How I lost my virginity and almost died. Part 6 (The Final Chapter)

How I lost my virginity and almost died... Part 6

In which I learn the importance of color-coding, I'm scouted by Auckland skinheads, run away from a local Maori punk rocker, and my balls finally drop.

After the incident with Liz and my boss in the glen, things were socially awkward around the shop but productive for me professionally. The subtle shift in power and prowess had afforded me a bit of wiggle room and given Bill Zurich a little humility, so we used the long silences to get down to business. To his credit, Bill was a perfectionist when he set himself to task and because the quality of all of his paint jobs depended on my preparation, he really took the time to make sure I had every aspect of the skill-set mastered.

I would sculpt and sand a panel down for many hours with an ever finer grade of paper until it felt as smooth as any plane of glass. I would shift back and forth nervously as Bill squatted down to train his critical eye along the light beams cast across my work. "You see where it ripples, there? And you have a dip before the panel ends here?" And then with a smarmy wink, "You gotta treat this fender like you would a bird, mate. Don't let up until she's straight, eh?"

And so it went until I saw myself settling into the trade, the life of relative calm and wholesomeness that the Henderson Valley offered, and my entire being bristled against it. It felt like getting old at 17, and all my friends from California were sending me letters begging me to come back home and bragging about how much fun the burgeoning hard-core punk movement was becoming in Santa Cruz. There was a venue called Club Culture run by this guy Richie who was bringing all the big acts into town. I had seen Black Flag there in '86 but they were already seeming tame compared to some of the crossover punk-metal bands packing the club such as DRI, Slayer, and the Cro-Mags.

What my friends weren't telling me about was the increasing violence in the scene. How skinheads and punks were regularly clashing at shows and on the street, and how heroin and gang affiliations appropriated from Southern California culture were quickly splintering and killing off our once united and self-preserving community of misfits.

I experienced a little of this in my own uninitiated way when I ventured in Auckland on weekends to look for like-minded scalliwags to hang out with.

Auckland is a large city, and with a population of just over a million it's home to one third of all New Zealanders. Still, walking around, it has the feel of a provincial town just small enough where everyone is polite yet large enough to be surrounded by strangers. There is a small Middle Eastern and Indian immigrant population and I would go up to to the Jordanian halal food carts outside the library in search of something spicier than the usual kidney pies or vegemite sandwiches most Kiwis scoff for lunch.

Sauntering down the central Queens Boulevard munching my gyro wrap, I would search for anything interesting or unusual within the faces of the crowd. Now don't get me wrong.. I love New Zealand, it's the place where I grew up, and it's people are incredibly generous and down to earth.. But, it's not the melting pot that is the United States, and like my hometown of Santa Cruz, it suffers from a limited gene pool. The effect is a sort of whitewashing, where all the faces start looking similar and any diversity is met with fear, or seen as intriguingly exotic and is sought after with a kind of hunger.

In this environment of staid politeness within an urban setting, bizarre contradictions in cultural norms would stand out to my observers eye. Motorists would become frustrated to the point of conniption before sounding their horn, and then only do so with a quick tap and a look-away, as if to deny it. Sidewalk benches were dutifully provided every half block yet no one sat in them, perhaps for fear of being seen as a loiterer or vagrant, although I never saw any bums in Auckland.

Up the hill from downtown was beautiful Albert Park with folding green hills sprinkled with Victorian fountains and gnarly, old trees offering massively outstretched limbs. I never saw anyone relaxing in the grass or climbing those trees other than myself and my crazy brothers when I was a kid... And when I went there as an adult it seemed like I had the whole place to myself.

The town had the feeling of a clean and efficient metropolis where everyone went about their business without interruption and eye contact was forbidden. Not because it might lead to a fight or a fuck like in New York, but because people were genuinely afraid of random human interaction.

There's something so charming and limiting about the self-deprecating Kiwi nature. From my childhood social molding I still automatically nod to people in the acknowledging, submissive nose down gesture.. rather than the more aggressive, nose up, american-style gesture of 'what's up?'. Try out both kinds the next few times you greet people short of a handshake. It's illuminating how different the feeling and immediate placement in the social pecking order each one gets you.

But I digress.. The point is when I looked around Auckland in 1987 the whole place screamed out for disruption, chaos, or any kind of variety. Buskers would be a nice start I thought.. so out of desperate boredom, I plucked a blade of grass from one of the many perfectly blossoming medians, and sitting down at a bench in the middle of the busiest throng, I placed it tight between my thumbs like a reed. Blowing loudly through my hand, I produced the most piercing, high pitched screech you can imagine. Looking around for any reaction from the crowd I saw none, so I threw my faded brown fedora on the ground and launched into a tortured version of 'old man tucker' on my DIY ear-splitter.

