Going Underground

By Tui Lou Christie (she/they)

Usually, it’s only the very old and the very young who don’t hide that they’re staring at me. This was the same case.

The 7:15 am bus from Johnsonville is not very busy on the weekend. A couple of younger people were scattered about, maybe on their way to work some hospo jobs on a Saturday morning, or maybe a (colloquially named) bus ride of shame home after a big Friday night. The only other passengers were a mum with a toddler bouncing on the seat next to her and an elderly woman with a big coat and a shiny black walking stick. I walked through the priority seating area and the old woman’s eyes narrowed into a squint above her facemask, to get a better look at me as I went past with my big brown suitcase. To be fair, I was wearing an outfit that can only be described as “someone’s dad going through a mid-life crisis and reviving their punk youth.” Bright red mullet, big black boots, weird band patches all over my pants, you get the picture.

In my defence, it was a Saturday. That’s my time. I was on my way to the “Underground Arts Market” in Newtown to sell some of the clothes I make. It specialises in all things goth, punk, and witchy, and I’ve booked a stall. I couldn’t show up looking normal, could I? I gave my suitcase the window seat halfway up the bus and sat down next to it. Everyone about my age gave me a glance but soon returned to their phones. The little girl was not the same. I’m used to children staring. I look weird and they just got here, I understand. I think it’s kind of fun, actually. The little girl was a few rows ahead of me and kept turning around, kneeling in her seat to look over the top at me. When I made eye contact, she sat down quickly, so I pretended not to notice.

Gradually, the bus filled with more people carrying reusable bags and trundle-along shopping carriers. The little girl stared over her Mum’s shoulder as they were getting off about halfway along the route. I gave her a little wave and she just kept staring, eyes wide and mouth hanging open slightly. Eventually, we pulled up to Newtown school. In the parking lot outside the hall was the usual bustling fruit and veggie market full of independent sellers. Being dressed like this in the middle of a veggie market at 8 am on a Saturday is such a wild feeling. I was part of the oil slick in this sea of puffer jackets, khakis, and baby slings. Luckily, there were a couple other weirdos wandering into the hall, so I followed them.

Inside was a big brown room covered in signs and drawings from the after-school program. I stood in the doorway and looked lost until Jess came and got me. She ran this market and a few others around Wellington. Band tee shirt, roughly 20 necklaces, and enough eyeliner to be seen from space. She must have been only 5’2” or thereabouts, and even with at least three inches of platform boot underneath her she barely made it past my chin. I’m definitely in the right place. She was setting up her own stall of ritual candles and beard oil but showed me to my stand and chatted away politely with me as I unpacked. I looked around the hall as I screwed together my clothing rack. Mangel Prints was already setting up in the back corner, the owner being a proper lanky punk with silver teeth and an acid wash battle vest. A woman with pink hair and a long black jacket smiled at me as she was hanging up some banners around the walls, as she had already finished setting up her stall of cat voodoo dolls. An older lady with purple hair, tall and slim like a dancer, was laying out studded leather corsets like the one she was wearing over her copious black skirts.

In horror, I realised I’d walked into a nightmare. I was underdressed.

When customers started walking in, they barely gave me a second glance. Why would they, when there’s an old man looking like the Crypt Keeper at the next stall over? I was hardly wearing any makeup or jewellery comparatively, and my black tee just had the ghostbusters logo on it instead of Mötley Crüe or Black Sabbath. Compared to the bus ride, I was almost delightfully invisible. I took a 10-minute break around 12 to go hurriedly eat some dumplings out of a paper cup on the steps outside, and Crypt Keeper was already standing there chuffing away on his vape. I saw he had white contact lenses in that made it look like his eyes were rolled into the back of his head, and his black boots had buckles all the way up to the knee. I smiled quietly into my dumplings, knowing any passer-by wouldn’t even glance at me if I was stood next to him.

Every time I saw another person with a red mullet, which was more than you’re probably imagining, we shared a knowing smile. Every now and then one of the casual veggie market shoppers would wander in; young parents with a baby in a papoose, elderly couples kitted up in puffer jackets and pull along shopping bags. I had a clear view of the door from my stand, and they were all in and out of the market in under a minute. People say that it’s hard to dress like we do every day- I guess it’s even harder to stomach us.

A young guy in a Dead Kennedys shirt stopped by to buy one of my patches. He had long hair, fingerless gloves, and a penchant for repeating himself. He showed me a whole pocketful of patches he’d got from a few other stall holders and told me he was buying a bunch to populate his new battle vest, as his old one got taken off him by a cop at a riot.

“I couldn’t believe it,” he said, “just because my vest said ACAB on the back, they took it off me. It just said ACAB and they took it off me!” Evidently, this guy is a proper punk, I guessed, in altercations with police and whatnot. Suddenly I felt very much like a poser. Sure, I’ve got the political leanings, I just lack the blood lust. Not wanting to get caught, I offered up a joke that seemed in line: “Huh. I didn’t know cops could read.” Luckily, he laughed. My secret was safe.

“See I’m from Christchurch,” he continued, “and there’s still actual Nazis in Christchurch, and I went to a punch up, right, I’m at this punch up.” He put his fists up in his fingerless gloves and mimed along as he was talking.

“And I was like, what are the rules? You know, what are the rules? Anything below the shoulders except the crotch?” He threw a couple of imaginary jabs.

“And he was like ‘how old are you’ and I was like ‘I’m 15,’ and he was like ‘Oh. I’m 32.’” He mimed another couple punches in the air.

“That sounds like a very cordial fight,” I said. “Did you shake hands on it, too?” I wondered if this happened a long time ago or if this kid was still 15, but then his mum came and got him from my stand. We waved goodbye as they headed out the hall door together.

At the end of the whole day, I was pleased with my overall sales and the nice weirdos I’d met. I packed up my stall back into my suitcase, once again looking around the room as I disassembled my clothes rack. There was the tall woman with purple hair, who looked intimidating until she began fretting over me like my mother when she found out it was my first time at the market. There was the pink haired lady with the dead cat dolls who almost skipped when she walked and had come by my stall again and again to take some toffees from my bowl. And there was the punk from Mangel Prints, who’d flashed all his silver teeth as he grinned at the designs I had on display. I added my new pins to the collection on my lapel, slipped my cool new prints into the top of my suitcase, and zipped it up proudly.

On my way out, I walked over the check out the gothic rosary beads that Jess was selling, and we chatted about the decorations on them. The one I bought had Baphomet sitting cross legged hanging off it, I put it round my neck and congratulated her on running such a cool market.

“Yep, what a good crowd of stallholders,” she said. “I’ll have them all back again, except one.”

“Oh yeah?” I asked.

“One of the stallholders, well… a couple of the younger alternative girls came up and asked me if I knew him, and-“

“Oh, he’s a creep?” We both wrinkled our noses in disgust. “Big time. So he’s not welcome back to any of my markets.”

“Chuck him on the blacklist, absolutely,” I grinned.

I got on the afternoon bus and sat next to my suitcase as the sun came through the window, satisfied with my Saturday. My black boots were rubbing at the heel and my studded collar was itching like crazy, but I wore them with pride all the way back to Johnsonville.

APPLY NOW & DOODLE YOUR WAY TO THE WORLD FINAL IN AMSTERDAM BY

DRAWING YOUR DOODLE WITHIN THE FRAME ABOVE

TAKING A CLEAR PHOTO INCLUDING THE FRAME

SCANNING THE QR CODE, CLICK APPLY AND UPLOAD