Under the Overpass - Creative Radio Broadcast

Auckland Skyscraper Catching the Sunlight - Photo: Danielle Hutchinson

Two years ago, I was living in Auckland Central Business District (CBD) in Aotearoa New Zealand as part of a study abroad scheme. I was particularly captivated, yet somewhat alienated, by the soaring skyscrapers of the city. During these five months, I wrote a number of creative pieces inspired by my experience of the CBD, including a short story called 'Under the Overpass'.

This week, William Essex invited me onto the Short Story Hour radio show at Source FM where I read a (slightly redacted) version of this piece. You can listen to the broadcast piece here: https://player.autopod.xyz/1238101 which starts at around 35mins, followed by a discussion about the influences and creative choices behind the story.

Below is a copy of Under the Overpass in full (including mildly offensive language - be warned!) to read at your leisure...

Under the Overpass

Above ground, the city is all glass panes and sharp reflections. New, disorientating, unfamiliar. Around every corner is another polished office block, soaring skywards, giving you vertigo. The suits that strut past don’t give you a second glance as they scurry to their next big break.

You seek solace in the seedy places that all look the same.

There is a reassuring universality to the cold concrete steps that lead you down off the street into an underground bar. The darkness envelopes you and you find a seat in a black leather vinyl booth that you don’t want to shine a UV light on; thankfully the only LEDs are taped haphazardly round the stage.

The walls are covered with a mottled brown and beige carpet that you would expect to find in your grandmother’s sitting room, not stapled to the side of a dive bar. You slump back in the booth and take a swig of your overpriced can, filled with piss-weak cider for a lofty ten dollars.

Maybe you’ll win the money back on the Guns and Roses pinball machine that sits flickering pathetically in the corner. You consider heading over, but the first band has come on stage for their soundcheck.

You realise, too late, that you forgot earplugs - but it doesn’t matter as the music starts thrumming through your veins. The pounding in your chest is only from the baseline for once… and perhaps slightly something to do with how attractive the bassist is.

The other kid on stage looks like he should be at home in his bedroom studying algebra; instead, he has raided a charity shop bin for a cut off tank top and pair of silver trainers. You wonder if his parents know that he’s currently on stage singing about making people cum.

His obscene lyrics are drowned out slightly by the whir of the hand dryer that can be heard through the plywood wall to the toilets, disguised in a layer of matt black paint which coats the entire room, except for the patches on the ceiling which are largely held together with duct tape.

The next set has started and you notice the bassist from the last band is leaning against the bar. Something tells you that you will never find a convenient moment to go over and strike up a conversation. Never mind, someone has sidled up next to you… your hopes fall as you suffer through an elderly guy with a questionable comb-over trying to chat you up. At least you have ascertained that there are perverts in every country – a bittersweet familiarity. He asks you if you’re here often… all the while you’re wondering how he made it down the steep stairs and if he is now resigned to dwell in the bar for the rest of his existence.

Every interaction that you have is like a game of guess who, matching the names to the faces, guessing who you introduced yourself to last night. Hint: most of the bar.

Some characters are new, like the woman in her forties staggering on the street above with mascara streaked down her face. She’s wearing a leopard print dress and leaning against a bin whilst clutching a plastic baby in her arms. That’s a new one, even for you.

There are preachers handing out leaflets claiming fervently that ‘Jesus is coming’. A leaflet is pressed into your hands and, upon closer inspection, you find that it appears to promote Christianity by simply slagging off all other religions. How holy.

There is a faint twang of weed drifting across the street from the nearby park, where the homeless shelter under the overpass and hurl abuse at anyone else unfortunate enough to be out in the stale night air.

Beyond the business district, the city grows rough around the edges, but it is here that you find home. Not amongst the suits and skyscrapers, but the guys carrying guitars with broken straps and blood on the fretboards from playing too hard. Lost in a crowd of strangers who feel like friends, just because they too have found refuge in the darkness on a Friday night.