Nigel is a saucier.
'Was.'
He's now into something far more exciting.
'Traffic Control.'
He's tanned, lean, and has a Tom Salek mustache.
He's got matinee good looks and really takes care of his workers.
I'm one of them.
We are subcontracted out to Main Roads.
Nigel is putting up signs on a treacherous mountain pass. The temporary ones are being packed away.
This stretch of road has been under construction for over thirty years now, says a guy passing through, who is a soil sampler.
'I've seen trucks down an embankment of a sharp been , I've bends seen motorcyclists down an embankment a sharp bend.'
The bend is being reconstructed again after the floods of 21.
I almost saw my life flashing before my eyes around this very same sharp bend of the road.
I ran temporary a red light in this remote mountain pass. The truck driver made sure I knew I ran a red light and he flashed his lights in anger. High, low beam. Nearly fucking blinded me. It was just a strong sense of self preservation and not really giving a fuck, that prevented me from careening down the embankment.
Come on, give me a break, it's not like there are speed cameras there.
No harm, no fail.And more importantly, no demerit points.Just a pissed off truck driver who shat himself.
'Fuck.'
Nigel is yelling at the signs again. He's a flurry of activity, his hands grabbing shifters, signs, bolts, traffic plans.
'Fuck.'
Nigel is a one man show.
He's back in the compound now.
He carries a twenty litre fuel can in one hand and is smoking a cigarette in the other.
I mime.
And gesture to the combustible formula.
'You just mind what you are doing.'
I wasn't doing much. Dozing on, and dozing off.
A while later, I tell Nigel that I didn't mean to offend.
'I really couldn't give a fuck if the both of us go up in smoke.'
A little while later, he says his goodbyes. It's a Friday and Nigel is going to strut his good looks at the discos on the coast line.
He eventually comes up to my car, where I've just had my tenth nap for the day.
'Have a good weekend, Ivan Malat,' then he rubs his hand against mine in a gangster fashion.
Nigel terrorizes traffic signs. And my first name is Ivan.
He's a formidable human being on two legs.
And he cares the fuck about his workers.
'Make sure you get your meal allowances,' he says, then adds, 'and if you need to retrieve your bond and if you want to put that Maori upstart back in his box, just say the word.'
Just say the word.
I'm fantasizing about the possibilities. Even Inspector Jones, in charge of the Maori thief, has suggested it would be no great loss to see the demise of another young fucked up Maori who after a few beers wants to play 'bash up' your drinking mates.
If ever there was a Ivan Milat in spirit, it would have to be Nigel.
'Only way of getting your money back and the most effective.'
I wonder if Nigel moon lights as a debt collector on the weekends?
