THEY WERE ALMOST SKI JUMPS

Have you ever seen the Hudsucker Proxy? I’m just like Norville. I am a grade-A ding-dong. I arrived early for my flight to Christchurch at the airport. I went with my favourite carer up to the desk, gave them my passport and waited for them to process my ticket. The lady checked the book, frowned and said to me, err, your passport has actually expired. What a ding-dong. It’s not even as if it was a day or two out. That might have been okay. My passport had expired four years ago. My face burned crimson. The lady behind the counter asked me, what have you had a brain injury or something? Could, should, I blame it on my acquired brain injury or was it just a result of me being a grade-A ding-dong? If you’ve had a brain injury and no one else knows it it’s like farting alone in the woods. I asked if they could just let it slide. The lady smiled and said she couldn’t. She asked if I had an Australian passport? I said no. She asked, but you do live in Australia? I looked at her, she had a shaved head and her sleeves were cut off. She had a tattoo on her left bicep. The tattoo said I HATE MEN, in bold black letters. She also had a big black tattoo on her right bicep that said I LOVE MUFF. I told her I did live in Australia but that I’d always be a New Zealander. I told her I didn’t see a need for an Australian passport. She told me that Australian passports expire every ten years and New Zealand passports expire every five years. I told her that that didn’t help my situation. She told me it would have if I had an Australian passport. I twisted both of my ears towards her and poked out my tongue. She picked up a phone from her desk. I heard a loud squeal and then her voice calling for security over the intercom. I held both of my hands towards her with my palms out and said, hang on, steady babe. She wrote something down on a piece of paper then looked up and told me that she wasn’t my babe and would be suing me for sexual harassment.

I turned and said, ok, so what now, to my favourite carer? Get a good solicitor, she said. No, I said, not about that muff lover, I don’t care about her or her lawsuit, I mean about getting home to New Zealand? How will I get home now? She asked me if I was a strong swimmer. I told her I wasn’t. I told her I would probably drown before I got out of the bay of Bondi beach. She asked if I had a driver’s license? For what, I asked, Chitty Chitty Bang Bang? There’re several thousand kilometers of ocean to cross for me to get home. Oh yeah, she said, I forgot. I told her that she probably caught it from me. What do you mean, she asked, do you mean caught fish from the ocean you’re going to have to cross? No, I said, forgetfulness. They say that fish don’t have a good memory, she said. I said, they also say that they don’t have feelings… I wish I didn’t. Have what, have fish, she asked? Have you got crabs? Have feelings, I yelled. Why, she asked? ‘Cause then I wouldn’t feel embarrassed about turning up at the airport with a stale jam sandwich in my hand. You didn’t turn up with a stale jam sandwich, she said, you turned up with an expired New Zealand passport in your hand. I know I know, I said, I was trying to be clever. Clever with the jam, she asked? No I just meant that both things are useless to me. You could feed the bread to the ducks. To the fucks, I asked? No, she said, the ducks. What ducks, I asked? The ducks you see flying around the skies, she said. Do you think I should harness them, I asked her? For what, she replied back? Well maybe if I got enough ducks together and enough stale jam sandwiches then maybe I could feed then tie some rope around the ducks and get them to fly me home to New Zealand. I wouldn’t need a passport then. She looked at me and told me I should go boil my head. She turned her head and started driving towards the embassy.

The guards at the embassy lowered their guns so we could enter. They both lowered their air rifles to the ground butts first. One of the guards brought his rifle down too quickly and the gun accidentally fired a pellet into his forearm. The guard screamed and yelled, holy shit, and pulled his sleeve up. There was no blood but you could see where the pellet had ended up in his arm. The guard leant his rifle against the gate of the embassy and asked the other guard to help him dig it out. The other guard lay his gun down on the bitumen and rolled his sleeve up higher. I looked at my favourite carer and raised my eyebrows. She raised her eyebrows too so we past both of them into the compound. If the guards didn’t care about us why should we care about the guards? We had to go up in the lift to the first floor. There was a security video mounted on a flagpole but it was positioned so it faced down into the ladies toilets in the park across the road. There was a topless woman standing in the toilets playing with her breasts. Another of the guards was standing with a pair of binoculars looking into the ladies toilets. There was dribble dribbling down his chin. He kept licking his lips but he wasn’t fast enough to catch all his saliva. The guard suddenly started rubbing his crotch. He rubbed it faster and faster until smoke started to rise from the front of his pants. He put the binoculars down on the ground and hurried towards the toilets. I wasn’t sure if he was going for a wank or to douse the smoke. He was probably going to do both.

