brown bum

July 01
     It has been brought to my attention that a certain teenage girl is addicted to
telephones. She can't leave the damn things alone. She stares at the thing and when the
impulse becomes overpowering, she shakes like a leaf and grabs impulsively.
     The poor wench is New Zealand Maori, from wherever it is that Maori come from. I think it's Taranaki or some place equally distant. Not that it makes a lot of difference. We all tend to come from somewhere else. I admit to not remembering her real name because it's one of those highly unpronounceable names that only Maori can articulate. So gave her a nickname. I called her Brown Bum. Nineteen years old and with the mental development of about fourteen.
     Sadly she was raised in a family with more kids than money available to pay the bills.
To be politically correct, it would be appropriate to describe the family as not viable. The
victims of poverty and resulting influences. It happens in all races.
     Brown Bum is a lovely girl. A sweet face and not a bad figure. She speaks fluent
Maori. Both the old and the new version. I introduced her to an eighty-year-old Maori friend and they yabbered contentedly for hours. He admitted that he learned a lot from the session and she acknowledged she learned about the old ways and language.
     Brown Bum has a junior grade Maori teaching certificate and the inevitable student
loan. She's broke. Surprise, surprise.
     Tis a fact but upon enquiry, the local Maori organisations expected her to teach their
little ones for nothing. But there's no dough in working for nothing. Short of prostitution, a
girl has to earn a living somehow. Why else would she bother to get an education?
     If she lived in my spare bedroom I would no doubt be a little worried that she was still
on the blower at 5.30 in the morning. Especially that after six weeks the bill arrived indicating over twelve hundred dollars of toll calls had been booked to my account.
     Shock. Horror. Lie back on couch and gasp painfully. Stare blankly at television.
What could Brown Bum, possibly get out of ringing a 0900 chat line number several times a day. And at the cost of $18.62 a pop. Plus hours spent talking to endless male friends on their cellphones. What could they possibly say to each other for so many hours?
     Are today's teenagers totally stupid? Can't they exist without a telephone? When
their actions cost big money. What is the point?   Does giggling into mouthpiece justify their hosts financial hardship?
     If I were the host, I'd give Brown Bum a hearty kick up the bum to wake her up to
reality. You never know, she might enjoy it. But then again, did you ever see a teenager that didn't know everything? There are convinced that the world exists to supply their every demand. We all owe them everything they desire. It's their natural right as future leaders of the world order. According to them, that is.
     I'm dreadfully sorry Brown Bum, but you ain't gonna win. Us retired war heros aren't
going to lie down and let you walk all over us in the name of the new world order. We not
only won our wars, we've financed the entire country ever since. And no. We don't owe you a brass razoo. Nor are we going to pay your damned phone bill. According to you, we're old and doddery and what could we possibly know about the modern world?
     Wanna bet, Brown Bum? Don't smile as if you have superior knowledge. You don't.
You're just a still wet behind the ears, young girl of no means. Until we die, us oldies win
continue to control your destiny. When we do kick the bucket, with a little bit of luck you
might have learned about self control. Then you can make your own decisions, just like every generation learns society's values.
     But in the meantime, don't get your tits in a tangle. And you're not going to like what
happens one little bit.
     And don't forget us oldies have to be cruel to be kind.
     I will pretend for argument's sake that Brown Bum is my granddaughter. It's easier to
relate things in the first person on a day to day basis.
                                                                    *************
     Damn teenagers. They should all be shot at birth. Especially ones that attach
themselves to their grandparents for what they imagine to be an easy ride. But I guess
believing in the modern generation is inevitable. What else is there?
     When the Telecom bill arrived I had to sit down. Never in my life had I seen so many
numbers on one piece of paper. And you can multiply the pages by four.
     Obviously it was a mistake. Our phone bill had never been more than the monthly charge and perhaps ten or twenty bucks in toll calls.
     I stared at the pages of endless numbers without comprehension. When it eventually
clicked, I glared at the wife.
     'See. I told you so. Your granddaughter has called everybody in the world. Now
what are you going to do?'
     It was automatic. I disowned her completely. It the wife's grandchild, not mine.
Therefore it wasn't my fault.
     The wife burst into tears. How could her favourite grandchild do such a thing. At the
last count we had dozens of grand kids. Lets face it, I couldn't remember most of them. Who would want too? But the wife seemed to know and to whom they belonged.
     'Well, what are you going to do? I can't afford to pay. Don't just sit there.'
     The wife was shocked speechless. And that's damned unusual for a wife. Wives are
famous for their verbosity.
     'Well?'
     'I just don't know.' I think she was stalling.
     'You just don't know what?'
     'I don't know.'
     'Why don't you know? You're never short of an answer. You keep telling me you know everything there is to know about anything.'
     'I can't think of an answer. I never thought she was like that.'
     'Like what?'
     'I don't know.'
     'Oh, for Christ's sake. Stop going in circles. Park in a corner or something.'
     'I can't park in a corner.'
     Women are so logical.
     'Why not?'
     'I don't know.'
     This conversation was getting nowhere.
     'I think I'll declare war on Brown Bum. She obviously needs a lesson on her
responsibilities.'
     The wife was sobbing. 'But she's our granddaughter.'
     'She's your relative, not mine. You pay the bloody bill.'
     'I'll have a talk to her. She's not stupid.'
     'Don't be a fool. If she's not stupid, why did she do what she did?'
