Monkey and the Queen

Monkey and the Queen is made up of seven main narrative arcs. And you are now in Wellington New Zealand, which can't be beat on a good day. This is the sea witch, c/o 272 Cuba. Episode 1

We find ourselves near the top of Cuba Street, not in the Hutt but at the Wellington end, right up its top end. A gang of marauding kaka attack a troop of old style metal refuse bins crowded on the slope of the facing bare lot. Even without their raucous cries, claws and beaks clank and screech loudly in the quiet - its dark, and well before dawn. Wellington is deserted. It will be hours before its earnest denizens start to stride its streets. We look down and across the road and see a ground floor office, new to us, but part of the landscape to the locals, near the thistle hall and homeware store. A lot has changed since we were last here. Theres a sole reserved park out the front of the office, just big enough for the rusty work van that usually sits here, looking all but abandoned there overnight on the otherwise empty run of the street. Its seemingly been there forever, even if its only been since the once shuttered office first opened, one of the few original buildings left in the area that was able to be rebuilt after the events that happened when you were last here. But today we see the van arrive. The quiet whine of its electric drive the only sound save the rusting and flapping of wings and the scarping of claws and beaks. As it parks you see that there’s no signage on the van, just the required tare, owners name and address for a commercial vehicle. Stencilled on under the front doors are three lines of text

7500kg gross.

the sea witch

c/ 272 Cuba Street

They are the one part of the van that doesn’t suggests a complete lack of care and attention. And why it lives exactly where it does, although its an odd place for a cray boats shore tender to spend its days, rather down by the shore. The kaka shrill and complain at the intrusion the vans lights make on their domain. Its still dark. The switch off and a minute later a light goes on in the van and nothing happens for a time. Then darkness. Save for the very slightest trace of gloaming just hinting its start over Mt Vic. Theres no street lights on, as is normal ever since things changed. The drivers door eventually opens. A figure can just be discerned stepping out into the darkness. Unlocks the office door and switches on some lights. Just a few. Clearly not wasting the companies coin, although in the morning quiet you can hear the zip boiling, screaming long and hard. But before it even hits its peak the tools start. Possibly a jack hammer, and something far heavier as well. Whatever it is, they figure is not mucking around. Dust lifts and swirls about the dimly lit but otherwise neat and orderly office space. The kaka manage to free one of the bin lids and settle in for an early breakfast. Just the usual morning routine here. One ruined when they tip the bin, knocking over the rest in a slow motion catastrophe, sending their lids careering noisily onto the street and the lot tumbling and starting to roll now the birds can get traction on them at last. Just as the rumble and clashing from inside has momentarily ceases. The figure from before emerges. An overalled silhouette visible against the illumination of the office. Earmuffs still worn but dropped onto their neck. A torch and broom in hand. Loud disappointment voiced by the winged vandals at this disruption in their day, who then set to work on the van and its already shredded wiper blades instead for the next while. One gets a friendly scratch on its neck before complaining noisily and resuming its destruction of the future eater its tribe is vandalising once again. The figure returns inside, and whatever the heavy equipment was, it leaps back into action, redoubling its efforts. Even across the street, the bins shake and rattle as the harmonics build up. Time passes, but before the pre dawn traffic picks up the van is off. Even if electric, it is eating our future inheritance by the mile. Metal and rubber and glass and lubricants. But a minimum of bites taken, given it returns back before driving becomes pointless. Foot traffic has now risen, and colour is in the sky, if not in peoples clothes – Wellingtons traditional palette of black is still the rage it would seem, and we are well into the day now. A friendlily honked horn frees the vans reserved park from the car dallying while doing its own drop off, and within minutes the first wave of a sea of flowers is carried inside. Like blown foam some go to passerbys on the street who clearly know the figure, the man we see who is dressed as if he might be the care taker. Perhaps he is. But mostly at the moment he’s the distributor of flowers to the offices staff. We start to narrow down who this man, the caretaker, might be. It’s the end of the month, and clearly some appreciation is being shown towards everyone. Possibly more that people were expecting. Than the woman were expecting. You might of by now have noticed that men are a rare sight here. Their scarcity only beaten by that of children. Boy children especially. But amongst the recipients of the flowers, theres big smiles, and some awkward moments for him as he gets hug after hug. Possibly he has quite a big personal space, one that is being breached just now for the first time in a long time. After the tide of flowers slows then slows, we see him stuck on the phone for a few hours recovering, then handing off the dull metal shell of a torus it is now apparent he was working to a visitor. Its size entirely out of proportion to the noise produced before. If we went close enough we would hear technical discussions being had, ones a few office workers join in with, even if they are uninvited to them. They are right on top of the details. Some corrections are made to what the caretaker figure was saying. A unspoken question about just what does he do here anyway? Does he just turn up or something? We are none the wiser as to his role here after that discussion was had by the others who had caught a ride on the conversation. Some adjustments are required so the tools are back out – but this time in the van now amongst the rain of shed petals left covering the cargo bay. A cargo bay packed with tools and equipment above the otherwise petal strewn and scuffed and worn floor space. This time he, closely supervised, adjusts some fine screws and gauges within the device. Small enough to fit in two cupped hands. A New Zealand standard wall socket on a lump of grey metal. A switch and a RCD light on the outer surface. And a second light glowing green for go when he flicks the switch on and off for a fraction of a second. A slight look of terror on his assistants faces, clearly not about the possibility that they are risking losing the fine screws in the flurries of flowers in the van as an escape from the hubbub inside. Then the three head back into the noise for some diagnostics and checks by the clamorous office horde and a final approval is given. A quick activation of the device as proof and the visitor departs. The three from the van more than relaxed as the device switches on this time, smiles rather than looks of horrified fear on the two assistants faces this time around.

