Dusty Dunners Dusk, Dawns.

By Alex Lister

6:05pm

I can’t be bothered. I have an assignment due Monday, the flat inspection Thursday and I

can’t really afford a big night out. “Come ooooooon” my flatmate David urges, “just a

couple, we’ll hit the social club and then back home. Safe as”. Ugh. Fine, just a couple. I can

manage that, in bed before midnight. Just a couple. Safe as.

6:47pm

“You’re gonna need at least a box of 12”

“12? What happened to just a couple?”

“Well think of it this way, if you’re just gonna have a couple then you’ll have some for next

time, and if it turns out that you do want more tonight, then you’ll have them there for you”

Can’t argue with that I suppose. I make my way to the counter, a box of Wakachangi’s

wrapped safely under my arm. The counter attendant stands there idly, chewing gum,

nonchalant, absent. Her mind is clearly somewhere else, someplace she’d rather be.

“Heeeey” returning to the present, her greeting lags behind “is that all today?”

“Yup! Just a box of Leigh Hart’s finest for me tonight haha”

My joke falls awkwardly short, as she scans my purchase through. “Have a good oooone” she

says as I leave, her last word just as long as her first.

 

7:23pm

We’re back at the flat, and have begun drinking. I find the low hum of the bass from the

speakers to be annoying, but my flatmates are enjoying it. They’ve already gotten into the

night. Laughing, shouting, the odd spilt drink. I can’t seem to convince myself to keep going,

but the flatmates pick up my slack. “Pong?” David asks

“Keen” I reply, our conversations narrowed down to one word, a step above a primeval grunt.

Jacob gets most of our cups. I regret saying keen.

8:33pm

I lost at beer pong. And my arms. Feel quite heavy. But I’m catching up. To everyone else.

The bass is pumping. I like this song that’s playing. “Whatsh the name of this shong?”

“WHAT??”

Open, your ears Jacob. “Whats the name of thish shong??” My cheeks feel like, they’re going

to, slump down, spit pools at their, base. Jacob walks away. I don’t think, he heard me?

9:38pm

I’m really – feeling this bass – under my feet – it hums and I – hum along with it – my eyes –

hard to hold onto – I tilt my head back - to hold them open – it doesn’t really – work.

 

10:46pm

Why i s th e ro om so dark? T he co r ne r bli nks at me, flas h fla sh f lash – fl oor is c r

ash in g under t he wa i t of th e ma n y p e ars of fea t th at  aare wa ying it down. I h ere a

dis tan t c all       “WHO’S KEEN FOR TOWN?!”

E ye  woo d li ke to go two to wn.

 

11:25pm

 

11:57pm

“You got some ID mate?”

T   h   e       S       o        u     n  d     i   s       d  i  s  t  a  n  t      b   u    t          f  a  m  i  l  i  a r

“How much have you had to drink tonight?”

M y     t o n gg  u e    s   e  t  s      i t   s el    f    l oo   s e    f r om   i   t   s   d am p      sh ell

“I’ve had – a couple, maybe 5? Or 6?”

S ta n d in g    up  s tt r a i gh t    l e g s   n e ck  v oi c e   un sh ake n,  ch e st       p r oud

B ri ght     yell ow   arm   g es tu re  s to   th e   do or.

A nd   I ,   a m   I n.

 

12:33am

I watch as           the lights

                                                dance across his face, t         he greens and the blues and the reds

 

                                                                                                                     interject

               across his earthly can        vas,

                                                             they bend and                              twist and form their own

shapes,       free and vibrant and in the moment.

                                                   They match          the rhythm of the decks,          cast              out by

the wizard

           of sound, headphones in one hand

                                                                                 

                                                                                  and the heart               of the people                 in

the other.

This

            is transcendence,

                                                                     this is                   connection,

                                                                                                           this is what it means

 

                                                                                      to be alive.

 

1:07am

It ss ss gettt tt      iiiing   c     oo oold. It sss tiiiim e       to go oo o        home e e e .

 

10:38am

Where’s the bucket where’s the bucket where’s the bucket where’s the bucket where’s the

bucket where’s the bucket where’s the bucket where’s the bucket where’s the bucket where’s

the bucket where’s the bucket where’s the bucket where’s the bucket where’s the bucket

where’s the bucket where’s the bucket where’s the bucket where’s the bucket where’s the

bucket where’s the bucket where’s the bucket where’s the bucket where’s the bucket where’s

the bucket where’s the bucket

Too late.

Guess it was time to wash the sheets anyway.

12:07pm

I am never drinking again.

12:37pm

“Hey champ, how’s the head?”

“Piss off David”

“Cuuummooon don’t be like that. Keen on a Sunday sesh?”

I look at David.

He looks at me.

Can I be bothered? I have an assignment due tomorrow, the flat inspection on Thursday and

now I have a hangover. I really can’t afford to.

“Yeah righto, I’ll text Jacob”.

Alex Lister is postgrad at Otago University in Ōtepoti. Writing is a long held passion for him, in which he seeks to explore nature and the distinctly human. He also writes the odd poetry review for the New Zealand Poetry Society

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