     'I don't know.'
     I waved Telecom's bankruptcy petition. 'You call this being intelligent?'
     I don't understand how a nineteen-year-old could be so bloody naive. Didn't she
realise that there's no such thing as a free lunch. And when you call a cellphone, it's a toll
call.
     Then something started to dawn. I'd commented several times that last months phone
bill hadn't arrived. We were up to date, so it didn't really matter.
     'I'll bet the stupid wench has snaffled the last phone bill. She didn't want us to find
out.'
     'I don't know.'
     'Well, what do you know then?'
     'You look after our money.'
     I called Telecom and pushed buttons for twenty minutes before I got a real human.
While I was explaining, the operator started to laugh.
     'It happens all the time with teenagers. They've got glue ear. It's the advertising on TV. They think walking around glued to a telephone is cool.'
     'Well, send her the bill then. I'll staple it to her ear.'
     I was politely reminded that the phone was in my name, therefore it was all my fault.
But she recommended that we place a bar on 0900 numbers and a toll bar on everything else. I agreed in two seconds flat. She pushed a few buttons and the deed was done. But she was dreadfully sorry but if I didn't pay the entire bill on due date, the service would be temporarily suspended. This was an euphemism for cutting the bloody thing off.
     It was agreed that the wife would talk to her pride and joy. I was of a mind to kick her
out and let her survive with only her cellphone for company. At least she could ring the
clairvoyant to see what was going to happen next. Winter was just a round the corner and I leered at the thought of her camping under a street light to keep warm.
     Come to think of it. She always had some excuse for not paying her grandmother the
$60 a week she'd promised as board. Relatives are like fish. After a couple of days they begin to stink. Especially granddaughters with glue ear and no sense of responsibility.
     'And I want her cash-card and pin number. I'll grab every penny she earns. You hear
me?' I complained bombastically to the television. The wife had conveniently disappeared. I think she'd gone to the bedroom to practise her 'I don't knows.'
     The next few days were tension filled. We started to pick up that she was telling us
lies about her finances. She always had money to go night-clubbing but never enough to pay her board. And could she borrow the car?
     'No you bloody-well can't. You told me you had a full licence. But you're only a
learner. How many more lies have you told? And no more calls after ten o'clock. And only ten minutes at a time. While we've still got it, I want to be able to use my phone when I want. Somebody called last night and couldn't get through because you were burbling and giggling into the damn thing. Use your own phone, not mine.' She owned a pre-paid cellphone.
     Lets just say the wife and I were pissed off with Brown Bum. In such circumstances,
it's totally wrong that murder is illegal. There should be a law encouraging it.
     Then a courier package from Telecom arrived. It was the latest cellphone that did
everything from playing music to scrambling eggs. While the phone itself was free, it
demanded a two year contract at $29.95 a month. The only redeeming feature was 200
minutes of after-hour-calls were free.   Plus a few gratis text messages, whatever they were. Why on earth did she need two cellphones? One for each ear?
     Naturally the 200 hundred free minutes were used up over the weekend. Deprived of
satisfaction, she complained bitterly when our phone wouldn't connect to her favourite
clairvoyant. How the hell could I expect a girl to survive if she didn't know the future in
expensive detail? The trouble was, she didn't know anything about the commonsense things any plausible civilisation takes for granted. Like moderation and existing in the world as it is. And not demanding that the world fall in with her expectations and provide the sustenance of electronic life for nothing. And no, I'm not going to buy anymore ice cream for her to scoff at will. That was my privilege, not hers. At my age I needed ice cream to stop my hair turning black.
     Her eating habits were gothic to say the least. Chips by the bucketful and if food
didn't come pre-heated, it was inedible and would cause her toes to curl. She couldn't even work out how to use the stove. It didn't have a remote control, therefore it was barbaric and leftover from the stone age. And what did cooking mean? Why not get on the blower and food would be delivered in twenty minutes. It's your shout, Koru. Like hell.
     I did feel a little guilty when I shoved her cash card in the ATM. Much to my dismay
she'd raided the account and left virtually nothing to sustain my old age and pay her phone bill. I stopped feeling guilty.
     Being deafened and dazzled by flashing lights in some dingy nightclub was more
important than accepting that she'd done wrong and that it was now time to pay the piper. I was too old fashioned and didn't understand how the world operated. She'd smile craftily and expect me to cave into her feminine wiles. Nana said it was alright, was a obvious lie.
     Sorry to disappoint, you stupid little wench. But I'm a bit too long in the tooth to fall for a cunning smile. Grandfathers are too knowing for teenagers with glue ear and seductive
smiles.
     Her work was another problem. She worked as a temp for a company that specialised in providing clerical staff to government departments. Data entry and so on. A weeks work at $9 per hour and then nothing for a few weeks. This meant there wasn't the cash for me to steal from the ATM. Her spasmodic income was soul destroying for all. But I kept track of the deposits and robbed the bank as soon as funds were transferred. Ten past midnight would see me camped at the ATM and waiting for the electronic world to provide my just deserts. I hated doing this sort of thing. But we didn't have the spare money to pay her phone bill and the lies about her finances were never ending. If only she had the nous to tell the truth.
