Free Dreamboat Dad by Alan Duff Page A

monthly, we packed every seat and sat gob-smacked
in every aisle unable to get enough of the King, unable to believe
such a person existed and yet he was ours, we could purchase him for the
price of a theatre ticket, price of his long-player or single records, if we
owned a record player, play him for a few pennies on the milk bar juke-box,
hear him free on the radio waves.
    Single-handedly, Elvis Presley rocked society yet brought something
breathtakingly exciting, of true meaning. It felt unbelievable.
    Nightly we sat with ears glued to radio speakers waiting to hear his
voice, to become what we had no idea we'd been craving deep inside.
Yes, even kids. Every growing one of us cheered and proclaimed Elvis's
latest number-one hit song on the Hit Parade and had the lyrics off by
heart days after hearing it, with numbered hand-written charts on every
bedroom and living room wall confirming Elvis's supremacy.
    In one fell swoop Elvis unlocked every cell on the listening planet
Earth and set the hearing world free.
    The magazines told his fans he came from the South, a town called
Tupelo in Mississippi. My father came from that same state, could well
have similar qualities. Imagine: Jess and Mark Hines, unique father and son
combo performing to adoring audiences throughout America. Imagine.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN
    A BIG SENIOR MEN'S RUGBY match is on, against our traditional arch
rivals, Tanepatu. It's tribal warfare: fights break out in the grandstand, on
the sidelines between spectators. Rival supporters break out in the haka
throughout the game, itself a mighty spectacle of raw Maori power and
skill in ferocious competition. They're actually the same main tribe but it's
more like civil war for ninety minutes.
    Chud will be at the game. He wants to be a senior men's team member
more than anything except get out of his horrible home. Waiwera is not the
same with the heart of its population absent; the tourists more or less have
it to themselves, just the elderly and our cheerful chatty women guides
along with a few penny-diver kids, too young to care how important
rugby is to our culture. Rugby is a game even girls and women are mad
on. Our men elders become young again, boys' eyes are on fire, retired
players want to play again. If I was a good player I'd share the village
passion for the game too.
    Instead I think about this latest letter from America. Wonder who to
share it with — Merita? Decide she's too old for drama and maybe me
showing emotion. For Jess has sent yet another money order, this time a
hundred pounds. He's set me free. I can buy a car — a car! Pay off my
music equipment. Buy my mother something special, or give her the cash.
Who to share this excitement with in a locals-deserted village?
    Find my sister at Falls Bath, by herself. Mud-grey water drops from
a concrete pipe six feet above, feeding from a larger into the smaller,
concrete-encased pool, through a twenty-foot length of eighteen-inch-wide
pipe. The overflow goes down a channel that runs, eventually, to
the river.
    Mata's flushed cheeks say she's been here a while. A rock face overhangs
half the pool in a semi-circle, ferns and stunted scrub sprout where they
can take root. The noise of the water falling is constant and the enclosure
makes it resonate: you have to half shout to be heard; the waterfall can't
be turned off. We swim in the higher natural pool too, though some don't
like the squelchy mud and sometimes you hit a hot vent spurting beneath.
Two piwakawaka — fantails — chase each other and claim my sister's
attention for a smiling moment. Older Maoris believe fantails carry all sorts
of meanings depending on when and where you see them. Kids just think
they're birds.
    It's cold and I'm keen to get in the bath to warm up. Tell her, I
heard from him again. She's happy for me, knows what how much I love
hearing from him.
    Why doesn't he send a photo so we know what he looks like?
    I already know what he looks like. Proceed to give my