by Jen Thorpe
Thank you for applying for the study. We’d like to inform you that your application was successful. Please reply ‘YES’ to confirm your place or ‘NO’ to decline.
She was so relieved that she began to cry. Working in the kiosk, and the sense of failure that came with it, was like carrying a heavy shopping bag and putting it down, only to realise the circulation has been cut off from your fingers. In an instant the colouring-in of yet another sign advertising pies didn’t feel so awful, and the light in the room seemed comforting rather than oppressive. She had a chance to escape. Quickly, she replied ‘YES’ in capital letters.
That afternoon, closing up the shop felt like freedom – she didn’t even slam the door like she usually did at the end of the day. Walking home, she planned her life as a new and improved person who could drive. She pictured the car she would drive, and the CDs she would have inside it. She pictured the shoes that would be left behind in the back seat and the gravel that would almost surely pile up inside the door. She couldn’t wait for her windscreen to mist up in the rain, and to know what to do to clear it. She was ready. This study was going to get her over her fear of driving.
Their double-storey house smelled like the steam from an iron, and as she walked in she saw Abigail, stooped over the board as she usually was at this time of day. Abigail was watching The Bold and the Beautiful on TV. Nazma wished her sister Nafeesa was there so she could tell her about the study.
‘I got in, Mum.’
Her mother muted the TV. She could look at Nazma in a way that made her embarrassed for the feelings she hadn’t realised she was experiencing. At that moment, Abigail looked like she was going to hug her, or at least like she was thinking about it.
‘That’s so good, my girl. I’m so happy for you.’
‘We start next week. Will you speak to dad about time off?’
‘I’ll speak with him. But you know how he’ll want to speak to you too about where you’re going. Just tell him you’re going to a cooking class or something like that. He won’t ask too many questions. He’ll probably know where you are, but you know he likes to pretend he doesn’t know, and you must pretend that you don’t know he knows.’
Nazma put out her hand for the high five she’d taught her mum to give in the absence of hugs and kisses. Moving through to their kitchen, she made herself a toasted cheese, onion and chilli sandwich, and went up to her room to read and to imagine her life on the open roads. Downstairs, Abigail unmuted the television and watched the familiar characters do familiar things, but, this time, felt something different.
6
Sam
Ancraophobia: Fear of wind
Sam woke up, slipped on a pair of old stokies, and turned off the internal house alarm. The night before had been a restless one because of the combined noise from the wind and the rain. They shook his windows and rattled Neville’s wind chimes. Neville was a pacifist plumber whose flat above Sam’s smelled frequently of lentils and occasionally of weed. Beneath Sam’s flat was Minnie’s. Minnie was cat-obsessed and played the television so loudly that it was often audible through the floor, and perhaps from outer space.
Sam had a few things to do before going into the head office of the company he worked for. Despite being named ‘Arachnid’, it was hardly scary selling advertising or placing it. Actually, what Sam did was more similar to creating appealing shop windows. He was an SEO expert – a Search Engine Optimiser. To be an SEO expert, he had to do two things. One: realise he was selling his soul. Two: spend way too much time researching keywords and phrases like used-car auctions, LED televisions, fastest Internet service providers, and six-pack abs.
Sam liked his job in some ways – it was safe, he liked working at home and could stay in his pyjamas. He also worked flexible hours, allowing him to run in the forest as often as he liked, though he hadn’t been running for a while. He had registered as a volunteer wildfire fighter, and his running was supposed to be training for the next dry season, when they’d need more help. On the side, he was planning to launch his own advertising agency, doing adverts only for companies that were carbon neutral, but the research was taking him ages. In the meantime, there was Arachnid to pay the bills and keep him occupied.
The articles he had been writing recently were particularly awful. He had one more to finish before going into the office for his weekly staff meeting, and it was on the topic of ‘Used Car Auctions, Queensland Australia’. He sighed. The rules for Arachnid’s SEO articles meant the article he was writing had to start with ‘Used Car Auctions, Queensland Australia’, and then he had to use all the other keywords about the topic in the text at least once. The idea was that these keywords would be found online and would make more and more people visit the site, which would feature this one crappy article and loads of advertising.
The other keywords were equally uninspiring: covers, the Outback, kangaroo. Last night, on his return from the Centre, he hadn’t been able to think of anything interesting to write. In fact, he hadn’t been able to think of much else but the study and the hope he’d get in. He wanted the chance to see that girl he sort of recognised again. Her head had felt nice against his chest when she’d bumped into him. Between thinking of her and the wind, it hadn’t been a great night’s sleep.
Sam looked out of his sliding doors, through the burglar bars and Trellidor, and up at the mountain. He stopped procrastinating and began to write the article:
Used Car Auctions, Queensland Australia, are great places to meet the Sheila of your dreams. She’ll be hopping like a Kangaroo when she sees you purchase a 4×4 that can comfortably drive you off into the sunset. If you want a romantic trip across the Outback, these second-hand car sales are the place to be. It’s a short step from your new car to the covers of a new bed.