     Then she decided to have one of her female friends stay overnight. She got most upset when I explained that I didn't know her friend and as it was likely she had the same lifestyle. I wasn't prepared to have bodies lying all over the lounge playing Maoris, and told her no deal. They spent hours talking on the phone, what could they possibly have to say while sleeping all night. But if she wanted an overnight experience, try somewhere else. Like her friends house. I was sick of having the TV blaring all night and her sleeping all day.
     The phone rang endlessly for Brown Bum. The wife took to telling a variety of love
sick boys that their wet dreams was off line. And not to ring this number again. She had her own cellphone. Call that. One young boy tried to disguise his voice and cited endless emergencies that could only be resolved by talking to her for several hours. I think he managed to survive without major damage.
     I had to laugh. The latest in cellphones but the thing wouldn't work in our house. The
reception was a too weak. My six-year-old cellphone worked OK but not the latest Telecom technology. I'd giggle when she decided she need some fresh air and her phone needed a walk. Apparently she had to walk around for several hours until she found a place that had a translator or whatever it's called.
     We had to train her watch the news to find out what was happening around the world.
Cartoons were more important. Reality wasn't. It took hours to explain that what happened in far away Israel effected us here in New Zealand. For example, one of our sons was a Captain in the NZ Army and currently stationed south-west of Damascus in Syria. A short hop-skip and jump from the fighting. And what would happen if her favourite uncle sat on a car-bomb?
     Horror and a look of disgust that the government had stooped so low as to send her
uncle to such a dangerous place. I explained that if you live by the gun, the odds are quite high that you could die violently. So don't be surprised if he came back as topping on a pizza. The military used real bullets and guns tend to go bang. Whereas spending my time exercising the couch was relatively risk free and unlikely to cause an international incident. And if Telecom turned off the phone we'd never hear about her uncle's demise. So keep off the damn thing in case he rang to say he'd been killed by accident. She was a little thoughtful for a while.
     Then she demanded to send an email to Herr Captain Uncle in Syria. She'd write it in
Maori so the locals wouldn't understand. It was painful to explain that all communications to and from the area were monitored by Israeli Intelligence as well as Echelon. The Maori language, unknown outside NZ, would be regarded as secret code and Herr Captain Uncle called to explain.
     I was hopeful that she would understand that her tiny world was getting bigger every
day. That the news from around the world was important to expand the narrowness of her
experience.
     But I think I was wasting my time. Her superior knowledge ruled. The lies kept
coming and she tried to force a wedge between the wife and I. Like most females, she was as cunning as a witch's broomstick. She loved to fly. Like the character in Alice in Wonderland, if she said something three times. It was automatically true. How could anyone disbelieve her?
     Not being anyone, we decided on a plan of action. In due course, Brown Bum
answered the door to a man in blue . He was the youth trouble-shooter from the local fuzz
shop.
     'Afternoon. I'm here to make enquiries about an alleged fraud. Are you...........?'
     Quake, shiver. Intake of breath and a tiny yes.
     I decided to leave the room and let the cop apply the thumbscrews his own way. The
upshot was that the guilty party would pay back the loot at $100 a week plus $60 board. If she failed to keep her word, he'd be back with an arrest warrant. So be warned, young lady.
     Tears of anguish and numerous 'how could you's.' What she actually meant was, I'm
your granddaughter, you owe me.
     But she had forgotten reality. She'd just come back from a year in Australia and I
thought the experience would have taught her a few lessons. Apparently she'd acted the way she was raised and attempted to punch somebody's lights out. As Brown Bum was a mere five foot nothing, that somebody belted her back again. A decent punch-up in Sydney. Fuzz waving pistols. Heroic Maori Warrior(ess) on rampage arrested and charged with assault. The judge was wise to the Kiwi invasion and commented that her behaviour may be acceptable in the sticks of New Zealand. But in Australia the police carry guns and know how to use them. She was a very lucky invader to be alive. He sentenced her to an anger management course and probation for five hundred years.
     This should have taught her to put mind into gear before opening mouth or raising
fists. But I suppose being young and stupid has its disadvantages and I doubt that she learned anything significant. But she should have been awake to the fact that young people are more vulnerable because of their tender years of inexperience.
     I recall that at eighteen I was arrested in Red Square in Moscow for drunkenness. The
vodka knocked me for a six and the machine gun carrying cops were fair game for a two-
fisted lad from the colonies. I got two of them before I felt the barrel in my ear. Much
argument and expulsion from Russia at the point of a gun. Never come back, they told me. Communism wouldn't survive if I did.
     Well, I been back many times and had a meal with the two cops I'd knocked out.
They were nice people. And guess what? Communism didn't survive past 1989. I'm an
international hero but nobody understands. I could empathize with Brown Bum.
     But that doesn't excuse anything. She booked up the phone bill, not me. She owes us
and not the other way around. Having been there and done that, I could see where she was coming from and could also see where she was going. It's called nowhere. Or Erewhon in NZ mythology.
     She was also a conceited little wench. Before taking her phone for a walk she'd preen
in front of the mirror. Who the hell was she trying to impress? Telecom?
     I was starting to hate phone companies. They make heaps of money and do all the
wrong things to justify greed. When a customer's account has been stable for years, why
don't they get on the blower when the things change dramatically? If an account shows an average of $50 a month, shouldn't bells ring when $1000 is booked up in a short period? Or is that too much to ask?
