Mona’s dad keeps trying to clip my n*****s with the barbecue tongs, acting all alpha for his wife, who has makeup on and hairspray holding her hair up, as if this gathering is some kind of show. I feel like shaking them: this is a token visit, yo.
You’re lucky we’re not at some barbecue at the Road Knights’ pad. We can act posh for a day, but don’t expect us to go Straighto for you.
We’re standing in our togs by the pool at his place with towels around our shoulders, at his mercy, trying to decide whether the pool or the deck is less cold. He picks on everything about me: my cigarillos, my soul patch goatee, the guitar tat over my heart that says ‘This Machine Kills Fascists’.
He says Communism’s a kind of racism. He’s mega proud just ’cause he’s one of the last purebred South Island Mā