This was an all-time low. A sexist personal ad featuring repossessed cars was something he thought only Australians could fall for. It scared him even more to think what the site might advertise alongside it, and he firmly closed his laptop, shutting away the embarrassment. Work to live, don’t live to work, he reminded himself. At least he knew that one day he wouldn’t have to do this stuff any more.
He had to go into town once a week to meet his boss, who was a friend of his from high school. The year Sam started his BA at university most of his classmates had found the love of their lives and got engaged. Stuart was the only one he’d stayed friends with, after he’d begun to avoid group braais for fear of more baby talk or questions about his ‘relationships’.
Sam looked at his watch. If he left soon he could make the 10:30 train. He got dressed, put on his favourite jacket, and packed his things for the meeting. Turning off the perimeter alarm and door alarm, he opened the door and stepped outside. As soon as he was out he pressed a button on his remote which turned on all the alarms again. Safety was just a click of a button away.
Hands in his pockets for comfort, he headed down to the station and tried to buy a loose cigarette at the kiosk, but when he peered in, he didn’t see anyone. It was probably too windy to enjoy it anyway. He turned to see if anyone was around who looked like they could help, but only the station guard was standing nearby, peering back at him.
The train arrived, and he climbed on. If the trains ran on time, it was always quicker to use them than brave the traffic around Hospital Bend, though on the train it felt like there was the added risk of contracting tuberculosis and, of course, being mugged. Looking around, Sam saw the usual suspects and turned to stare out of the tiny portion of unscratched, un-graffitied window opposite him to avoid making eye contact.
The train rattled vigorously and varied in speed throughout the journey to town. Most of the passengers were dressed for work. They must be on the late shifts. Company in a train carriage depended heavily on time of day and the two-rand price difference between Metro and Metro Plus. In theory, Metro Plus was the first-class option, but the stations rarely checked to see if anyone had a ticket so the train was almost always overfull in all ca
rriages. The carriages were exactly the same – same seating, same lack of announcement systems or air conditioner, same breakdowns euphemistically described as ‘faulty sets’.
Cape Town Station had been recently renovated, including the installation of some massive television screens on certain platforms, but the same investment hadn’t been made in increasing the number of carriages per train. There were only third-class and first-class carriages, and perhaps sneaking in that second-class carriage or combining the two might solve some problems. It would definitely improve things more than the big screens showing Schuster-type pranks all day long at the central station ever could.
The train rocked over the highway at Mowbray, passed the bread factories at Woodstock and slowed to a crawl when it came into the station. The brakes moaned and screeched. The small patch of window Sam could see out of showed a view of the castle with a collection of homeless people sitting against the high walls around a metal drum with a fire in it. It was cold outside, the wind was channelled down the streets, and the grass was probably still damp with dew and leftover rain.
Sam prepared himself for getting off the train by holding his bag tightly against his body and making sure he had his hand in his pocket ready and waiting. The doors opened and people surged out of all the carriages, and from between carriages too. The mass of people moved towards the few operating exit doors and past Metrorail staff, who gazed disinterested over the throngs and checked the occasional ticket between staring into space or talking on their phones.
Sam’s own phone vibrated in his bag against his leg and he calculated the risk of reading the message out in the open. He decided to take the chance. Nevertheless, he watched the people around him over the top of his cell phone, assessing who was most likely to mug him.
Thank you for applying for the study. We’d like to inform you that your application was successful. Please reply ‘YES’ to confirm your place or ‘NO’ to decline.
The world went mute for a moment as the blood rushed to his ears. Then he remembered where he was and, without delay, replied YES.
7
Nazma
Cainophobia: Fear of newness or novelty
A week had passed, but, as on most of the important days in her life, Nazma had nothing to wear and hadn’t planned ahead enough to have much of a choice. She was overexcited and unable to decide.
Managing to get the days off from work had involved much debate with her father and a few white lies. It hadn’t been easy, with him asking enough questions at machine-gunfire speed to shoot holes in any excuses.
‘Where are you going to be? Who are you going to be with? What are you going to do? Where are you going to do it? Who will mind the shop? What about your poor mummy? What time will you be home? Do you need supper? What will you eat there? Do you have your phone? Do you have my number? Do you have Mummy’s number? Will you call us if you need us? Do you know the trains are delayed today?’
This monologue had involved much gesticulating, pointing, hip-swaying and finger-wagging. Nazma was used to this, and though she had already planned a story to give him, she had been forced to interrupt with:
‘At a friend’s. With a friend. We’re learning new recipes. At the friend’s house. You, like the old days, or Mum if not you. She will be fine. It depends on how long it takes. Yes, I’ll be home for supper. I think we’ll probably taste our cooking. I have it. Yes. She doesn’t use hers. I will. I do.’
Zubair had looked at Nazma as though she was unrecognisable to him. His hips took on their comfortable forward sway and his gesticulators came to rest on them. She took a breath. Lying to him was always easier than she thought it would be, perhaps because she knew he knew the truth. They’d had lots of practice avoiding the topics that needed discussion.
After the questions were done and Zubair realised she was going to go regardless of what he thought, he engaged her in a stare-down. Thankfully, about two minutes into the staring, the phone rang, and he cocked his ear, head turning slightly towards his shoulders, not wanting to back down. Finally, Nazma let go and looked away. He could have this one.