     Considering every phone call in the world has been recorded for the last forty years
and security agencies monitor key words and phrases. Why can't a phone company computer monitor financial amounts? Even I could write the code. Once up and running it would register large fluctuations. My computer monitors the time I spend on the Internet and every key and mouse function is recorded. Is the same beyond the phone company's abilities?
     Then there was further evidence of Brown Bum's addiction to Telecom. A technician
phoned to ask when they could come and install a second phone line. Curses, hate and I'll kill the little wench etc.
     With carefully moderated voice I advised that I was the owner of the house, the
garden, the rubbish bin, the plastic hose and the letterbox. The phone was also in my name and that we had enough trouble with one line and there was no way would I entertain another. He didn't listen and explained that it had been ordered by Miss .................. and when could they come and install it? With doubly moderated voice I suggested he contact his credit department to check if he should go ahead with the installation.
     And I wish Brown Bum would stop wearing half a litre of perfume. She stinks like a
chemist shop after an earthquake. I'm sure any close quarter boyfriend would need a gas mask.
     Speaking of boyfriends, Brown Bum, collects them like phone bills. All shapes and
sizes and race didn't matter. As long as they own a cellphone and a motor vehicle.
And are willing to play cab driver for nothing. What she gives in exchange is her business. But there's no harm in speculation.
     Much to my delight, she received a bill for her new cellphone. Unable to pay, the
device that scrambled eggs, was hidden under the bed. She complained bitterly that the
reception was not up to standard.
     The wife insisted her favourite relative phone every business in town to see if they had
any jobs. Much mumbling and endless moans later, she started work at the local Pizza Haven. Apparently the manager was amazed how quickly she picked up the correct way of doing things. Only $8 an hour but what did she expect for making Pizzas?
     I carefully explained that while the job might appear menial, it gave her valuable work
experience until the English speaking world switched to the Maori language. Then she could command her own salary.
     As she had expressed the desire to visit Italy I suggested that as pizzas had originated from the land of Dean Martin and Frank Sinatra. Knowing the difference between anchovy and ham and pineapple would give her a distinct advantage.
     'What's a Martin Sinatra?' She asked, her head bouncing to Bob Marley.
     She looked quite pretty in her stylish uniform and trotted off to work full of enthusiasm and high hopes of a free pizza for lunch.
     About two weeks later her mother rang. Naturally we told Brown Bum. Early next
morning she sneaked out of bed and called her mother collect. That night she was sleepless. Pangs of whatever. Perhaps she felt guilty about not being at home to care for her multiple siblings. This would enable her parents to attend adult education classes for the thirteenth year in succession. The classes had never gained them permanent employment and their student loans equaled the national debt. But, according to them, wealth and fame was just around the corner. But in the meantime the loan money kept the entire family in junk food. Seeing that her mother needed assistance, her dutiful daughter decided that family slavery was preferable to earning money making pizzas. At least this is what I presumed she had decided.
     Mumbling incoherently she caught the bus on a Friday morning, stripped her (our)
bank account bare and vanished completely. Such was the call of the wild, the debt she owed was completely ignored.
     We reflected gravely. What had we done wrong? Many times I opened her bedroom
door and peered at the untidy mess she called her space. Her address book contained the phone numbers of 87 boys. Largely expensive cellphone numbers. Also the free call dating centre we had overheard while reminding callers that their ten minutes were up.
     For the life of me I couldn't understand why an attractive wench with a good set of
knockers had to call a dating agency to meet boys.
     We decided that blaming ourselves for her mistakes might look good on TV, where
parents begged plaintively. 'We only want to know you're safe. Call home you stupid wench. All is forgiven.' But this wasn't for me. I don't beg.
     If only she would ring and tell us where she was. But I recall my mother telling me she
picked up the phone to a collect call from Panama one afternoon, and a voice said, 'Gidday. How the hell are ya?'
     It was the first time she'd heard from me in fifteen years. It was my birthday and I was
feeling sorry for myself. I think I'd run out of booze. I knew it would make her day. Besides, I wanted see if the primitive phone worked.
     But that wasn't the point. Brown Bum had done the dirty. She had deliberately
turned her back on our worldly advice. The world was different when I was young.
     She had sought us out. We hadn't begged her to come and stay. In fact apart from a
baby photo long since mislaid, we'd forgotten she existed. We had so many grandchildren from various sources, her name meant nothing. I had to ask her mother's name to make the proper connection. A tree of many branches can get a bit complicated at times. But the Social Welfare people seem to have got it all off pat. I'm sure I was their main source of alimony.
     But now she's done a runner and I don't know why. We aren't exactly dangerous.
We aren't going to chop off her head and eat her for breakfast. I never get up in time for
breakfast anyway. So she had nothing to worry about. So why was she frightened? And of what?
     Still, I suppose she'd been raised to believe that she was Maori and all that Noble
Warrior rhetoric. And that speaking the language and holding the world record for attending funerals would command instant respect throughout the land. But sadly, the real world is somewhat indifferent to the culture of minority races. And the Maori is very much a minority. Perhaps she didn't realise that this was 2001, not 1840. And that the Treaty of Waitangi was 161 years out of date. Treaties only last as long as the signatories agree with it. Then it's back to disharmony again. It's sad but true.
     I suspect she was upset that despite her qualifications, the only job she could get was
making pizzas. It must have seemed unbecoming for a Noble Warrior(ess) with great
expectations. The education system had encouraged her to get little pieces of paper behind her. Then all would be well and the money would flow. Instead the only tangible asset she had behind her, was her brown bum and that only had two uses. Sitting on and waste disposal.
