by Jen Thorpe
‘You can do this. You can do this.’
He flagged down a taxi and dodged between the traffic to reach it on the other side of the road. Drivers gesticulated at the parked taxi in the turning lane; the gaatjie told them to relax. As Sam climbed in the young man next to him shifted his plastic shopping bags to make room. Seconds after Sam sat down, the taxi lurched off towards Mowbray. Despite the fact that there was no more room for the passengers to press against each other, the taxi stopped and opened the door for another one. There was literally no more seat space but that didn’t stop the driver.
‘Get the laptop, brother,’ said the driver.
Sam watched as in one swift movement the gaatjie lifted the front passenger seat’s headrest and placed it horizontally in the walkway between Sam’s seat and the single seat against the window, creating another place to sit. Sam realised this was the ‘laptop’ the gaatjie had been talking about.
The rotund woman whom the taxi had stopped for climbed on. There were already four passengers in the three-seater section, and now a fifth on the laptop, and the person on the single seat. Six people in Sam’s row. He couldn’t really reach his pocket, and scanned the taxi for exit routes in case he needed to escape. There wasn’t any room to move. The taxi was the gift that kept on giving, with twenty passengers inside. He remembered an old joke his father would tell while parked behind one: ‘How many people can fit into a taxi? Always one more.’ He smiled at the memory and tried to calm down.
They passed the gym on his right, and Protea Road on the left heading up towards the hotel. He’d only been there once with his mother when he was sixteen. She drank one too many gin and tonics and he drove her home, worrying the whole way that the police would stop him. The school near the Engen was advertising a play-slash-fundraiser, and Cubana was packed with business people having work breakfasts. Sam could feel the knees of the person behind him pressed against his back, the knees of the people next to him pressed next to his knees, and his own knees pressed together. The man who’d moved his shopping for Sam started singing aloud, so that all the other passengers could hear his rendition of Michael Bolton’s ‘How Can We Be Lovers’. His voice was bad enough, but worse was that everyone could already hear the original version through his huge headphones. It was sensory overload in a tin can.
The large woman sitting on the laptop was reading an article about celebrities’ cellulite in Heat magazine. The cellulite in question was circled in red and had loud writing next to it, with a surplus of exclamation points. The text said ‘lumpy custard’. She shook her head and clicked her tongue in disgust. Sam looked at the labelled body parts and then at her. He looked around the singing man to the road outside, trying to distract himself from the sheer proximity of everyone to him. It was getting hot inside, or at least he was.
About two minutes into the drive, Sam smelled something that made him feel nauseous. It was coming from behind him, and as he turned to see what it was, tiny hands reached over his seat on both sides of his head and planted themselves on his shoulders. Turning again, he came face to face with a little boy, who was sitting behind him, holding a huge chunk of bright pink polony with specks of green pepper inside it just above Sam’s shoulder. The boy smiled. Sam wanted to turn away from the powerful smell, but as he moved to sit forward the little boy poked him in the eye, his tiny fingers sticky with saliva and polony bits. A chunk of half-chewed polony now clung to Sam’s eyelash. He was afraid to blink, in case it fell into his eye. The larger chunk remained in the child’s hand, and the boy giggled.
Just as suddenly as they’d appeared, the hands were whipped away as the little boy’s mother pulled him back from Sam and scolded him. In the process, the hand holding the polony released a huge chunk into Sam’s lap. In an instant evaluation of most disgusting to least disgusting, Sam moved to brush the polony from his eyelash. At the same time, the Michael Bolton fan erupted into a wail at the chorus of ‘How Can We Be Lovers’, and slapped Sam’s leg enthusiastically, gluing the large chunk of sticky pink mess to his leg hairs. Sam experienced an overwhelming feeling of despair. Trying to calm down, he closed his eyes, but realised he might miss his stop.