Her nerves were shot from the silly argument, and choosing clothes hadn’t helped. She decided on a short black dress with grey leggings underneath. She had been wearing fake All Stars since 1992 when they came to the Pep near her in Durban. It was a hard habit to break, even when she wanted to look smart, so she laced them up and left home. At one point she’d even contemplated scheduling a driving lesson before the first session to get into the zone, but chickened out. There was no point in arriving overly stressed or sweaty with nerves, and she was relieved she hadn’t done it.
She walked down the road towards the train, passing the Baxter on her right. Students sat on the wall surrounding the theatre, laughing. Her takkies made a comforting sound on the pavement, and the local beggar asked in a rather posh English accent whether he could ‘have fifty cents please’. She gave him a rand instead – she needed the good karma today.
To head to town she had to wait on the mountain side of the tracks, but needed to buy her ticket on the opposite side. Nazma purchased her ticket from the surly woman behind the double-thick glass, who pretended she couldn’t hear her properly. Nazma was embarrassed to have to keep shouting ‘METRO PLUS!’ and when she got her ticket it was still for regular Metro. She gave up and walked back through the darkness to the other side. It was the difference between a seat with a cushion and a seat without one, not between Syria and Hollywood.
The platform was quiet, and extended several metres to the left and right of the entrance. She sat down to wait on the blue bench and soon heard the familiar sound of screeching to let her know the train was about to arrive. The train that did come was a grey one, so first and third class both had the same cheap, torn pleather seats.
When she got in, the carriage was empty. The windows were always only half-open and the grey seats were indented by the bodies that had sat in them before. She wished someone would repair the windows so they could open fully – when they were jammed shut it was so stuffy inside the carriage. Someone had drawn all over the seats, writing the numbers of their friends and swear words on the headrests. Nazma sat down beneath one that said ‘arsehole’ and looked out.
She normally brought her book along for longer rides, but hadn’t done so today. The Centre was only three stops away and it wouldn’t take long for her to get there. She didn’t want to rush a book in and out of her bag for such a short trip – she might damage the cover.
The rocking of the carriage lulled her into calmer breathing. She heard the door at the head of the carriage slam open, and watched as two women walked across the tiny metal ramp between carriages. One was old, blind, obese, and wearing a navy beanie. The other was young, slender and dressed for church. They began to sing.
‘Jeeeesssssuuuus. The son of God.’
‘Son of God.’
‘How eggsellent is your name. Jeeesssuuuusss. The son of God.’
‘Son of God.’
‘How eggsellent is your name. How eggsellent!’
‘How eggsellent!’
‘How eggsellent is your name.’
Train singers were a common occurrence, but normally there was the buffer of other passengers to absorb their pleading looks. This time Nazma was all alone. She dug in her bag for some coins, and as she dropped the money in their tiny metal cup they curtsied in sync and her stomach turned.
‘God bless you.’
‘Um … thank you.’
She got off at Observatory and passed through the darkened ticket office to reach the road. She put in her earphones, turned on the Smashing Pumpkins, and walked, relieved to be out of the train and back in the open air. Though she didn’t have to drive it, she remained nervous that something would go wrong on the train. It was a hell of a lot less scary than travelling by taxi, though – at least you knew one train wouldn’t try to overtake another on a blind rise into oncoming traffic.
She walked in the direction
of the Centre, watching the mountain and trying to see if there were any people on it. Light poured over the grass. It was light unlike anywhere else in the world. In summer it stained the sky a hopeful blue, and on a winter’s day like this, a single ray through a dense cloud could raise the spirit of even the most melancholic person. The road was damp in patches, and crunched underfoot. When she reached the top of it she saw that the Centre door was open. She hesitated, removed her earphones, and then walked towards the open door.
8
Sam
Carnophobia: Fear of meat
Sam packed a small backpack for gym before the study. He left the house, re-alarmed, but when he tried to start his car the battery was dead – he must have left the lights on the night before. Neville wasn’t home, but Sam left a note on his front door, asking if he wouldn’t mind jumping him when he got back later that morning. He looked at the note again, then crossed out ‘jump me’ and wrote ‘jump-start my car’ in small squashed letters. Neville was often at home at irregular hours.
In the absence of a car, he took a train from Rondebosch to Newlands, hopped off, and did an hour of weights and jogging at the gym. Sweaty and pleased with himself, he was walking towards the train station again to return home when the sing-song of the gaatjie calls and the long wait he’d have at the train station lured him into taking a taxi.
‘Claremont, Mowbray, Cape Tyowwwwwn. Wynberg, Mowbray, Kaap-toe. Mowbray – Kaap. Cape Tyowwwwn. Hello, brother. Tyown?’
He normally didn’t take taxis because of the obvious danger involved – they could drive you off somewhere and it was unlikely you could jump from the moving vehicle because you were always packed so tightly. He was wearing his gym shorts and a vest, but he had brought his protection mechanism with him, and he took it out of his backpack and placed it in his shorts pocket. He took a deep breath. If he wasn’t going to start taking chances, then this study would be a bit of a waste of time really.