At least fifteen minutes past without a glimmer of acknowledgment. Not even a look of annoyance! I was splitting my sides at how spectacularly I was being ignored when finally the lady running the jewelry store across the way came out and gingerly asked me to move along. I obliged, and figuring I'd wander down to the docks I noticed a young short-cropped fellow giving me the once-over.

"What's up?" I said, giving him my best show of yankee confidence. "Oh, a yank eh?", he said hearing my accent, and now he was really interested. "Have you been to the record store then? I bet we could find better music than what you're playin' 'ere."

Eager for a friend and with a few bucks in my pocket I decided to go along and we headed out together in search of better tunes. I was exhilarated, feeling like I had been recognized by a fellow misfit, someone I could relate to because we shared a similar style. He even had on a pair of Doc Martin boots like I did, and at the time that was the ultimate hardcore status symbol next to a leather. I hadn't been able to afford one of those yet so I sported an army coat. My friend was wearing a green bomber jacket so we looked like two soldiers going to war as we trooped down the street demanding leeway.

Looking back it's amazing how blind I was to the similarities in dress code between the two of us. Under the impression that by being 'punk' I was asserting my individuality, I was unaware of the strict categorization that was beginning to militarize and restrict the youth culture at the time.

I should have known something was up when my new friend ushered me straight towards the 'rock-steady' section of the record store, but I figured 'roots-reggae' was nearby and there might be some middle ground there. Shortly my host looked over impatiently and muttered something about, "getting that yabbo shoppie to play some 'screwdriver'." Alarm bells starting going off.

Skrewdriver was a controversial racist skinhead band from England who professed to be 'pro-white' and working class, but really they were part of a nazi national front movement fighting Pakistani and other 'undesirable' immigrants and miscreants in London. All their songs were about beating up fags and sending the monkeys home. At that point I knew I was in trouble but I had no idea where I was in the city so I followed him outside as he tiraded on, red faced. "That poncy wanker, wouldn't dare play our band!"

I could tell he was trying to test me, reeling me in, but I had to get directions back downtown somehow, so I followed him to a public pool where he said his crew was going to meet him. Protesting that I had no 'togs' on me, he brushed it off saying we were there to beat up the 'bungas' and, "make sure they don't get in one of our 'sheilas', eh?".

I had to get out of there but we were already at the pool and descending down a long outdoor stairwell into the screaming, splashing mass of playful children and teenagers below. If we going to pick a place to beat up on 'bungas' this was definitely the wrong one. New Zealand racial demographics are about 15% Maori or Pacific Islander and about 75% 'Pakeha' or of European descent. That day the public pool was evenly mixed with plenty of cross-racial socializing going on between pretty white girls and large brown dudes that could have easily drop-kicked us over the wall if they felt the need. I grew intensely uncomfortable as it became clear we were attracting attention, the only fully clothed people on the pool terrace, my 'friend' glaring menacingly out at the water, his jaw set for a bruising.

Not wanting to wait for things to get worse, I made some lame excuse and darted away exhaling as his face dropped, realizing his mistake. "You fuckin wanker! You can't leave me here. When my mates come we're gonna find ye and kick ye bloody head in .. useless cunt!" I believed him. Despite my lucky escape and the stupidity of his miscalculation that day, every encounter I had with skinheads after that, I was chased and beat up by odds of at least five to one.

Incredibly I drew no lessons from the experience and continued to venture into Auckland, searching for trouble, without changing my look or demeanor one bit. Oddballs have always been drawn to me, and I figured the skinhead incident to be a fluke. Wanting to branch out socially, I asked a Maori punk rock looking kid I met hanging out at the docks if he knew where to get weed and beer. He lit up at the possibility and we headed out to a part of town that had a huge parking lot canopied over for a weekend flea market. Finally! A place where I could tell I was in a real city. Stall grills poured delicious smoke out of holes in tattered, hanging tarpaulins, and the loud voices of Polynesian and Arab shop-keeps and hagglers punctuated the air. This was the hidden Auckland.. full of incense stands and tacky South Pacific bric-a-brac. A place where pasty white modesty went out the window and people bargain hunted with glee.

My new found friend and I located a pot dealer at one of the costume jewelry shops and did the deed in the back behind racks of brightly touristy t-shirts. New Zealand money is very colorful with pictures of birds flying out of it and I commented to my friend that it seemed like play money compared to US greenbacks. We laughed at the thought, but our dealer was unamused. "Well then, lets play at giving me some more of it, eh?", he growled at me.

