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Amateur Epidemiology

November 15th, 2010 by the_lifer
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Maybe you started to have a sore throat on the plane. Or perhaps your adorable tot started coughing after kindy, otherwise known to the parents as “the petri dish.” Most likely, it’s because that co-worker came in even when they weren’t well and didn’t go home soon enough. You’ve caught a bug.

The Dreaded Lurgy, The Martian Death Flu, “I got it from Agnes…”, or just “that cold.” Every urban area is afflicted with bugs that go around. What’s interesting in Wellington is that you can track them against The Starfish geography of the region. How long has it taken That Cold to get from Island Bay on the west coast to the far reaches of Upper Hutt?

The current average is 1.5 days.

-ha-choo!-

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A Legend, Mate

November 12th, 2010 by the_lifer
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Winona trips lightly into Wazzer’s bar on Friday night. Her best friend and her partner are there, looking subdued. “Hi angels, what’s up?”

“Did you know –” Her friend Willow mentions a name. When Winona shakes her head, Willow adds, “You said you liked her hair, she had her hair like this,” throwing in a complicated loopy gesture.

“Her, yes, I think I talked to her once at a party, maybe. Why?”

“Uh, she’s dead,” Will says, shuffling his beer around on its coaster.

“Dead?” Winona gasps. “Oh. How sad. She was our age, wasn’t she?” Nods all around.

She blinks. “It’s such a nice day – it doesn’t seem right, somehow, when it’s so pretty out.”

“‘Her mates down there are drinking doubles,” Wazzer mutters.

Trying (and failing) to be discreet, the four of them glance down the bar. A crowdlet radiates bohemian mana and sadness in equal measure. Winona would like to know how she died, to go over there and give her condolences, but she knows that would be intrusive. At that party, months or years ago, she hadn’t extended her one conversation with that woman because she had felt shy and awkward. And now?

And now there was a face missing from those women you saw around, breezy and edgy, who made you feel lucky when they talked to you. One less embodiment of intelligent Wellington chic. Winona remembers the missing one walking down the street,  shoulders curled inward, hands in her coat pockets, smiling before sliding around a corner. Like a sleek grey cat, a spirit of place, a glimmer of a legend.

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It’s That Time Again…

November 8th, 2010 by the_lifer
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Will, running late even by software programmer standards, took the car across town to work. Walking to his car park at the end of the day, he passes by one of the signs of a Wellington spring: a pair of backpackers, struggling against the gale, trying to hold onto their hats and packs while reading a city map.  Then, one of them, clocking his T-shirt and jeans, speaks to him as to a kindred spirit.

“Excuse me, do you know, please, where is the YHA hostel?”

“Oh, yeah, mate, you just go down to the end of this street, take the right onto Wakefield, for maybe two kilometers – ”

The other one, a slim blonde girl, says wearily, “There is a bus, maybe?”

Will feels for their tiredness. He knows what that ache in the shoulders is like. “I tell you what. I’ll give you a ride! My car’s right in here!” The backpackers’ pinched faces open into stunning, surprised smiles.

On the brief journey, their story tumbles out. Hanne and Bo got on their plane in Europe with visions of clean, green Middle-Earth dancing in their heads. They had the idea that they wanted to go “off the track that is beaten” and find the real New Zealand. Some small town, like Bulls, or Te Awamutu, or Eketahuna.  Finding it had disillusioned them greatly. Tired of the sidewalks being rolled up at 8 each night, they had embarked on the next stage of their adventure, Making It In Wellywood.

Bo has ambitions of being an extra in The Hobbit film (he’s been growing his beard and hair on purpose), or at least bringing Peter Jackson his coffee.  Hanne is not aware that her wish “to find a job in marketing or public relations, just for the summer” is equally unlikely to be fulfilled. They are utterly confident that being EU citizens covered by the Working Holiday visa will open any necessary doors. Wellington is so much better already, it feels good to be back in a real city, and the people here are all so nice, thank you so very much for the ride.

Will declines their offer of petrol money. Hanne and Bo are going to need it themselves.

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No False Modesty Here

November 3rd, 2010 by the_lifer
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At Winona’s office, smugness is the order of the day. Lonely Planet, our tourism overlords, declared Wellington the coolest little capital city in the world and the fourth best place to visit. All the staff at the Department of Stodge are forgetting their mission statement “to represent all of New Zealand for our industry without regional bias or focus.” Today, they are all jelly donuts Wellingtonians.