I picked up the binoculars and saw her. I started dribbling. She had great boobs. They were big and kind of pointy. They were almost ski-jumps but with enough round in them to not be. Her nipples were bigger than fifty-cent coins. I started rubbing my crotch too until my favourite carer slapped me around the side of the head and told me to watch it. I told her that I was watching it. She slapped me upside the head again and told me to behave. I hung my head and said, okay, and followed her into the office. I turned around for one last look before I put the binoculars down on the desk. I pushed my wheelchair into the room. There was a topless Maori woman wearing a grass skirt sitting on a big rock in front of the main desk. I said, Kia Ora. She said, gidday mate. I asked her what she had just said? She said, nothing cobber. I told her that her boobs were not as good as the ones of the woman in the toilet across the road. There is no woman in the toilet across the road, she said. Whatever, I replied. I’ve come to renew my passport, I told her. Why, she asked? Why not, I said. I want to know why, she stated? I told her I was off to join the French Foreign Legion. She laughed and said, death wish. I told her she was right.

We sat and waited a good half an hour before a man wearing a pair of black rugby shorts, gumboots and a red and black checked sleeveless Swandri walked up behind me. He said, are you here about the Legion? I said, no, I’m here about the Hari Krishna’s in the square. He laughed and patted me on the head before pushing me out of my wheelchair. I hit the ground face first. My nose started bleeding and the tinnitus in my ear turned up the squeal. He yelled out, there isn’t any square any more. I called him a bastard. He asked me, well what about your father? He’s a Hari Krishna in the French Foreign Legion, I said. The man sniffed and beckoned me into his office. I got back into my wheelchair and pushed myself into his room. There were four sheep in one corner eating a bale of hay. The sheep had left their little black poohs littered all over his office. The room stunk sour. I asked him if he wouldn’t mind opening a window? He said, that’s going to cost ya. How much, I asked? About four hundred dollars, he replied. Okay, I said, don’t worry about the window, I would prefer to smell sheep shit than your shit. I leaned into his desk and told him, the real reason I’m here is for a passport renewal. He laughed and told me that he couldn’t renew my old one because it had expired. Well, I said, can I buy a new one then? That’s going to cost you four hundred dollars too, he said. What is everything here four hundred dollars, I asked? He said, everything but the sheep shit. I asked why, is that more?

He went off to some room behind him and came back out with a game of Twister. He laid it out on the floor, spun the dial and told me, if you can beat me I’ll give you your passport for free. What’s that got to do with the price of chips, I asked him? The price of tits, he asked? No, I said, the price of chips… tits are free these days, I’ve already seen two sets today. I asked him if I could have a new passport now? What for again, he asked? I told him to stop jerking me around. Ok, he said, I’m sorry; I’ve been having a bad day. So have I, I said. I went to hop on a plane and was told I was four years too late. The man winked at me. Please don’t do that, I told him. Do what, he asked as he winked at me again. That, I said. He winked again and asked what? What you’re doing, I said firmly. I’m not doing anything, he said, I’m waiting for you to give me five hundred dollars so I can give you a new passport. I thought you said four hundred dollars, I said. He sniffed loudly and winked at me again. I told you to stop that, I said. Stop what, he asked? Stop winking, I screamed at him. He smiled and said, I’m not winking I’m blinking. Do you only blink at the end of each sentence out of one eye, I asked him. Yes, he said as he winked at me again. All of you should be locked up in an asylum, I told him. All of us, he asked? All of you but the topless wahine in the lobby, I told him. What topless wahine, he asked? Ok, I said, I’m ready for a game of Twister.

The man reached under his desk and pulled up a dark (well it wasn’t really dark, but it wasn’t really light either, it was a cross between dark and light) blue chilly bin. He pulled out two cans of Canterbury Draught and slammed them on his desk. He pointed to them and said, the first one to skull his gets his passport for free. Don’t you have a passport, I asked him? No, I swim home, he said. He looked me in the eye and said, are you ready? You slammed the cans, I said, the beer will be too frothy. He grinned and said one… two… three… fou… I picked my can off his desk, pulled the ring tab and started swallowing. Beer froth spilled out the corners of my mouth. He was halfway through shouting the word, Hey, before I’d finished mine. I slammed my empty can on his desk and wiped my mouth with my other hand. The can crumpled under the pressure. You cheated, he screamed. No, I said, I pre-empted. That’s the same as cheating he said. No, I said, that’s the same as clairvoyance. I knew you would come in here today, he said. Crystal ball, I asked? No, he said, I’ve got crystal balls. Well what about my passport, I asked? Can you look inside your pants and tell me my chances? I don’t have to, he said, I already know. And, I asked? Maybe, maybe not, he replied. All I came in here for was a passport, I whined, and you people keep fucking with me. Do you mind, he asked? I’d prefer to be fucked by the topless wahine in the lobby, I replied.