     A large white envelope from Telecom had been sitting on the table since Friday
morning. By Monday, Brown Bum had failed to appear and we were very worried. There
were all sorts of nasty villains roaming the streets and we couldn't help feel a little concerned. She was so short she couldn't fight her way out of a wet paper bag.
     On Monday afternoon we opened the envelope. It appeared that Telecom had not cut
off her cellphone and accordingly demanded $1853.00 for services thus rendered. About fifty phone calls a day. It wasn't on us, so stiff-shit to both parties. We had warned Telecom about our granddaughter's addiction. But naturally their computer knew better. Gleefully I called them. They replied by telling me that I only had until the 29th of the month or they would cut off my phone. I had paid $950.00 over the last month and had run out of loot to indulge their fantasies. They had also ignored the police recommendation of extending our credit for a reasonable period. The fact that we hadn't been responsible for the debt was not their concern. It was in my name, so pay up or else. Our decades of paying on due date didn't mean a thing. I couldn't help but wonder how much Saturn cost? They were digging holes in the street.
     Our policeman was also very disappointed. He thought he had managed to get
through to our miscreant. But teenagers know everything and his wise counsel was ignored.
     We called her mother to be greeted with laughter. Brown Bum wasn't there, but had
done the same thing to her telephone and had to live without for many months. She had also done the same in Australia where the pistol totting fuzz had told her to go home or face jail. Our female Ned Kelly armed with cellphone wasn't welcome in Aussie. It's pity they didn't shoot her.
     We managed to track her down to Palmerston North. She had just left and was
expected home sometime that evening. She called at 11.30 and demanded we pick her up at the station because she'd spent all her (our) money and was broke. Stiff shit.
     'It' thumped on the door at 3.30 am as if nothing had happened. Someone had been
chomping on her neck and left gaping holes. She'd spent the entire weekend shagging , and the indignity of it, being eaten alive at our expense. I told her no more phone or you're out, now go to bed.
     The next morning I pointed out the lies she'd told and that she'd promised not to
touch her (our) bank account. Silence. I reiterated the phone threat and if we caught her
she'd be slung out the door and it didn't matter what time.
     She agreed that she had a phone problem and more-or-less asked for help. I pointed
out that she'd only just started at the Pizza Haven and she was unlikely to keep her job.
Didn't she care? She just shrugged. Out came, 'But I'm a Maori teacher.'
     I had been right. It was obvious that she considered the job beneath her dignity. I
explained that Pizza Haven type establishments were worldwide and if she learned the business thoroughly, it could be a passport to unlimited travel. And just how far would her Maori language get her? But I doubt if it sunk in. Nor did the fact that our phone was at risk because of her idiocy.
     'But I like talking to boys. It makes me feel safe on the streets. I just can't live without a telephone.'
     'You'll bloody-well have to. And what's talking to strangers got to do with being safe
on the streets? Time to grow up Brown Bum.'
     'But I don't want to grow up. I'm frightened.'
     'Of what?'
     'I don't know.'
     Now there's feminine logic for you. The sheer stupidity of it has got me beat.
     At her age I was dodging bullets and blowing things up (I was bullet proof in those
days.) She wasn't in the slightest physical danger and yet she was frightened of living without a damn telephone? A thousand curses, Alexander Graham Bell.
     How do you explain to a teenager that every generation goes through the same
emotions and usually survive every calamity. Surely growing up wasn't that difficult?
     I resolved to write a newspaper column about telephone junkies and submit it to the
local rag. They had printed my columns before. Back came a reply that they'd love to but
had I considered that I would be identified as the junky's grandfather? Well, I was her
grandfather and the article could be of assistance to others. So why not air a long
simmering social issue? As the world's most famous unknown author, I was virtually
anonymous and Brown Bum was new in town. If she didn't like it, let it be a lesson in paying for her irresponsibility. It was better than going to jail for fraud. For her Telecom bill was just that. She knew she had no way of paying when pushing $1853.00 worth of buttons.
     Once the article was submitted, it occurred that perhaps she might find the whole
ordeal a little stressful, overdose on self pity and slit her wrists or something equally
interesting. Wrist slitting is a messy business and not to be recommended. There are less harmful ways of protesting. But I was of such a frame of mind, that if she did top herself, good riddance. Anybody who shook like leaf while looking at a telephone, was obviously bonkers and liable to fly off the handle at any time. The wife felt the same, so my thinking was plausibly rational.
     While we didn't want her to come to any harm, her lies and impulsive behaviour would
only lead to jail. And that the justice system wouldn't give a hoot about her childish addiction. If she could understand that survival was preferable and she could live a worthwhile lifewithout straining herself. It would be good news all around. New Zealand is an easy country in which to live comfortably.
     Then there was the NZ Army. We always spend ANZAC Day at the Officer's Mess
as a mark of respect. The booze is cheap and I tell truthful lies about being a war hero.
Surprisingly Brown Bum expressed the desire to enlist. I think she fancied herself in a uniform and strutting around with a baton under her arm. I suggested she join as Field Marshal because you get a lift home after an evening on the booze.
     Fill in the form, sign here and present yourself at 1030hrs next Thursday. A short
presentation, then sit the test for Officer Cadet or Regular Force grunt. I gave her the train fare and wished her luck. Arriving home she said she had failed the officer's course but passed the Regular Force test. They would contact her next week.