Largeman, in his corner office, is puffed with pride. He has worked in government for forty years – it’s people like him who made this town what it is today, always knew how wonderful it was, in it for the long haul.

Hearing Largeman’s views at the water cooler, Winona and Jennifer eye each other with silent smiles. Winona chose to repatriate to her home town after several years in Europe (and a stint of Eurocession unemployment). Jennifer chose to expatriate after too many years of George W. Bush in the U.S.A.. Both globetrotters have a palpable aura of relief and validation. Jennifer is fretful that she can’t access her Facebook page at work to see all the envious comments she expects from her non-NZ friends.

And Nervberg, on his coffee break, updates his personal ad profile to say, “Open to out of town ladies who might want to move to the Coolest Capital!”

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Beggars and Pirates

November 1st, 2010 by the_lifer
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Sunday night, Wilhelmina Wellington twitches as the doorbell rings yet again.  A silver-haired Kiwi dame of the old school, she hadn’t thought of Halloween at all until her husband, Walter, appeared, asking “Have we got any lollies, love? There’s the most adorable littlies at the door!”

This is the first year the increasing Halloween nonsense has come to her house in Kelburn and she doesn’t like it one bit. A dreadful combination of begging, hooliganism, and Americanism. Walter has disbursed all the muesli bars, and the mints from her purse, and is now offering the “trick or treaters” digestive biscuits. They turn these down because they have been told at school that any unwrapped “treats” are full of needles, razor blades, and swine flu. Wilhelmina hopes that they believe it, text all their little friends, and leave her house alone.

Thinking of texts, she sends messages to several ladies from her quilt sewing circle. Either they are pretending to not be home or, like Walter, have let the occasional costumed cherub derail them from criticizing the terrifying masked teenagers.

The bell rings more insistently. She can hear Walter fossicking in the kitchen – the greedy spriggans must have decided a chocolate coating was worth the occasional razor blade – and stumps to the door herself. Before she can give them a piece of her mind, two little boys dressed as pirates chorus, “Trick or treat!” Behind them, her daughter, Helena, stands, beaming with maternal pride. “Mummy sewed our costumes! Like you taught her!”

Boarded and sunk, Wilhelmina steps back to let them in.

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She Knew Him When

October 29th, 2010 by the_lifer
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While Willow scours the streets, looking helplessly for her escaped cat, someone knocks on the door of her little townhouse. Her flatmate, Wazzer, still in a terry bathrobe, opens it. “Yeah?”

It’s hard to say who’s more surprised, Wazzer or Wayland.

Wazzer leans against the doorframe, tattoos peeping out, multiple ear piercings glistening. She lives there; it’s her doorframe. “What do you want?”

“I, uh, y’know, thought I’d stop by, show Willow my new bike.” Wayland gestures one racing-leather-clad arm at a shiny black motorcycle.

Wazzer raises one eyebrow. “Heard you were with that chickie Will works with, Ulrika, now. Is that where the bike comes from?”

Wayland runs a hand through his hair. “This town is too frickin’ small, mate.”

“Bigger than Wainui. But maybe not big enough. ” They exchange the same glare they threw at each other when their rival ganglets had run across each other in the worst street in Wainuiomata, years ago.

Wayland’s eyes slide away first. “Still hard as, eh?”

“Yeah, and no.”

His mouth quirks. “So are you and Willow, like, lesbians?”

Wazzer out and out snarls, “Get the fuck out of here before I throw you –” Wayland is already sidling away. “And don’t come back!”

As his motorcycle roars off, a terrified calico streaks out from beneath Wazzer’s parked car and darts into the house. “Cilla! Here, puss.” With one last glare, and plenty of food for thought, Wazzer closes the door.

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Cat Versus DIY

October 27th, 2010 by the_lifer
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“Don’t let the cat out!” was Willow’s endless refrain during brunch at her house. “Cilla’s a house cat. It’s best for cats to be house cats in the city. She’s very gentle, she’s so sweet I’m afraid somebody would nick her. No, she can’t even go into the courtyard – Ruahine Street and all that traffic is right over there.”

So she’s quite horrified when, dashing back in to get her water bottle before the rally, she lets the cat out. When Willow shrieks in dismay, the cat promptly vanishes between two townhouses.

Now, while everyone else is at the rally, Willow is darting around Hataitai, trying to find the cat. Normally the shyest of neighbors, she is now barging through open gates and sticking her head over ornamental borders, saying “Excuse me…pardon me…have you seen a calico cat?” All the while, unintentionally, getting glimpses of how Wellingtonians spend a holiday day.

