18 – Had a dad

The slow monotonous drone of Sam’s scooter can still be heard over the music, inching its way slowly down Davenport rd.  Sam still insists on wearing dresses on her 20cc Yamaha, often complaining that no matter how much she tucks the dress under legs, it always seems to blow up at the least opportune times, flashing the zebra-crossing public and causing her to swerve violently.  We have, as a group suggested jeans as some kind of compromise but apparently on deaf ears.

No sooner has she arrived that we decide to leave and she has to put her helmet back on and fold her long blond hair back under.  Matt, helmetless, jumps on the back heading off towards Moore Rd marginally faster than we can walk it.

They do long loops, coming back at us, driving on the pavement and then heading off until we all meet up at the bus stop opposite Buxton’s centre, under the blooming orange Coral tree’s.

The Saturday night traffic seems to add to the still heat, the sounds of the acapella gear changes and hooting, flat as an old guitar.

When the Mynah bus finally arrives we head towards the back and wave at Sam behind us, press our faces against the force-out window until her dress flaps up and she veers dangerously into oncoming traffic. Matt and Cam take it in turns to bus-surf with a pink stuffed bear in their hands and I lean back on the seat, Belinda between my legs redoing my shoe laces.

We get off at the end of West, on Gillespie, the cheapest street on the SA monopoly board, just short of the beach promenade before the bus veers off down to the Addington beaches.  We must have just missed some rugby game since Vaalies are everywhere in Northern Traansvaal caps, their bellies testing the length of their Springbok jerseys. Cars hiss through the wet streets, tourists jockey for position in the curry shops.  We back up on ourselves, head right down Brickhill past drunks, homeless base camps set up in recessed doorways, ignoring solicitations of cheap Dagga.

Outside the Pig and Whistle an ambulance wails stuck in the unmoved traffic, devoid of Doppler.

We all move inside looking nervous, feeling like we don’t belong, trying to look like we do.  A red leather booth, all ripped and raw is vacant at the end near the toilets which we quickly commandeer, suitably devoid of much ceiling light.

Sam is first in and looks uncomfortable and tells Matt she wants to go.

“Hold on” he says.  “Let’s just try get some drinks in, quick”

“It’s horrible.  Look at these people” No one in the bar is under 50.  Behind us a dishevelled old couple, probably in their 60’s drinking white wine by dull glass; his right hand in bandages; his fingers brown from burns.  The bar is surrounded by old men on bar stools all smoking and shouting at replays of the earlier game.  At head height floats a humid smoke mezzanine. The whole place has a feeling of damp like the inside hasn’t quite escaped the last rain.

“Ok, so who’s going to help?” I ask, leaning over the table, yelling over the Wang Chung and bar stool TV abuse.

Ian says he’ll come and asks me what everyone’s going to have.

“I don’t think we should be ordering a bunch of different things.  Think we should just stick with beer”

“But I want a whiskey?” he says.

“Whiskey and what?”

“I don’t know. Coke?”

“You don’t have whiskey and coke, dude.  I think you have it with water or maybe soda or something.”

“Water?”

“Yeah I think.  Best to stick with beer”

“What if we got some Tequila?” says Matt.

“We’re not getting Tequila.  Do you have any money, anyway?”

Matt has a dig around in his black jeans pocket, pulls out a scrunched up pack of Stuyvesant Red, crushed wet matches and some coins, which he counts out on the table to R4.

“Four Rand”, I say.  “How much do you think Tequila is?”

“No idea” but he still looks hopeful.

“Come on” says Ian. “How long we gonna wait for Spazz-boy to figure it out?”

“Ok, I say, beer is probably R2 each here. Who wants one?” The coins and crumpled notes are collected.

For the seven of us we agree to get 5 beers.  Belinda decides the possibility of being caught on her sixteenth birthday is too much and says she’ll steal some of mine, instead.

The barman looks only slightly taken aback as we squeeze our way in through the geriatric crowd at the bar, but gives us the beers anyway, unperturbed by the coinage and stray notes.

We cheer Belinda happy birthday, light up cigarettes and wonder whether suicide couple will be there tonight.

The girls agree that Chris is trouble for her and the guys reckon the issue is more that he’s from Boksburg.  That she should stick with Durban guys.  Coastal turf, says Ian.  “Local is lekker” says Cam looking suddenly depressed.  Belinda decides she’s being crazy and she needs a beer and Sam offers to go up with her and I suggest that one of us should go with them but she says there’s no point and so we don’t.

Cam tells us that there’s a large protest planned for next week through the streets of Durban called The Freedom March. He tells us there’s also a national strike so none of the buses will be running.

“Are you going?” I ask him.

“Dont know, you?”

“Maybe.  What day?”

“Your’e on the wrong side” says Ian.  Robyn adds “I can’t believe you want to support them.  They’ll take over this country if we give them even half a chance” and Ian puts his hand gently on her arm on the table and she stops, takes a sip from his beer.

“Wednesday”

“Wednesday I can do.  Hope it’s better than the ECC one” I say. A month earlier I had gone to an End Conscription Campaign march near South Beach which had drawn more police than protesters and was so middle class and white that I felt thoroughly depressed by the time it dispersed orderly at the South Beach police station.

“Yeah most of those there would have been undercover police anyway; I probably wouldn’t bother next time”

“How do you know?” I ask.

“Mum works at Uni, she hears things, you know”

“So this one’ll be different?”

“This is big” says Cam.

“They should get the army in there”, suggests Ian “Get some tanks in; blow the fuckers all to Kingdom Come”

Belinda storms up to me, tells me we need to go now, with Sam right behind her.

“What happened, Bel?” She hugs me still standing up.

“Nothing.  Just let’s go. Now”

“Tell me”

“Nothing.  Just…” she starts. I push her back slightly so I can see her face.

“Just what?”

“Just. I think I just got chatted up by my dad”

“What?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t seen him in years.  I thought he looked familiar.  He was talking to me, asking me where I was going tonight and stuff and then I got a smell of him and then, then I kinda knew.  It was him.”

“Jesus”

“Can we go?”

“Yup” I say, sculling what’s left of my beer and tell the rest of the table.

“We’re off.  We’re off now.”

~ by noisemachina on July 19, 2009.