     Next week arrived and no contact. I insisted she call. They've lost my file, she
muttered angrily. She set off to sit the tests again. After lunch the Army rang and said she never turned up. Nor had she sat the original tests. More lies. I'd had my suspicions but had given her the benefit of the doubt. The army don't lose files. In fact they keep them for hundreds of years. That's how they create military tradition. And they're desperate for new recruits. Consequently her story didn't ring true.
     We had thought that army was not only a good career opportunity to utilise her Maori
culture, but would also provide the stability and discipline so obviously needed.
     Things were going wrong. Nothing fitted together. The grey on the wife's temples
seemed more abundant. Her cherry brown face took on a greyish hue. She couldn't sit still and would jump up, run to the bedroom and bury her face.
     There was a tightness in my chest and the bullet hole in my shoulder started to ache.
Suddenly I was conscious of being impotent and unable to control day to day events.
     I didn't really know very much about teenagers. Now that a grandchild had gone off
the rails, I was completely stumped.
     My first instinct was to give her a good cuddle to show she was loved. That might be
all right today. But what about tomorrow when she decided I was the biggest ogre in the
land. Today's kids know all about their rights but conveniently forget their obligations.
     'You touched me, you child molester. I'm going to call the police and have you
arrested.'
     How on earth could I prove I wasn't a child molester?
     'I'm going to tell Nana you poked me when she went to work. Give me some money,
or else.'
     Apart from the fact I couldn't be bothered with a teenager. They have far too much
energy. The thought never occurred to me. One just didn't do that sort of thing.
     I couldn't sleep properly and would awaken sweating profusely. Would she lose her
'cool' and stab us to death in the middle of the night? Home invasions were in the news every day and living in the spare bedroom, Brown Bum had a massive head start.
     I didn't like being undecided, it wasn't my way. I pondered the future and came up
with total indecision. I guess I was a lousy grandfather and human being.
     'Stuff you all, I'm going to the pub.'
     I was a crook as the proverbial dog the next day. The barmaid threw me out when she
grew sick of my suggestion that she could be my backup woman when I was ninety. The
punch-up with the bouncers might have had something to do with it as well.
     Apart from being decidedly ill, I felt absolutely marvelous. I won the punch-up
conclusively. I was quite proud of myself.
     Brown Bum flounced out of her grotto in great style.
     'Morning, well shagged one.' I grinned, my head throbbing.
     'Good morning, Grandfather. Can I have a cigarette?'
     'No. Smoking blocks your whatsit. What will the boys do then?'
     'What do you mean?' Innocent head cocked to one side. Sly smile.
     I shook my head in bewilderment. 'Do you think the boys will be interested if you
can't perform?'
     Superior snub nose stuck in heighten air. 'They like me because I'm me. They've told
me so.'
     'Really?'
     'Definitely.'
     'As long as you believe that, the sky will turn green.'
     'What does that mean?'
     'It doesn't matter. Away you go. Don't hurry back.'
     We had insisted she attend one of the Maori Trusts that teach basic computer skills.
Brown Bum was well past the beginner stage. But it kept her occupied and reinforcing her knowledge wouldn't go amiss. Maori Trusts are a growth industry along with short-term and part-time employment. Working two hours a fortnight helps to reduce the official unemployment rate. But it does nothing for the kids. Wisely, the Maori Trusts were trying to help their young people. For this they should be encouraged.
     Officialdom couldn't give a shit. People are only statistics to be manipulated for
economic convenience. Big Daddy only redistributes wealth, he doesn't know the first thing about creating it.
     The phone rang at 6.45 am. It was still dark for God's sake. I'd only just put the
phone back on the hook. It was somebody called Terry. He sounded like a wet bath towel.
     'Is ................ there?
     'It's asleep, mate. Is it light where you are? What do you want?'
     'I need a relieving teacher for the day. Can she help?'
     'Hang on, I'll wake the Baby Elephant.'
     I carried the portable phone to her compound and poked the hay bale awake with the
aerial.
     Two minutes later Brown Bum bounded out of bed, shook her lovely boobs in my face
and smiled.
     'I'm playing teacher today. A local primary school.'
     'What? Teaching Maori?'
     'No. Something else. I don't know what.'
     'That's handy. Teacher for the day and you don't know the subject.'
     'It doesn't matter. You've only got to five minutes ahead of the kids. I'll bluff my way through somehow.'
     Wise girl. She'd obviously heard the old adage that to be a teacher you only had be
one lesson ahead of the pupils.
     'What age group?' Bounce-bounce. 'Put them away, girl. You'll frighten the natives.'
     'Six year old.'
     'That's handy. They'll be the same age group as you. Still, it could be start.'
     'Don't be grumpy, grandfather. And stop staring.'
     'Can't help it. I've got peripheral vision.'
     I had to tell her what to wear, and to speak slowly and distinctly. Incoherent mumbling didn't work with school kids.
     I delivered her to the school gate and advised her not to be too disappointed if it didn't
work out. It seemed a bit silly to call on a young girl whose only skills were the Maori
language. I wished her luck.
     It was raid the ATM day. Dole day for Brown Bum. Besides, I had an appointment
with the Salvation Army Bridge Program people. They dealt rather well with all sorts of
addictions. Their knowledge of stuffed up teenagers would be far superior to mine.