There is a family loading itself earnestly into a 4×4, armed with coolers and kickboards, just in case it warms up enough to go in the water at a beach. Another family is determinedly settling in for a backyard barbecue, offering Willow a sausage. A third group, more of a family by choice, leaps up and hides their ashtrays, blinking and blushing, to open their garage and see if maybe the cat is hiding in there. No cat emerges.

Willow feels her chest contract as she listens to the neighborhood roar of table saws, wood chippers, and water blasters, the sound of DIY, designed to terrify cats. Beyond that is the troubling sound of constant traffic. Oh, why hadn’t she put a collar and tag on Cilla, like Woodrow said they did in America?

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Making A Meal Of It

October 25th, 2010 by the_lifer
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At long last, on the free Monday of Labour Day, Willow is hosting a brunch at her house. Will and Winona are there; Wazzer, pale and blinking in the daylight; and the rarely seen Woodrow. They are fortifying themselves, without paying holiday service surcharges, before going downtown to the big rally, clamoring to keep The Hobbit movie based in New Zealand.

Woodrow, a Yankee import who is also an on-again, off-again Weta Digital contractor, has the whole table hanging on his every word. “I understand where the unions were coming from. But I understand where Warner Brothers is coming from – 500 million smackers, ya know? Considering the 3D option and everything. And I feel I really understand where Peter Jackson is coming from. On a personal level. When I look back at the one time I met him, five minutes, yeah, but his passion and commitment really shone through and…”

As he stops to breathe for a bite of sauteed mushrooms, Winona shakes her head. “It has to be here. It utterly has to. Otherwise our whole economy is based on dead sheep, milk, and talking people into buying IT services. Just too depressing!” Winona’s brow crinkles at the thought, even though her handsome salary is paid by a department that gets its funding from the dead sheep.

Will says, thoughtfully, “That’s a good point, Win – if we didn’t have these movies distracting everyone, would we have a stronger economy? One based on more serious commodities, instead of jobs gluing hair onto hobbit feet?”

“Hey, if we didn’t have the movies, dude, I wouldn’t even be here,” says Woodrow.

Changing the subject, Willow asks, “Have you read The Hobbit?”

Will hasn’t. Winona has dim memories of having it read to her as a child. Woodrow has an uncut hardcover of it at home – the one with the Alan Lee illustrations – but he’s only looked at the pictures.  Willow had to tape the covers back on her copy when they fell off after she’d read it for the 100th time. But she blushes and says nothing except, “Shall we get going?”

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Game On

October 18th, 2010 by the_lifer
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After enthused reports, Will and Winona have ventured to the roller derby. Alas, this end of season game is tepid. Fan favorites are out with injuries, or working behind the scenes to give fresh skates a chance. One team has won two previous bouts, so this third one isn’t changing anything. Like many in the crowd, Will diverts himself by tapping away on his iPhone, posting to Twitter. In 140 pixels, anything roller-derby related sounds good. Winona crowdwatches, gratified at how the passers-by answer her questions wordlessly.

Are we too old for the roller derby? Still pretending to be 20something hipsters?

Evidently not. There’s quite a few silver heads in the crowd, and lots of 40somethings with the next generation of hipsters toddling beside them. Old and wise, they know that $13 for two hours of entertainment can’t be beat.

Did I overdress?

It’s impossible to overdress or to underdress for the derby. Girls in satin minidresses totter by, with a beer in each hand, followed by a lissom lovely holding a punnet of chips, as if they are all so naturally svelte that they can have all the carbs they want.

Is there anybody here I know?

Just as she is peering among the 2,000 packing the bleachers, the crowd begins to thin out. The final match has 10 minutes to go, and one team is receiving such a drubbing that dispirited fans are already  –

“Hey, Will, hey, Win, howzit going?” Wayland, descending from a higher seat, is on the step just behind them. Beside him, glowing like the new fuschia stripes in her sapphire hair, is Ulrika.

Seeing Winona’s sly ex with his arm around Will’s minxy workmate renders them speechless. Ulrika beams. “We did not see you or we would have asked you to join us.”

Wayland’s eyes slide away. “Yeah, defo. We’re going to a mates’ party, so catch you later.”

“We should do brunch soon! The four of us!” Ulrika chirps.

Is this good? Or awful?

Suddenly, the crowd roars as a little leopard-print clad skater eludes a pink satin juggernaut and takes the front. And for the final seconds, the game is everything is should be.

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