Beating a hasty retreat, I felt a threatening chill in the glance exchanged between my mate and his dealer as we left, but wanting to get somewhere where we could crack open some drinks and smoke, I thought nothing of it. Carrying our shoulder-tapped beer up the hill we inched ever closer to a giant motorway overpass and the poorest neighborhood in town that was built underneath it.

Leading me down a series of tightening concrete vestibules that seemed to be built on top of one another my Maori friend and I eventually opened the door to a dank, clammy hovel, the size of my renovated chicken coop home but with about a six flatmates huddled around a stack of empty wooden beer crates and passed out along a filthy pull-out sofa. A beaten-down Sony turntable dominated the room and broken pieces of whatever used to be furniture and food packaging seemed to spew forth from it across the room and pile up at the edges of the couch. Broken glass covered the floor and stained and peeling posters of american punk rock heroes like Darby Crash and GG Allin slumped off the walls in sickening defeat. From the layout of the room the equation was clear: music + booze = violence.

The only thing animated in view was a skinny Maori kid with a dreaded mohawk holding court in the center of the room. The others looked on glumly as he fidgeted wildly with his lit cigarette, flicking sparks into the sleeping punk's hair and singing along to the Misfits record playing on the stereo. This kid really knew the song, "Texas is the reason that the president's dead.. Gotta suck, suck, Jackie, suck."

I was intrigued at the venom, the anger, and the authenticity exploding from this person. Here was a true punk rock band leader with a chip on his shoulder and rightly so. I was immediately infatuated and would have done anything to drink a beer with this guy. Rushing over to introduce myself, he noticed my eagerness and took the beer out my hands without a hint of resistance. Beckoning me over to the stereo he led on, "Always bring beer to a party, eh yank? That's a good start... Whattaya reckon we pick out your favorite record then?"

Sensing a trap I plowed ahead into the pile of records anyway, not wanting to give up the fact that I had been listening to quite a bit of softer new wave music lately and was culturally behind. Finally I picked a Misfits record that had come out years before that I felt safe with and I set the needle to vinyl. Before the end of the first bar my new nemesis was spitting out every syllable of the lyrics in my face, fast and intimidating, a direct challenge to my credibility, my knowledge of the best music from my homeland.

"Here in this place lies the genie of death
Touch it, see it

Here in this place is a means to your end
Touch it, feel it
Green hell....

You've come to this like no one could
I bet you never knew you woke it
And don't you run away from anything
I bet you thought you really could
You've come to this like no one could
I bet you never knew you woke it

We're gonna burn in hell
Green hell!"

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G-T_HHcrj4o

I was busted, unable to keep up I blurted out made up lyrics that stumbled awkwardly into his perfect rendition and mangled themselves against the floor along with my dying pride. Half way through I gave up, admitted my fraud, and stared at the ground. By the end of the song my tormentor, not satisfied with my humiliation, took his lit cigarette and stubbed it out on the toe of my brand new Doc Martin boots. "So what about taking those boots off now, yank? Or maybe we could cut 'em off right through those pretty white laces?" He hissed, producing a switch blade from his back pocket.

Everything moved very quickly, yet in classic slow motion. My attacker lunged towards me as I leapt to my feet and my friend from the docks grabbed my arm and pulled me outside.

Slamming the door behind us we raced down the slick stairwell to the street and all the way down the hill before I noticed he was laughing and hugging his sides as we ran. "You should have seen your face mate! I thought you were gonna shit your pants!" "I was shitting my pants!" I cried out genuinely upset and frightened, "what the fuck is wrong with that guy?" "Don't you know anything?" he replied, "It's your boots and shoelaces, mate. He doesn't like white power skinheads." Flabbergasted, I pressed him to explain. "Yeah, white laces mean white power, red are nazi, and blue are the punks color." "What do black laces mean?" I queried. "They're neutral," he said. "They mean nothing at all."

And so to this day, I'll wear nothing but black laces, and I only wear boots when I'm hiking.

Over the next year I felt my time in New Zealand winding down. I would still make trips into Auckland but only to make a payment at the travel agent on my return ticket to the states. I applied myself at work but only so far as I wanted to learn a trade I could pick up back at home. Socially I had clocked out and was depressed, and I think Bill and Hairy Mike noticed it. They were nicer to me overall and Bill made a real effort to be a good mentor and boss.

I visited Liz in Sydney for a couple of weeks and although our connection was rekindled it became clear she considered me too young to take seriously. When she returned for a visit to New Zealand we took ecstasy and tramped through the fern-choked jungle together. Coming to a clearing at the top of a tall waterfall she sat me down and staring into my frightened eyes she gently, wordlessly, let me go.

