Fish Heads by Api Taylor

Tu Tangata, Issue 2, 1 October 1981, Page 37

Fish Heads by Api Taylor

“It’s payday. We’ve just been paid, and we’re rich,” laughed Paora. “Yeah and it’s your turn to buy the kai,” reminded John. “Get some fish heads,” said Hemi. “Mmm fish heads,” said John. Mmm fish heads, thought Paora, smacking his lips. “Things are expensive these days,” he said, “but five dollars ought to be enough eh?” “Yeah,” said Hemi, “Get four and we’ll boil them in the pot.” “Ha,” laughed John. “Remember the last time we cooked fish heads. The posh Pakeha lady next door complained about the smell and rang someone in the Health Department.” “Yeah,” said Hemi. “I saw her running about the house with a spray can in her hand.” “I don’t think she ever got rid of the fish smell,” said Paora. “She’s been giving us dirty looks ever since we cooked up them fish heads.”

He left the flat and walked down the road to the fish shop. It was a good idea, he thought, to have moved into the flat with the boys. He’d felt lonely in the city by himself. Like him his flatmates were Maori boys from the country who’d come down to the city looking for work. They thought and felt alike and it seemed to these boys that the Pakeha in the city thought and felt opposite to them in every way.

“Fish heads,” he said, and he smacked his lips again as he walked into the shop and grinned as he thought of the feast to come. “I’ll have four fish heads thanks.” He smiled and placed the money on the counter. “Sorry,” said the man. “We chuck’em out.” “What?” said Paora. “We haven’t got any fish heads. We chuck’em out,” came the reply. He walked out of the shop, but instead of returning to the flat, he continued down the road to the next fish shop. There were no fish heads there. Nor were there any in the next fish shop. He tried all the shops he knew but none had fish heads. Each time he asked his voice got quieter and quieter, and for some reason he began to feel silly asking people for fish heads.

He was disappointed. He’d been looking forward to a feed and he knew his mates would be sitting at

home with their mouths watering. Suddenly at the end of the street he saw a sign which read FISHERIES. Ah, he thought. If they haven’t got any fish heads then there aren’t any fish in the sea. He found the loading bay at the back of the building. He hoped he’d be able to speak to a Maori, for he felt that if he asked a Maori for fish heads he wouldn’t feel silly. “What dya want?” said the man. Hell. It’s a Pakeha, thought Paora. “I’d like to buy four fish heads,” he said quietly. “No sorry, you can’t have four fish heads,” said the man. “We’ve only got two. Will that do?” Two, he thought. That’s not enough. Still it’s better than nothing. “I’ll take them,” he said. He waited as the man went to get them and after five minutes he began

to think something was wrong and he’d not be able to get the heads. The man returned. “Here,” he said, as he placed them on the table. Paora looked. Before him were two of the biggest fish heads he’d ever seen. They were huge. He reckoned them to be three times bigger than his own head and almost as wide as his body. Those beauties will cost a packet, he thought, and I’ve only got five dollars. “How much?” he asked. “We wouldn’t dream of charging for fish heads,” said the man. “I know what it’s like to be hard up. Here take them.” There’s enough stink in these two fish heads to keep that posh lady next door spraying her house for a month, thought Paora, and he walked out of the building chuckling to himself.