By Andrew Stone
There was no provocation unless a quick glimpse counts for a red rag.
But that was enough to set him off.
The macho bellow followed: "What the f... are you looking at?"
Lots of New Zealand men will know the threat because they have heard it before - at rugby games,
parties, pubs, anywhere where men confront one another.
It signals trouble, sometimes savage violence. It is how fights start. A space has been invaded. It must be cleared. This volley came from the back of a Mt Albert bus on a journey home from work.
There were two of them, late 20s, boozy, toey, big, scary Maori guys. Loud when they got on, they laughed and swore and spat as the bus climbed past the university and headed west.
One of them was charged and hostile; the other also had a load on board but was cheerful.
No one sat near them. Passengers pretended not to notice. My mistake was turning when the spitting started.
The drunker of the pair was ready. The threat - "What the..." - waiting to be answered: "Nothing mate, just nothing."
A few more malevolent grunts, then the bus stop loomed.
In the cold night we all got off. I am wondering: Will it happen? Two of them. Fight, or flight? The odds all one way.
Nothing happens. We leave on different routes, but the heart thumps all the way home. Maybe they're behind that hedge or waiting in the shadow of a huge fig tree.
They are gone.
Unsurprised people hear the story. They too have experienced menacing encounters. That's the way it is, they say.
It could be Auckland, Rotorua, Queenstown. A violent land.
Does it have to be?
