"That'll be $11.70," mumbles the ambiguously looking Middle Eastern gentleman behind the counter of the Queen Street convenience store. I cautiously hand him my EFTPOS card, as I gingerly accept my purchase of Marlboro Reds, the skint student's favourite brand of cigarette. The man is tall and wiry, with a wisp of a beard, and wrinkles around his eyes. Ina bad light, I reflect, he might be mistaken for President Ahmadinejad of Iran. I briefly ponder why Ahmadinejad would leave his job to take up owning a convenience store in downtown Auckland. Perhaps to better slay the Western infidels by selling them cigarettes, through which Allah will induce lung cancer, and energy drinks which will deprive them of sleep and make them unfit to face the warriors of the Mahdi. The shopkeeper's smile snaps me out of this brief reverie. The card, has despite my worst fears, been accepted.
Watching the EFTPOS machine's screen, while it says "Processing Now' is possibly one of the most terrifying ordeals modern life in New Zealand has to offer, especially if one has been unemployed for a reasonable amount of time, surviving hand to mouth, doing odd jobs. I still remember a few months ago, waiting in line to purchase a book at the uni bookstore, striking up a conversation with the pretty German exchange student just behind me, and watching as the words "Declined" ended whatever chance I had of possibly walking away with a number. The phrase, "You go, big baller" echoed mercilessly in my head, said with a merciless Teutonic precision. Which is funny, because she never said anything, simply walking out with barely a glimmer of recognition. Ouch. The walk was enough to say it. I'm pretty sure she thought it, and I somehow picked up on it. Yeah, because you form a psychic bond with random girls you meet in bookshops on a more or less regular basis. God I'm a twat.
Agenda for tonight? Party at friend's ex-girlfriend's place. Awkward? Perhaps. I have no clue why I got invited to this thing, to tell you the truth. Me and Curtis did sit on a couch for hours on end, trying to figure that one out.
"Maybe Cheryl wants to bone you?'
"Fuck off. No way. Her and Jake finished like, what a month ago? She knows I'm good mates with him. She probably just wants me along to add colour to her 'scene'. You know what a pretentious little shit she is. She wants a slightly exotic drunk to come along and spout shit about 'radical change', and 'opening the public sphere'."
"So Kirk's gonna be there?"
"Yeah"
Silence.
"So you gonna go, then?"
"Yeah, fuck it. There might be plenty of pretentious-but-thick Fine Arts girls hanging around."
I nudge past the pedestrians along Queen Street, toward the apartment complex where this latter-day version of Warhol's factory is to be held. I'm sure Cheryl thinks this is going to be rather like one of those ancient Greek symposia, where a bunch of wise, witty men lay around couches drinking wine, discussing philosophy, and engaging in homosexual flirtation. Personally, I'd be glad if i can get out of there having seen a few chicks making out.
"Hey man, I love your leather jacket. You look like James Brown, the actor" says a wilfully confused young man, trying to palm off a Bible. I have a strong desire for a few seconds to walk downtown wearing an immense orange cape, a flamboyant pompadour, and yellow platform shoes.
Why does religion kill pop-culture awareness? Is there a portion somewhere in the Bible that states being hip is an abomination in the eyes of God? Admittedly, I feel a little quiver of delight as I imagine all the bearded, check shirt wearing, thick glass sporting bastards who listen to bands with names like 'Michael and Zelda', and 'A November Day's Rain' screaming in agony, as Beelzebub fails to respect their superior taste.
Tonight might be good after all. But first, let's get some booze.
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