On the walk home from where the taxi had dropped him, Sam walked with his legs wide, like a cowboy, trying to make sure the polony didn’t get any further acquainted with his groin area. As soon as he got inside his flat he climbed into the shower and lit a cigarette. He had to keep one hand out of the stream and stick his head out for each inhale, but it was worth it. He allowed the ash to drop and swirl around his toes. Although he was committed to stopping smoking, the trauma of the taxi ride meant that he savoured the familiar taste of tobacco in his mouth. He didn’t need protection from muggers; he needed protection from children with processed meat.
When he was done showering he got dressed and went to see if Neville was home. He was, and emerged in predictable beige clothes, in all likelihood made of hemp, and walked with Sam over to his car.
‘You off work today?’ Neville asked.
‘Ja, I’ve got a meeting to go to at lunchtime, so took the day off.’
‘Oh, cool. What meeting?’
‘Just, you know, a meeting.’
Neville gave him a sidelong glance.
‘So, is it for … you know, your spirit?’
‘No, Neville, it’s not for that. I don’t even want to talk about that. Come on now. We’ve discussed this.’ Neville pushed a stray dreadlock behind his ear.
‘Cool, bru, relax. So what’s it for then?’
‘I told you, I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘Sheesh man. Okay. But you know if you change your mind I’m just upstairs. I’ve noticed a strange energy from you lately. We could do a meditation together, or just some breathing exercises. When I’m stressed I find that lying with my legs in the air is really helpful. It generates healing heat in the abdomen.’
Sam didn’t respond and Neville realised the tactic to convert Sam to a more Zen lifestyle wasn’t working. They jump-started the car and let it run for a while, leaning against the boot in awkward silence.
‘I’ve got to go, man. Thanks again.’
‘Pleasure. And I still think you should, you know … face things head on and all that.’
‘Flip, Neville. Give it a rest man. I’m doing the best I can here.’
Sam got into his car, closing the door too hard behind him. Feeling bad, he waved at Neville, who lifted his hand for a gentle goodbye. On some level, Sam knew Neville was right, but he just wasn’t really interested in huffing and puffing his way to feeling better. He wanted an easier way.
9
Ruby
Athazagoraphobia: Fear of being forgotten
Downstairs at the Centre, cups of tea and coffee were being made to the sound of the photocopier churning out the workbooks for the study. A small stack was already organised and stapled on the table next to it.
The breeze blew the smell of bread baking at the mill in Salt River into Observatory. The waiting area smelled yeasty and comforting. The bay window in the reception area let in the mid-morning light, and the air conditioning was at the perfect temperature – twenty-three degrees. It stayed at this temperature all year round, rain or shine.
Upstairs, the boardroom was set up with sixteen chairs around a circular table. Two extra chairs for Ruby and Fairouz had been placed at either side of the room. In front of each chair was a name tag, a blue pen with the Centre for Improved Living’s logo, a glass of water and a bowl of Sparkles. Soon they would begin the first of five in-house sessions that would hopefully turn at least some people’s lives around. A breeze lifted the leaves on the giant plane tree outside. It was a cautious and inquisitive wind, not like the usual winter weather.
The team had decided to have the meeting between twelve and two in the afternoon. That way people could get all the information they needed, and perhaps stay for a cup of tea afterwards and get to know one another. Ruby wasn’t sure if people would stay behind,
but it was worth the attempt on the first day.
Five sessions would happen at the Centre and five outside. The plan was to spend the first session getting to know one another, explaining the process and pairing the participants so they had someone to work with. Ruby and Fairouz would facilitate and guide the conversation where they thought it needed guidance, and would stem the tide of rants and monologues if they occurred.
To inspire herself, and to appear professional, Ruby was wearing her favourite dress, navy with a high collar. The skirt was pleated, and she wore sheer tights beneath it. Her favourite bright red pumps, and a matching red cardigan, set off the colour in her thick auburn hair. Instead of in its usual bun, her hair was down, and it came to just below her shoulders. She wore mascara and red lipstick – something she hardly ever did – and was feeling glamorous.
