room eleven

Mr. John Key is coming tomorrow. He is the Prime Minister. The minister that is prime. The face of our country, Aotearoa, New Zealand.

Mr. John Key is going to have a specially organised tour of this camp. He will see lots of wonderful things. Happy faces of smiling children who deserve to have good things in their life. Everyone will be playing and laughing and/or participating in Educational Activities, including eating their vegetables (or at least being instructed to).

After Mr. Key's face -- the face of our country -- has seen these things we will thank him politely in our high-pitched, pre-pubescent voices and most likely emit a round of applause. There will be big applause from big people and lots of little pattering applause from little people hands, like the beginning of rain on concrete-paved court yards. The applause will be steady for a few seconds before gradually fading out. It will be difficult to know who is the last person to stop clapping, although someone obviously will have to be. They will probably not be clapping the longest because they are patriotic or vote National. Actually, they are unlikely to be able to vote at all. It will probably just come down to chance.

If I found myself being the last person left clapping I would almost definitely keep clapping just a teeny tiny bit longer so that people could tell I was the last one clapping.

"Look at me, Mr. John Key!" my little clap-clapping hands would say. "These here hands are no ordinary hands. They are probably -- no, certainly! -- the hands of a trustworthy New Zealander. Hands which deserve to be recognised. They are the hands of a survivor. Here, direct your attention towards these executors of greatness. These hands can do many things."

Upon which note I would demonstrate several examples of the many useful uses of my two higher extremities. Such as... toothbrushing! Hand shaking! Shoe-lace tying, tickling, semi-complicated jugging routines. Origami, pimple-squeezing, hair styling, tactile-texture guessing while blind-folded game. Simple algebra equations. Nose picking! Turning a light switch on... Turning a light switch off! And back on! Off! The list goes on and on and on, I would say to Mr. Key.

Mr. John Key would look at me and say, "Son, you are the most prodigious child I have ever met -- no, ever heard of! We absolutely must without a doubt, no questions asked, harvest your talent! And we must, must buy you a better pair of shoes. And new pants. Possibly a tie."

"You know what boy," Mr. John Key will say to me as he exits stage right, an arm around my shoulder blades, "you're one of those kids people look at and think: that kid is going to be successful. A kid who has naturally or necessarily acquired the exact set of qualities that the observer lacked in young adulthood.

"You, my boy, are a fine example of New Zealand's up-and-coming generation. Don't be afraid. You are our prime subject. You are the face of the future." He continues to guide me towards his car and helps me be seated. "You are the littlest hands making the loudest noise."

John Key shuts the car door. I look though the tinted windows. I can see out but no-one can see me unless they press their face against the glass. There are a lot of children outside and they are full of scars and stitches and artificial body parts. They are the discards of a plastic doll factory. The image leaves holes in my eyes and tyre marks over the sealed road.