic, discussing what he had to do today or last night, apologising, reproving and admonishing himself while simultaneously trying to explain. He sought a walking confessional, Matui thought. Boof, Wiremu would plead, you don’t know what how it is.
I didn’t ask, bro, I never do. I don’t hate you, dislike you... he stopped and turned, I love you. Matui held Wi’s face in both hands, gazed into his eyes and then leant into a hug. This scene happened more often than Matui would like, and in fact was so regular an occurrence that he felt he was reading from a script.

On the evenings, when he returned from late services at PIC, Matui made sure he would pass the lady-boys, the transsexuals, female to male and back again, the pushers, the users, those stupid double dippers who use their own product. If the local newspapers carried a story of murder from K’ road, it could be guaranteed that it was the double dippers. On occasion, he’d hear of another transsexual male to female, most likely pre-op, being beaten or killed another body found again at Grafton Bridge. Money was the issue, often, coupled with a latent feeling of disgust after one load was blown and the punter, out of self disgust, aimed to keep the other load in his wallet. Sometimes, if the feeling took him, Matui would seek out people to talk to, feeling his duty ride up in his heart.

Clicking the door shut after his brother left ten minutes previous, not wanting to walk with him back down to K’ Road, Matui took up his rucksack complete with four bottles of water, some picnic bars, and his favourite version of the  bible, the King James, and made the journey back. He always felt that he expected nothing of this ritual, only to find people lost, people with everything to give, everything to lose, and often only fleeting satiation to gain.

As he came round the corner of Pitt St, he clutched the strap of his rucksack and settled it at his feet for a moment. Scratching his head, feeling the grooves at the back of his skull, running his fingertips down his neck, Matui felt ready for the evening ahead. As a few moments passed, cars and taxis flying by, the evening settling in, Matui recognised a young boy he thought he’d recognised. The boy, pulling a small oddly shaped bike, looked up at Matui and smiled with recognition, noticing the tattoos on his face and the jacket he was wearing.
Hey, Jimmy?
Hello... minister.
Matui, the family call me Boof.
A short piece, to be added to and amended.
© 2014 - 2024 manmadeofjam
Comments0
Join the community to add your comment. Already a deviant? Log In