The man snorted and coughed up a big light green piece of phlegm. He spat it on his desk between us. You just spat on your own desk, I told him. So, he said, it’s my desk. You’re right, I said. I know I’m right, he said, I always am right. I’m bored, I said, I came in here for a passport and all I’ve seen are topless women and your phlegm. What would you rather see? A passport so I could get the fuck out of here, you people are crazy. We’re crazy, he asked, you turned up to the airport four years late and you have the gall to call us crazy? That’s right, I drawled. Okay, he said, give me a minute and I’ll see what I can rustle up. He left the office and was gone for five minutes. I looked at the pictures on his wall. My favourite was a photo behind his desk of a large ram with it’s back to the camera. It had a huge set of wrinkled balls that hung almost all the way down to the ground. He came back in to the office with a pile of papers. There would have been at least four hundred sheets of A4. He stacked them between us and said, you’re going to be here a while. Do I have to fill all of those in, I asked him? No, he said, the first three hundred are photos my mate took of the topless women who uses the toilet across the road. What do I want to see those for, I asked? They’re not for you to look at, they’re for me to look at, he said. Can I just have my hundred to fill in, I asked? When I’ve finished looking at my three hundred, he replied. I snorted and spat a big piece of brown phlegm on his desk. Hey, he shouted, that’s my desk! I told him I knew.

The door to his office suddenly burst open. The hinge on the top of the door splintered away from the frame. Two guards stood in the doorjamb holding big bags of paua. The biggest of the guards looked at the man behind the desk, pointed at me and said, is this the man bro? The man behind the desk said, look at him; he’s not a man he’s in a wheelchair, he’s only half a man. The guard said no that’s not what I meant. I meant is this the man who was sexually harassing the woman behind the desk? The way he said the word desk made it sound like he had said disk. I turned to face the guard. He was twice the size of me. The man behind the desk said, this is the man and this man is being a nuisance. I turned and told the guard that the incident at the desk had been a simple misunderstanding. He smiled at me. He didn’t have any teeth. He said, there is no such thing as a simple misunderstanding. He said, it would be simple if there were no misunderstanding. Are you a scholar, I asked? I’m not giving you a dollar, he shouted at me. I didn’t ask you for a dollar, I asked if you were a scholar. He turned to his mate and said, listen to this Pakeha; now he wants two dollars. Listen mate I don’t want any money from you. I actually came in here to give YOU guys some money. How much have you got, he asked, how much are you going to give me? I didn’t mean you, I said, I meant that I came in here to give some money to get a new passport. Are you a Kiwi, he asked? Yes, I said. How did you get here in the first place, he asked? I told him I swam. He said, bullshit. Ok, I said, I actually gave some ducks some stale jam sandwiches and got them to fly me over here. Ok, he said, now I believe you. He picked me up out of my wheelchair and threw me into another office. There was a lady with hairy legs sitting behind a desk. That’s not fair, I said. What, she asked? Your legs are hairier than mine, I replied. You should shave them, she said, that would make them hairier. You’re the one that should shave your legs, I replied.

I spent half of a day, almost twelve hours in the New Zealand passport office slowly devolving into madness. Just for the record I am already mad but I spent half a day devolving into their kind of madness. I rang the airline of the flight I had missed and the person who answered the telephone only laughed at me. They laughed so hard that they must have pissed their pants. When they’d finished laughing I asked them if I could buy a new ticket to get back to Christchurch? They said yes, but it will cost you five thousand dollars. I told them I had expected as much. Okay, they said, it’s now gone up to six thousand dollars. I had learned from my mistake so kept my mouth shut and just gave them my credit card details. The person on the phone asked if I had any luggage to take on board? Yes, I said. Any sheep, they asked? No, I said, just a topless wahine sitting on a rock, a ram with balls hanging down to the ground, three hundred photos of a topless woman playing with her breasts in a toilet, an empty crushed can of Canterbury Draught, a man who won’t stop winking and a Hari Krishna in the French Foreign Legion. The person on the phone said, all right buster, the ticket’s now seven thousand dollars. Ok, I said, do you accept New Zealand Express. They said no but they would accept a photo of the ram’s balls as payment. I told them I was putting it in an envelope.

I arrived at Mascot and wheeled up to the gate with my favourite carer. I thanked her for wasting her day with me. She said it was okay. I told her that I couldn’t believe she had been and was so nice to me. She told me that I was nice to her in return. I don’t think I am that nice. I feel like I owe her now. My favourite carer stayed with me until she was sure I would not get lost and was positioned right in front of the departure gate. She gave me a big hug (just what I needed) as she left. I flew Big Bird. Each seat on the plane had a set of peddles in front of it. I looked out the window and saw paper propellers. I told the stewardess that my legs didn’t work. Okay, she said, your arms do, you can shovel coal into the boiler. Ok, I said, that’s better than shoveling shit. By the time I arrived in Christchurch I was covered in dust from the coal.