     She rang about 1.30 pm. Violent mood change. Desperation in voice.
     'Is there any money left in my account?'
     'Of course. You have leave some to keep it open.'
     'How much?'
     'Seventy-four cents.'
     Sob, wail. Loud sniffle.
     'Can you pick me up and can I have a packet of cigarettes?'
     'No.'
     'Why not? I'll pay it back tomorrow.'
     'How much will be in the account by then?'
     'About fifty dollars.'
     'Tough luck, mate. You should have thought of that before you went out shagging.
You spent over two hundred dollars and nothing to show for it. Try thinking of somebody
else for a change. Like what you owe for our phone bill.'
     'But I need cigarettes.'
     'At your age you don't need anything. I remember when I was in the Sudan..........'
     The little witch hung up on me. I wondered what had gone wrong now. I couldn't
workout why she was on top of the world one minute and pulling her hair out the next. She sounded terrible. It was a bit like the time I threatened to send her back to her father by Courier Post. She'd burst into tears, shook all over and said no way would she go back if he were there. I wonder why?
     The next few days were more or less peaceful. But after work on Saturday she never
arrived home. Come 6.30 am Sunday, she staggered through the door and collapsed into bed.
     Due to start work at 11 am, I woke her at 9.30. After much mumbling and inpatient
gestures, I tossed in the towel. She never went to work or bothered to phone her boss until about 5 pm.
     They had a rather long conversation. I had previously warned her that if she got the
sack. That's it. Out the door and go bludge off somebody else. She gleefully informed me that she hadn't lost her job and would start again on Tuesday. And that the only thing she wanted to do was work her butt off and pay her debts.
     She was upset when I reminded her that she had said the same thing last week and her resolve had only lasted four days. And if she wanted to get anywhere in this world, she had to be reliable. Go out on the orangutang when she had the next day off work. The nightclubs would survive. That way everybody would be happy.
     But in all honesty, I think the wife and I were wasting our time. She was like an
acquaintance pretending to manage a local club. He is totally incompetent, has none of the appropriate skills and yet thinks he's a genius. The club is crashing around his ears, money is disappearing internally and the receiver knocking on the door. Yet he still believes it's all somebody else's fault and he's the Richard Branson of the club world. He's a total fool, just like our Brown Bum. She has the ignorance of youth to match his old-age stupidity. Perhaps they should get together and rebuild the Titanic?
     We don't know if she attended the Salvation Army Counseling. When we rang, we
were cited the Privacy Act and told to mind our own business. She said that she had attended, and the lady had told her much the same things I had. Obviously she was miraculously cured because no further sessions were necessary. So much for our attempts to get her to help herself.
     The wife knew the owner of the Pizza Haven. He was sympathetic and explained his
own son has started on the road to telephone addiction but he caught on before too much
damage was done. He took every penny his son earned until the bill was paid and continued to keep a weather eye on the boy's cellphone account. So far, so good.
     Brown Bum only had $341.00 to pay back. One week of her dole money and wages
from the Pizza Haven would see us free of our telephone debt. I made a point of telling her that if she stuffed us around, we would not only lose our telephone but she would also be out on the street.
     On Thursday I raided the ATM and got her $140.00 dole money. The Pizza Haven
wages went in the same night. At 12.45am on Friday morning I carefully pushed her pin
number. The machine swallowed the card. Warning bells rang. She had previously been phoned by a young girl who seemed to be issuing instruction on how to do something. We didn't know what.
     I insisted Brown Bum front the bank as to what happened. Most ATM's give you a
second chance if you key-in the wrong pin number.
     The balance of her account was $160.00. She gave me $100.00 and said the bank kept $30.00 for bank fees and an automatic payment had swallowed the rest. She didn't know what the payment was for. Neither excuse rang true.
     The teller handed back her (our) card and explained that card swallowing machine was a security measure as the my granddaughter had lost her card and put a block on the account.
     The night before she told us that she had to ring her boss about her working hours. It
took half an hour of giggling and reading love poems to achieve this aim. Friday lunchtime the wife spoke to the boss. He had received his phone bill and discovered a number of unexplained cellphone calls. And no, Brown Bum hadn't phoned the night before.
     She was due to start work at 2pm. At 4.25pm she rang and demanded to know what
the wife had said to her boss. I said it was none of her business.
     I took a deep breath. 'You can find somewhere else to live: your lies have caught up
with you. I told you what would happen if you stuffed us around.'
     A quiet OK, then silence. Later that night I walked past the Pizza Haven. She did not
appear to be working.
     My column was published in the local rag. I had warned her this was likely to happen.
While she wasn't identified, it wouldn't take much working out by those in the know. It
didn't seem to worry her unduly. Maybe she thought I was lying.
     I sat in a bar apprehensively. Would I arrive home to find the place full of idiot
teenagers? We had never given her a key because she couldn't be trusted. But it doesn't take much to break into the average home. Would the place be trashed?
     A woman recognised me and explained that her son had also run up a huge bill and
that tough love was the only answer. It was one of those nights when I couldn't get drunk no matter how much I drank. But the house was in darkness.
     The next day the phone rang many times. It seemed that teenagers and telephones were a national plague. And congratulations for publicising the problem.
     I couldn't help but remember that NZ has a very high teenage suicide rate. It doesn't
make sense considering our laidback lifestyle. But evidence was plentiful.
