A bloke called Grody

Grody




Tippany Lane is a no exit street, you can see that by looking at the
lamp post sign which points down inside the lane. It’s an old Auckland
street, filled and tar-sealed in 1905. Immigrants sailing up harbour that
year would have seen the shoe factory at the end of the lane, its closer
ground made barren by acid and oxide wastes. By the nineteen eighties
the shoe factory was a boarding house with cheap rooms that attracted
students from the other side of town. Others who lived in the lane
appeared to see it as a refuge from the vagaries of life, a place close to
harmony. Near the boarding house, on both sides, are old garages with
wooden doors that never seem to open. The garages serve apartments
which have become almost identical in appearance, much to the
confusion of drunks. There is a pub adjacent to the main road, Andersons.

The original Anderson had lived across from the hotel where the
Post Office stands on land commissioned during the Second World War.
On one corner of the lane is a tobacconist, on the other a park. The park,
even though there is no sign to say so, is called Anderson’s Park.

The park has a green wooden bench and one day Grody appeared
there. Even if any of the generally reticent lock folk would speak about
his arrival no one could say exactly when it was that Grody appeared. He
just turned up.

For the first few days he arrived at nine in the morning and just sat
on the bench as though waiting for something that would surely arrive
through patience. Then one day he began to feed the pigeons with bread
from the black duffle bag of the type seen carried the world over by men
in threadbare coats. From then on the pigeons waited for him each
morning. Soon after, Grody added to his ritual. As well as bread, he
produced a bag of meat and cats also graced the banquet.

Murray Anderson had taken over the pub when his father died. A
bachelor, he set up home there, three rooms and a bathroom upstairs. He
was a large unexcitable man with immediate authority over any wayward
behaviour in the bar. A man without the accepted notions of ambition. He
was happy to remain in the lane and be silently imbued with the
complexities of life which came through the doors of his hotel. He would
not have been surprised when, one morning just after ten, Grody cleaned
the park bench, crossed the road and walked inside.

Though he never drank, Grody placed claim on a corner table.
Anderson watched him each day. At first Grody merely sat at the table
waiting as patiently as he had those first days in the park. Then as though
visited by secret inclination he began, when the bar was empty except for
Anderson, to draw scraps of paper from his coat pockets. He would
furiously scribble on them with a pencil before returning them from
where they came. Much of this time he was in conversation with himself.
He could be seen to transfer notes from pocket to pocket, master of an
ordered filing system.

As though there was a pattern of things to be uncovered by staring
deeply into silence, one day Grody began gathering the empty bottles in
the pub. This new dimension occurred despite no word or
encouragement being passed by Anderson. Murray responded by
providing Grody with a plate of food each day at noon. Grody accepted
the meal without reaction, as he did the $30 Anderson took to providing
him each Thursday. They never spoke or shared eye contact.

Following the first occasion on which he was given money, Grody
began rolling cigarettes at nine thirty on the park bench. All his actions
were timed – the same each day even though he never wore a watch or
looked at the Post Office clock. Within a few minutes he would have
made a small pile of cigarettes. Later, when provided with his lunch in
the pub, Grody would present the ‘roll your owns’ to Anderson. Although
Murray did not smoke he still accepted the gifts.

Other things began to occur in the lane after Grody’s arrival. It
became not unknown to hear music from the apartments and to observe
nods of recognition between the occupants of the streets where formerly
there had been none. The garage doors would sometimes be left open to
reveal old couches, newspapers and green bottles. There even seemed to
be a new rhythm pulsating in the footpaths and street. The students often
brought their classmates or parents to visit as though proud of their
humble dwellings. Someone raised a New Zealand flag above the
boarding house and an art student painted a mural across the tenement
with cats and pigeons venturing through the coloured lines. Children took
to bouncing a ball along the street in the early evening when there was no
traffic. Sometimes a game of soccer would be played with the older folk
sitting on their porches to watch.

The tobacconist, a hawkish and intense man behind thick glasses,
saw Grody rolling tobacco day after day. He became angry. He could not
see how he could hope to run a profitable business if undermined by a
scrounger who bought his tobacco elsewhere. It occurred to him that
business had been tailing off since Grody’s arrival. There were the
pigeons for one thing and the smelly cats for another. Not least, was the
objectionable presence of Grody himself occupying the park bench as
though having the divine right to do so. It was no wonder customers
were beginning to stay away.

The shopkeeper determined that a direct approach was best, he
knew how to deal with vagrants. He marched across the road manfully.
Grody was engrossed in rolling tobacco. A more patient man than
the tobacconist might not have interfered. “You’ll have to go,” he told
Grody. “You’re keeping my customers away. I will ring the police or
council if necessary. I am a tax-payer. Are you listening?”
Grody showed no reaction to the tobacconist’s tirade, although the
The birds fluttered discontent and the cats skulked away.
“Have it your own way,” said the shopkeeper. “You have been
warned.”

The following day, when subjected to formal approach by two
Constables, Grody showed equal ambivalence. It was only when escorted
to the police car, that this eyes flickered and danced in accompaniment to
his hands which searched through his pockets.

In the weeks that followed Grody’s departure there was a change
in the Lane. A gradual and barely discernible process, which, like a
pebble dropped in even the calmest pool, sent ripples all around. The
stereos seldom played and when they did the music was a harsh intruder.
Cats and pigeons were not seen. There was a fight in the pub in which
Anderson broke his hand. The doors of the garages were left firmly
closed. The people became oblivious to one another once again. Even
the tenement mural seemed to fade and the barren ground beside the
factory became even more hostile and resistant to life.