AUT Master of Creative Writing Thesis Exegesis - Scholarly ...

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AUT Master of Creative Writing 2008 Shorty © Michael Botur 2009 A huge man straining the buttons on his vest vacated his seat, leaving room for three Pollys. Commuters were dangling from the handrail like lamb carcasses. They looked worried when the man moved up and stood beside them, but their focus was on the ladies. Flaurel kept her lips shut tight, and her bum cheeks clenched. She got a seat that day, which was nice. This intimidated Asian girl gave her the big eyes and did a whole respect routine, stooped and brushed her skin cells off the seat and implored Flaurel to take it, led her arm and all that. Flaurel told her curtly, ‘Gracias.’ I think the driver knew the ladies were on board. The train peeled away from Mt Eden gentle as, at pains not to shake any petals out of Flaurel’s corsage. When the train was at cruising speed, making noises like singing whale, the ticket collector came round. Flaurel and Polly were on opposite sides of the carriage staring to the right of each other’s head, pretending they were looking out the window. Flaurel held her head up as if she were slowing a nosebleed. I think it made people focus on her nostrils. The bridge of her schnoz looked like it had been broken back in the day, perhaps more than once. Polly’s head was lower down, she was less confident. Sometimes you’ll get collectors who’re eunuchs or whatever who don’t appreciate Polly, but that’s uncommon. This time, the dude got distracted staring at the bumps on Polly’s chest and put his foot right on the umbilical cord. ‘Yes?’ Flaurel went. Mama Bear became growly. The collector had to turn round. Polly lifted her handbag into her lap. It seemed heavy to her skinny forearms. ‘TIckets plEase.’ He was one of those squeaky fresh boys who hadn't grown into his lanky frame. The Asian girl and the huge man had done the beauties a favour each this morning so I supposed it was my turn. I whistled at the collector loud enough to get the evils from a few wankers on their iPods. Squeaky came loping over to me like a dog that’s been hit by a car. I was gonna get one of those ten-stagers off him and I had my student ID ready in my pocket. There was some bother about the authenticity of my photo. I told Squeaky, ‘The photo’s plastic isn’t it, I couldn’t change it if I wanted to.’ 48
AUT Master of Creative Writing 2008 Shorty © Michael Botur 2009 As the dork was taking it, I realised there wasn’t a lump inside my breast pocket and my wallet had done a runner. That’s Mondays for ya. Squeaky told me he’d come bAck. I told him his voice box needed oiling. They’re hardly air marshalls these people, not exactly trained for confrontation. By the time he’d tripped his way through the minefield of ankles, Flaurel had her purse secured inside her jacket and told him she’d handled enough purses this morning and shalln’t be doing so again. That cracked me up, good on the old broad. And I would’ve paid for her too! The ticket collector craned his neck round and got a quick look in at Polly and ruled her out too. She was under Flaurel’s wing and he couldn’t get to her. They didn’t talk more than necessary when they were on the train but soon as their feet hit the platforms at B-mart, all clacking on the polished concrete, they fell into a dispute. Flaurel pouted so hard I thought her jowls were gonna explode off her cheeks. Flaurel lifted the grape beret on Polly’s head and stowed her wallet under there. Funny old thing, as if anyone’s gonna steal her wallet! I wanted to know what they were talking about, but Polly’s voice doesn’t carry very well, it’s like bubblegum, sweet and insubstantial. Models, eh. And B-mart as a whole’s got acoustics like a swimming pool, often communication’s hard. The trains are loud as guilt and they drown out everything. I lost my ladies in the bustle and had to walk to work. Squeaky was already off the train and getting torn apart by his supervisor, an Indian dude built like Homer Simpson with a name tag saying Matel. He wore black, which is supposed to make you look slimmer, but he came off looking like he was in the SS. Matel didn’t wait for the crowd to clear, he just built an ellipse round the two of them so the passengers could stream past. It was pretty classic, up the stairs I could see here’s the ladies bickering about money while down on the platforms there’s Squeaky and Matel having pretty much having the same argument. Course it wasn’t the ladies’ fault they didn’t pay, or that I didn’t pay. I got the impression Squeaks was learning that the customer’s always right. 49
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