     No doubt the wife and I would be mud to Brown Bum and her teenage friends. But
would her so called friends stand by her? Would they give her somewhere to live and a free telephone to indulge her fantasies? Teenagers were like aeroplanes: you only hear about the ones that crash. And she'd run out of fuel.
     Her sex would give her a slight advantage. She could always trade it for bed and
breakfast. But that sort of thing doesn't last very long. To bed or not to bed, would be her
choice. It was the same with drugs. To live or not to live?
     Roll on Christmas. We had our house to ourselves. It was heaven. But there were
many but's and what if's..........
     The boss of Pizza Haven called. Brown Bum had worked the night before and money
was missing from the till. Some had also gone missing the previous week. Her phone bill was $30.00. He was very sorry but he couldn't afford the loses and he was going to sack her. It was a pity because she was very bright and got on well with the customers. He'd done his best to help and couldn't understand her endless lies. He described her behaviour as a compulsive addiction to telephones. He hadn't seen it himself, but there was apparently a newspaper article about teenagers and telephones etc. Somebody from Levin had rung and told him to read the thing. I explained that the article was mine and I hoped it would help other people with telephones that were addicted to teenagers. And that I had no problem with her being sacked and wished him luck. The man had done his best.
     The world was in the process of collapsing around Brown Bum. But with her youthful
optimism, no doubt she believed she could easily right the wrongs. But only if someone
would lend her a cellphone and pay the bill. Her 0900 clairvoyant would have all the answers.
     When the wife was packing up Brown Bum's meagre possessions, the poor woman
was in tears. She'd tried so hard but it was like talking to brick wall. She rang her
granddaughter's father collect and poured out her soul. He'd also done his best but his
daughter wouldn't listen. He agreed she needed professional help but it was virtually
impossible to obtain. The addict had to volunteer for treatment and attend counseling or the authorities weren't interested. Never mind the financial cost to those she'd conned and to hell with her future prospects. The kid was Maori, so let her own race look after her. Very sorry. Budget restrictions etc. I couldn't see what her race had to do with anything. She was still a human being.
     We couldn't afford private counseling. Teenagers cost a fortune to keep alive. The
cupboard was bare. Besides, we had no guarantee that Brown Bum would attend. All we'd got so far were lies and little else. There was no way were we going to put our home at risk for a compulsive liar.
     If you're male and over forty. You're more or less unemployable. That's the way the
NZ system works. It's called the modern economy. The wife works her butt off but there
were financial limitations. We had to think of ourselves and to hell with Brown Bum. She
had to decide whether she wanted to sink or swim. The deep end was dangerous and the shallow end still dubious. Especially when she considered the entire world was at fault and only she and her moronic friends knew anything about life.
     It flashed through my mind that winding up on a stainless-steel table with a tag on her
toe was a distinct possibility. But there was nothing we could do. We didn't have the
qualifications to help. Her addiction was far beyond our life's experiences. And at the
moment, our lives were extremely frustrating. We knew help was out there, but where? We'd tried everything we knew and understood.
     She rang and asked to speak to Nana. Not here, at work, I intoned. She promised to
ring back that evening. Another empty promise.
     We rescued eighteen items borrowed from the library. Mostly books on Maori
culture. All untouched. Then we found a letter from the council demanding the return of their library books and including a scale of fees for the overdue amount.
     Pensively I reflected. Had I done the right thing?   On the debit side; she had let her
parents down, our policeman, Telecom, the library, her bank, the Pizza Haven, her Maori
computer course people, the NZ Army and probably the Salvation Army. Not a bad hit list for four months of living a fantasy. But the most important person she let down, was herself. On the credit side. Absolutely nothing!
     We all make mistakes but as long as the majority of decisions are based on
commonsense, we tend to muddle through unscathed. But a hundred percent failure rate?
     Then the phone rang with her ring.
     'It's me.'
     'Hello me.' At least 'me' was alive.
     'I'm coming around in an hour to pickup my stuff.'
     'It will be on the doorstep. Help yourself.'
     'Are my shoes there?'
     'Yep.'
     'What about my blanket?'
     'It's on the ground. It's no use to us.'
     'Bye.'
     'Goodbye, me.'
     Why couldn't her normal phone conversations be so brief and informative?   Did it
really take over $3.000.00 to say something so basic? I guess we'll never know.
     Our portable phone was starting to recover from occupational overuse syndrome. The
red light was brighter and the aerial stood straight and true. And when it rang the bells tolled for us.
     A car pulled up and Brown Bum emerged oozing goodwill. I kept out of the way. I'd
run out of both money and goodwill. She was fine and living next to a church not far away. The church people had read the article and offered help. They had contacted the NZ Army and arranged to take her to sit the tests. Or so she said!
     She didn't blame us for her predicament and now realised that she had to make
something of her life. The publicity had made her understand that she was at fault and not the world in general. She didn't want to go back to her parents and promised to phone us now and again. She also insisted that I continue to call her Brown Bum as she liked the name. And not once did she ask to use the telephone.
     The wife was in tears as Brown Bum departed.
     Cynically I couldn't help but wonder. Without the publicity, would she have simply
conned her new 'friends?' Was her repentance genuine or just an excuse to carry on her
telephone dominated lifestyle?
     No doubt time will tell. I'm rather old fashioned. I reserve judgement.