4 Nov

For nearly 25 years the kiosk at the entrance to Wellington train station has provided patrons various newspapers, drinks, sweets, and a small assortment of pies. It has almost reached the status of an institution, something to count on, something to trust; indelible. In the eight short months Jamie has been catching the train into Wellington from Titahi Bay, he's picked up the Dominion Post (and once in a while, when he's mildly hungover, a bacon-and-egg pie). The act of dropping $1.20 on the counter was habit--and he made sure he always had exact change, like, when in Limerick, he paid sixty cents exactly each morning for his scone from the bakery next door. It was comfortable, like he was participating in tradition or a local celebration.

Then one Friday as he hopped off the 7:48 from the bay, the sign before him stopped him dead: Last day of kiosk--closing tomorrow. He was not only disappointed, he felt insulted. He walked to the counter to pay for his paper and spoke to the older Maori woman for the first time.

"What's with the sign?" he asked.

"Closing down for ever." She said with the signature punctuated lilt of the Maori accent. "That New World is going in, and they don't like competition."

Jamie looked to his right, and couldn't believe he hadn't noticed the sign before. It had been there months proclaiming the site of the next in the line of New World chain grocery stores. He dropped his change on the counter.

"Dickheads." He said firmly, and she laughed.

"Yeah, it's pretty stink, eh?"

"Good luck."

"Thanks."

Jamie walked away and turned to see it once more. A wave of passengers pumped by like a surge of blood into the veins of the city, but he stood motionless, clotting the flow, hoping he might give the beast a heart attack.