While the staff bustled downstairs, and Welly made the final touches to the boardroom, she was sitting with her feet tucked beneath her on the couch in her office, reading through the list of study participants. She was pleased that the group had a range of phobias. The more the ‘patients’ needed help, the better the Centre looked when they got it. She started to imagine the pairings they would make and how they might work out. Most of the participants had experienced phobia for less than three years, which meant there was a high potential for the study to be a success. When you’re afraid of something, your brain and your physical responses become tied to that fear. For the study, it was important that the bonds hadn’t fused too tightly, so that group therapy would be enough to help some people. The Ministry couldn’t afford individual sessions for diagnosis and long-term treatment.
The youngest member, Sophie, had been afraid of dogs for six years. She would be a bit of a tough one. Another, Marthinus, had only been afraid of money since the financial crisis the year before. Ruby thought that therapy and some good old-fashioned support could probably sort Marthinus and most of the others out. Maybe not Sophie, but at least the majority.
As the participants arrived downstairs, Mel handed each of them a freshly printed workbook, told them where the tea, coffee and Oros were, and that when they were ready they could go upstairs and find their seats in the boardroom.
Ruby watched from her office as the participants walked into the boardroom. She recognised the old, white man with the gilded cane, who looked displeased to be sitting next to a middle-aged coloured woman. Ruby looked at the forms and realised they were Fathima Abrahams and Simon Herberts. Ruby remembered that Simon had harassed another applicant on the night of registration. She hoped he’d pull it together for the study. He was part of their elderly demographic – good for representation.
Originally from the Free State, Simon said he’d had many encounters that made him nervous. On his form he described his phobia as a fear of immigrants, relatives of immigrants, immigrant communities, and people who lived in areas where immigrants lived. Today, he was dressed in faded navy tracksuit pants, with a drawstring front, bunched around a large stomach. Ruby saw the liver spots on his hands, and noticed that his nose was particularly red.
Fathima was afraid of flying, and had never left Cape Town by air. She was wearing a stylish pantsuit and high heels. Her hair was covered by a beautiful teal headscarf, with matching eye make-up. Fathima’s daytime telephone number, Ruby noted, was that of one of the major accounting firms in town.
Simon moved his pen, water and Sparkles closer towards him. Fathima spoke on the phone, deliberately looking away from him. More people filed in slowly, distracting Simon from his unease. The young Indian woman arrived, looking a bit flustered when she spotted Simon. She sat down next to a tall, young black man. So she was Nazma Matthews, who was afraid of driving, and he was Johnson Mahlangu. Ruby checked out his form. He was an engineer, designing and planning the layout of new mines. He’d recently been awarded a massive tender to work on oil rigs, then discovered his intense fear of heights. The project had been delayed several times, and if he didn’t get it together soon he’d be in some serious financial trouble.
The two of them began to talk to each other, and Ruby strained to hear but couldn’t. Damn glass doors.
Soon, only two seats remained: one next to Johnson, and the last one next to Simon. People started to fidget and look around. Ruby was pleased. A strategy that Ruby and Fairouz used often was to let everyone arrive and sit down for a while before they went in to begin the session. For some reason, making people anxious made them more receptive to what Ruby would say – keener to begin and get on with things.
A glamorous, elderly black woman walked into the room. She wore long flowing pants and a plain white shirt, and what could have been a hundred bangles right up her arm. She jingled when she walked, and everyone turned to look at her. Her hair was shaped into a perfectly round, short Afro. She carried with her a tiny oil burner and a bottle of eucalyptus oil. As she sat down next to Simon, she placed her burner on the table, lit the tea light beneath it, and dropped a few drops of oil onto the top. Then she sat back, smiling serenely, eyes closed, as though she didn’t have a care in the world.