I smoke. My mother and her partner don’t but they said it would be okay if I smoked in their driveway. I was sitting in my wheelchair having my fifth smoke for the day when I saw a naked man running down the cul-de-sac towards me. He was old. As he got closer I saw his face was a bright pink. He ran right up to me and asked, do you know how they made Lake Wakatipu? Lake Wakatipu wasn’t made, I said, it was formed hundreds of millions, or billions of years ago. No it wasn’t, he said, I saw it being made. Ok, I said, how was it made? The Japanese, he screamed! The Japanese, I asked? Yes, he said, I watched them. They all formed a circle and pissed in the hole. Really, I asked? Yep, he said. Can I ask you a question, I enquired? Go for it, he said. How come there’s no competition here? There’s plenty of competition, he said, there’s the rugby and the cricket and the sailing and the rugby league and the hockey to name a few. No, I said, I didn’t mean that I meant for products. I passed a service station before and they were charging fifteen dollars a litre for unleaded petrol and I went to the supermarket and there was only one brand of deodorant. With no competition it becomes a monopoly. I prefer Operation or the Game of Life, he said. I asked him what he meant? He said, as opposed to Monopoly. I’m not good at that game, he said, I always blow all my money buying Mayfair. The porno, I asked? No, he said, the street on the board game. I’m not talking about the board game, I told him; I’m talking about a free market. I’ve never heard of that game, he said. It’s not a game, well it might be to traders, but do you mind paying world market price for everything and having only one brand to choose from, I asked? What choice do I have, he said? He was right. Do you want to borrow some clothes, I asked him? No, he said, but could I borrow four hundred dollars? I told him, no, bugger off. He turned around and I watched his skinny white bum wobble away from me back up the cul-de-sac.

I don’t know who I’m angriest at, my #, the ^ in New Zealand or myself? I’m probably angriest with myself for believing/trusting my #. They had arranged for the ^ to assess my mum’s house to make sure that it was wheelchair accessible. I was told that it was. It wasn’t. It isn’t. I’d asked my Australian # to arrange a commode chair with an opening on the right hand side for manual evacuation. Manual evacuation means sticking a finger in my bum to pull the poohs out if the enema won’t get them out. When I got here I found the commode chair had no opening on the right hand side and the hole for my bum to hang through was no bigger than a fifty-cent piece. My poohs are sometimes bigger than a can of tennis balls. More importantly the doorway to the bathroom is too small to fit my wheelchair through. I’ve been going for a shit in the bed that I’m using and I’ve been wiping my arse with the sheets. I’ve been pissing in the corner of the room I’m staying in and spraying it with air freshener afterwards. The corner of the room is getting damp and mouldy and there are big red toadstools with white dots on them growing there. I asked my mum to cook them up for breakfast for me. She told me that she wouldn’t because the toadstools were poisonous. I told her I didn’t care. She said, all right then, and asked me how I would like them prepared. I told her to sauté them in a little butter. I’ll let you know how they taste.

I’ve only been here three days as I write this. I’ve only been here three days and so far I’ve eaten more red meat than I have in the last ten years. I turned on the telly last night. There are only three channels. I turned the television on at seven-thirty (prime-time) and flicked around the channels. One station was playing Open all Hours. The next was playing Only Fools and Horses and the other was playing The Billy T James Show. New Zealand is the land that time forgot. I saw a boy riding a Moa to school yesterday and today I saw a young boy flying a kite standing next to a girl flying a Pterodactyl with a piece of rope around it.

Oh yeah, I don’t think I even told you why I came to New Zealand. I came here for my mum who is getting remarried. I met my father while I’ve been here and even he has a new partner. I am happy for my mum and my dad. They have both got new partners. They are both happy with new partners, new friends and new lives. They got a chance to turn around. I met and went on what I thought was a date with a woman before I left Sydney to come to Christchurch. All throughout our date she kept mentioning some man called Richard. I eventually asked her, who’s this Richard you keep mentioning? Is he your brother? No, she said, Richard’s my boyfriend. She stole the smile from my face. She stole the smile from my heart. I sat and wondered why she had come out for dinner with me when she had a boyfriend sitting at home waiting for her? I sat and wondered if I would ever be happy again? Everybody gets a chance to turn around. Everybody gets a chance to turn around but me.

Andrew Stuart Buchanan