chips and four spicy wings

“I love this city, the hills, the harbour, the
wind that blasts through it. I love
the life and pulse and activity, and the
warm decrepitude … there’s always an edge
here that one must walk which is sharp
and precarious, requiring vigilance.”

– Patricia Grace

Raymond is standing at the Courtenay Place bus stop with a box of KFC. It’s a typical Wellington summer evening, where after a day of blazing sun, the night shadows bring a chill to the bones.

“I told her I was hungry but don’t have any money so she gave me this for free!” he says, revealing his spoils, “chips and four spicy wings, fuckin’ mean ay!”

The Strathmore Park 12 pulls in with a hiss. Eastbound passengers emerge from the glass shelters and shuffle onboard. I snap on. Following behind, Raymond has a few words to the driver, and walks on for free. “Shot brother.”

The bus is half full. Raymond plonks himself down next to me and tosses his backpack on the empty seat in front. He is an imposing figure with broad shoulders and arms covered in pounamu-green tattoos. He wears a black leather vest, a dark bandana, and aviator sunglasses at night. I smell like beer.

Commuters stare into their devices, scrolling into the distance. Raymond is the type of character people tend to avoid eye contact with, especially within the close confines of public transport. Admittedly, I would usually be one of them — head down, headphones in — but our recent bond over the virtuous server at KFC has made us unlikely bus buddies for the journey.

“You sure you don’t want some wings?” he offers again.
“Nah, I’m good thanks, bro.”

As the bus rounds the winding streets of Mount Vic, I offer a Welly Karenism about cuts to buses through Newtown. But Raymond isn’t from here — he’s just arrived on the Intercity bus from New Plymouth to see his sister. I plan to take the bus north to Whanganui next weekend. He imparts knowledge:

“Never pay for Gold, just sit there anyway,” he says, “the driver won’t say anything.”
“Yeah, maybe just you,” I laugh.
“Yeah, maybe they just don’t wanna fuck with me!”

Raymond introduces himself. He’s from Taranaki, a former soldier, served in East Timor and Iraq. “My kids don’t talk to me cos I kill people,” he says offhandedly, turning a few heads in front of us. He comes from a big Mormon family, dad was a dickhead. Ran away as a teen, fell in with the wrong crew, and “got into crime and shit.” Joined the military soon after, it was either that or juvy.

The bus rolls through the Hataitai Shops. Drinkers are vaping outside The Realm. I ask him his views on Palestine. He says he doesn’t care about politics, just goes where they tell him, where the money is. We talk about colonisation. He says he got beaten in school for speaking Te Reo, then does a quick 180. “Oh nah fuck yeah, fuck Israel. If you’re for Palestine, me too!”

The bus drops most of its passengers off in Kilbirnie, and gains a few more through Rongotai. TOITU TE TIRITI is tagged in black Vivid on a power pole; Pak N Save is lit up like a rugby stadium. Beep. Beep. “Thanks driyy-vah!”

Raymond is heading to Strathmore Park, his sister got robbed last night. There’s been a string of robberies on her street over the past month. Raymond suspects it’s Black Power. I shuffle in my seat nervously. I regale a story about one time we went up the hill and got scared off by a bunch of teens with knives. He scoffs.

“No knives in the 44 now, they’ve got 38s.”
There’s a brief silence. I don’t know what 38s are, and don’t ask.

“…did your sister call the police?”
“Nah, fuck the police!” he spat, in the exact cadence you’d expect.
“True…”

The bus empties through Miramar, we’re nearly at my stop. As I prepare to snap off, I tell him I make music and give him a bunch of stickers. His face lights up, “I love music!”

Pushing his aviators to his forehead, Raymond holds each sticker to the light and reads them out loud, revealing his earthy brown eyes for the first time. DANCE LIKE YOU’RE WEARING SUNGLASSES. The silver letters refract a kaleidoscope of shiny colours in the stark overhead light. “Fuckin’ cool, sis!”

I hop off into the crisp night air. As the bus drives off towards Strathmore, Raymond waves to me out the window. I wave back.