Ruby checked her forms again and saw that she was Nomboniso Mxhego, a yoga teacher, who suffered extreme obsessive-compulsive disorder. She had the compulsion to wash her yoga mat twelve times on each side before and after every class, which took her about twenty minutes. She was teaching four classes a day, and this was a huge time-consumer. She conveniently left off what she was afraid of that made her do that. Maybe it was bad smells, Ruby thought, and wriggled her nose like a squirrel sniffing. She stopped herself from putting her hands up to mimic squirrels’ tiny arms. She remembered and then ignored her mother’s voice reminding her to take her medication.
Sam arrived. Ruby untucked her feet, and slipped them into her shoes, watching him as he sat down awkwardly next to Johnson, and the man who had to be Marthinus. She retouched her red lipstick and called Fairouz on the phone to say they were almost ready to go. Picking up her notes and placing them into her red Manila folder, she glanced at her reflection in her mountain-facing window and gave herself a wink. As Fairouz walked into the room, Ruby opened her door and watched the heads turn towards her – a grand entrance, just the way she liked it.
‘Thank you so much to all of you for coming.’ She moved around the room making sure all eyes were on her. ‘We believe that six weeks from now, you will feel better, stronger, and more able to confront your phobias.
‘As all of you know, fear is incredibly powerful. Fear can hold us back. It can also propel us forward into new experiences. Fear does not need to feel like an end to your life. For the time that you spend with us at the Centre for Improved Living, or CIL as I’ll soon start to call it, we want you to see your fear as a question mark, an open ending, a challenge.’
She paused to let them take this in. Some were already making bullet-pointed notes. Nazma chewed her nails. Sam fiddled with something in his pocket.
‘Let me tell you some more about us. My name is Ruby Bates. I have been the director of CIL for eight years. In this time I’ve coordinated nearly thirty studies here. In all of these, around eighty per cent of our participants have experienced a positive life change during their sessions with us. That’s a rate that we like to keep high, which is why we’ve designed this study to meet your needs.
CIL was established in 1994, when a group of people decided that most of us could do with a bit of improvement in our lives. CIL has been conducting studies and therapy sessions ever since. We’ve looked at a huge range of things, and we have some booklets downstairs if you’re interested in finding out more. The Ministry for Mental Wellbeing is one of our fiercest supporters. Please feel free to get in touch with me any time.’
At this point, Ruby looked specifically at Sam. He was concentrating hard with his tongue out, making notes in a slanted scrawl. The rest of the room followed her gaze. Sam looked up from his note-taking, blushed, and turned back to his paper.
‘Over to you, Fairouz.’
‘Thanks, Ruby. My name is Fairouz Parker. I’ve lived in Cape Town, in Athlone, my whole life. I’ve been working at CIL for two years as the primary facilitator. I have an honours degree in social work and a master’s in performance monitoring and evaluation. I am married with three children.
‘Ruby and I will be working with all of you throughout our five weeks together in the on-site sessions, and we’ll both be at all of the sessions. We will facilitate some of the learning, and ask the questions that might help you to work out how to overcome your fear.’
Ruby looked around the room at each one of them. Simon had nearly finished his Sparkles and the table was topped with plastic wrappers. As he opened his mouth for a condescending yawn, she saw that his tongue was blue.
‘At the end of today you’ll need to identify a partner, someone you would like to work with for the rest of your time in this course. This person need not be of similar age or of the same gender – they also don’t have to have the same fear as you. It just needs to be someone in the group. We know it might sound crazy that you’ll find someone that you click with so early on, but I’m a big believer in first impressions.
‘Today we’ll spend some time getting to know each other, and talking about how the course will pan out. We’ll also begin an introduction to fears and phobias so that you all have the same background knowledge. Any questions?’
There was a long pause, and then Simon put up his hand slowly.
‘Yes, Simon?’ Ruby said.
‘I want to know more about why we’re seated like this. I’m not sure whether I’m happy with where I’m sitting, and would like to move.’
‘Would you like to tell us more about why you’d like to move?’ Fairouz asked, a practised look of compassion wrinkling her forehead.