Afterwards, the caretaker makes some phone calls. Maybe he has a meeting of a kind. A seemingly casual chat between our man in his torn work clothes and a corporate type who wanders casually in to talk to him over a small mountain of columns of figures and numbers, a briefcase worth. The caretaker is clearly generally pleased with what he is being presented, but also noting issues. Frequently noting issues. Its obvious now that the hierarchy here isn’t determined by dress. He makes a call. Two new figures, human figures, arrive a minute later and interject themselves into the discussion. One especially so. Severely dressed, the type of power dressing that would create a aura of menace and fear if she sought it. Which it appears she might be doing, with her presence enough to hasten the corporate type to hurry the discussion at a greater pace than before. The severe figure claps her hands and tea and baking gets delivered. The tea trolley heads off into the wilds of the office with the rattle of crown lynn and its payload. Cups are drained and refilled after a time when the heavily depleted trolley finally returns. Instructions are given. Eventually. Numbers are flagged on page after page. By the severe figure this time. Shes no bleeding heart, not like the caretaker apparent is, comparatively. The briefcase and its sharply dressed escort hastens off once the reel of paper is run through. And then the office moves to lunch, the offices work freezing instantly as all hands attend to the important task of making full use of the tea room, with the buzz that can only happen on a Friday. Then clapped hands as the time hits one o’çlock and the severe figure gives a short, a real short, speech. Shes smiling. Its clearly been a good month. And the punch card clock at the doors has its dial moved forward. Its now 6pm. A cheer! Half of the office leave early. A friendly crush at the door. Its Friday, after all. Some of the workers leave on time. Its enough of a bonus getting some overtime and getting to escape as well. But many stay. End of the month is a good day here. For tonight they will push the desks into the back room and the troubles, at least this Friday, will play for much of the night. 272 was once an institution with its sprung dance floor, and as part of the building rebuild, the floor has been recreated, despite the many tons of debries that had obliterated everything but parts of the walls when things happened. The van heads out a couple of times. Maybe another delivery of the metal objects which are now being boxed up by some school age kids who arrive in the back of the van a little after 3. Its raining now after all, so theres only a few who straggle in later, drenched like rats. Then trays of supper arrive in the van, clearly for later. Which is then parked up again during rush hour. And if you look closely you’ll realise that theres not only no fuel cap on it, but also no charging port on it. Then the office empties and the lights flick off. The van is left parked on the street. For a hour or two until people start returning. Eventually it suddenly flicks its headlights on and silently heads off. The band arrives. The piano on the small stage gets dusted off. And the van returns. Its door sliding open and they retrieve the tools of their trade. Soon enough, the top of the street comes alive with music and hilarity for a good many hours.

Even the caretaker returns after absconding after unloading the van. After a woman we have seen before earlier today and we now learn is called Sal calls him, insisting they have a date to go dancing. She knows him well. Clearly interrupting a deluge of complaints from the other end of the phone. No excuses. Don’t bring that up. He is safe with her. This time. This once. She laughs wickedly. Maybe.