Having paid off my ticket, I gave my notice at the shop and made my final plea to Hairy Mike to sell me his leather jacket for $200. "Come on man! I have the cash right now!" And cash was the magic word to Mike. Slipping into the buttery, yet rough-hewn armor I felt my childhood leaving me. Here was a jacket that demanded that I push my shoulders back and walk into life confidently; in the face of any enemy, real or perceived.

All of this seemed to amuse Mike and Bill immensely as I would show up to work early every morning those last two weeks beaming brightly in my freshly oiled leather, bursting with excitement for the Return Home.

Something was in the works but I had failed to learn the lesson of my experiences on the streets of Auckland - When you are giddy with the anticipation of what you think is coming, you fail to see the clear and present danger. There was nothing complicating my path back to america, and in fact my boss said he was going to throw me a party on my last day.

Finally, the day arrived and when we closed the roll gates and put on that last cuppa it dawned on me how much I was set to leave behind in Bill's shop. I had left a chunk of my right wrist inside one of his car's headlights and I had left my innocence behind jerking off up in his attic hideaway. I had lost my pride by getting caught, and gained it back by beating my boss to a girl we both wanted.

I had learned to work, fight, and almost die like a man; and I had immense gratitude to the institution and the people of Bill Zurich's Panel Beaters for taking the time to mold an awkward, young fledgling like myself into someone you might be able to trust around a car and socket wrench.

As the evening wore on and the coffees turned to beer, the honey pot bong was produced and the stories began to get long in the tooth. Mike and Bill looked at each other at the end of one particularly good gut-ripper and pulled me over to the table where some long, white, powdery lines had been laid out. "Go ahead mate," Bill urged me on, "This is good coke and it'll see you through tomorrow."

Not wanting to ruin the moment I leaned over and eagerly snorted the largest line. With my new leather jacket and identity I felt as if this was part of my induction into the bad ass club. Full of myself, I thanked the boys for all the good times and began to launch into what I thought was a hell of story of my own.

Before I knew it my vision was swimming and I was doubled over with severe abdominal pain and nausea. The faces and laughter of my co-workers weaved in and out of a blurry, white, whirling centrifuge that grew ever larger until it swallowed the whole room.

I was running to the bathroom, and clutching the bowl white-knuckled, I threw up browns, reds, greens, and yellows all the way from the bottom of my stomach into the toilet over and over.

I spent the next few hours holding onto the shop beanbag for dear life as the entire world buckled and heaved underneath me. Having never been exposed to heroin before I didn't know what I had been poisoned with, but by catching snippets of conversation from the other room in between rushing off to vomit again, I gathered that they had dosed me with some nearly pure china white that had come in from Malaysia hidden inside one of the motorcycles on the shop floor. One of Mike's 'Mongrel Mob' buddies had delivered it and they were testing it's purity by guinea pigging me with it. Judging by my reaction, they said it was fair dinkum, and they all had a good laugh about it.

Disgusted and ill, I stumbled into the office and demanded to be driven home. Perhaps surprised by how sick I really was, Bill agreed right away and we trundled off into the night and drove his ill-fated red Mazda up into the dark mountains.

As we headed up the last mile of my gravel road I began to talk uncontrollably. I told Bill how grateful I was that he had hired me and how much of a prick I thought he was for testing his dope on me. I told him how I had beat off to his magazines in the attic while hiding from his customers, and how we all laughed at him when his mom brought him lunch. I told him how great Liz was in bed, and how much I loved him for teaching me the trade even after I rubbed his nose in it. It was a blubbering mess of an all-out confessional to a captive audience. All the things anyone should hate, but I think when the shock wore off Bill was maybe a little touched. I'm not sure men are supposed to acknowledge each other this way, but in his eyes I could see a change, a belated appreciation of who I had become and who he was losing; And in that look he returned to me a clear reflection of the future I was escaping.

The next day my best friend Terri tried to take me fishing at dawn as a proper Kiwi send-off, but I was knackered and useless and stayed in the car all morning throwing up.

When I left for the airport, Terri and Vicky hugged me tight. They knew what was in the cards. "I s'pose we'll never see you again, and we never got to go fishing." Terry deadpanned. I tried to tell them how much they meant to me, how hard these years were and how grateful I was for their advice and solace; but I'm sure the words came out as garbled nonsense.

As I settled into my seat for the 15 hour flight back to america I pondered the changes within myself. I bunched up my leather into a pillow and leaned back, thinking about how much had happened to me in the last two years.

I had learned a trade and in the process nearly died. I had participated freely in corruption and still attempted to redeem myself. I had been defeated and humiliated and then returned to the fray.

I'd loved and lost, and I'd lived a story worth sharing.