Tuatara

Wednesday is about books. And/or writing. Today it's a new short story. "Tuatara".

The tuatara in the tiny playground in Cuba Mall has a sly grin. And that’s because it’s seen so many things. It has had spit and snot and all manner of food and drink slopped down its face. Treats of course. Since there’s no one regimented feeding time. And it’s always near frenzy, particularly weekends. And school holidays.

I remember sending my kid down the slide the first few times we stopped by, and that tuatara just sat there. It wasn’t really worth anything. If a kid climbed it, they either fell awkwardly or arrived at the top – couldn’t even really call it the top, nor any sort of achievement – then got down again. That was it. And still the sly grin. Forever that sly grin.

But one time we were there on a Saturday morning. And a drunk was crashed out right by it. The sun was coming down hard and he was in a leather jacket, all patched up with grubby insignia, his black jeans looked like they stank of piss – and a closer look would show an open zip. Not many people wanted to take that closer look.

But there was still a lot of instant information being passed around.

“That’s disgusting”, said the woman that never checked to see if the man was okay.

“It’s not fair for the children”, said another, clutching knockoff metaphorical pearls.

The monopoly man’s monocle steamed over and cracked – such was his rage that the money he collected from every player might have to go towards fixing ‘this’.

“Somebody should call the police”, said somebody.

But nobody did anything.

Just the advice. And the knowledge, instantly, that this was a bad man. In fact, barely a man. And certainly a waste of time. And since having children, none of these people had been out on the lash – their wildest days now involved back-to-back Wiggles DVDs or collecting Tarquin from his swimming lessons a whole 15 minutes before it was time to drop Gisella at the equestrian centre.

They didn’t know how people, like this, could just let themselves go. Where was the ambition. Why didn’t he want to be something, anything, someone better, and somewhere better. And why was he here in full view of the children. Won’t somebody think of the children!

Well, maybe he was.

Next thing, he stood, and swayed, pulled his cock out and went to spray the tuatara, but fell over as all around satchels were clasped tight. Deep breaths were drawn.

If only there was a number to call the police…

If only somebody had a phone…

If only little Faith didn’t have to see this…it was ruining her fluffy!

If only wee Hope had decided to play elsewhere…

Won’t somebody think of the tuatara! But it didn’t seem to mind. Grinning there still.

If there wasn’t a team of adults united by the common bond of being disgusted by the low-hanging fruit of a dreadlocked drunk in jeans and a leather jacket, then what use was any of this?

So, as he staggered around again, cock in hand, aiming to piss the grin off that tuatara’s face the angry mob went flaccid.

And The mongrel in the playground fell hard. For the second time, at the very least.

Heads down now all around. Focussing perhaps on another tragedy: The trim flat whites were indeed going cold.

The tuatara braced itself. As the shadow of a man whose land had been stolen, who had always been told he was worthless, who had tried his best to find several answers deep down in the bottom of many bottles, who wanted escape for whatever and so many reasons, would fall and fall again. But this time, he fell flat on his back and as he did so anyone could see that he was still holding onto his cock. Flat out on his back. And there was to be one final attack. He started stroking it. Started laughing. He was taking himself to the happiest place he could. And the tuatara gave the very best side-eye, since it knew all along what was coming.