Whiplash

by Tracey Farren

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the copyright holders.

  Publication © Modjaji Books 2008

  Text © Tracey Farren 2008

  First published in 2008 by Modjaji Books, CC

  P O Box 385, Athlone, 7760

  modjaji.books@gmail.com

  ISBN 978-0-9802729-2-5

  This book of a work of fiction and all people, places and institutions are a product of the author’s imagination. The setting of the story is loosely based on Muizenburg before its “upgrade.” All references to local services and businesses and their personnel (such as police stations, pharmacies and clinics) are creative constructions.

  Book and cover design by Natascha Griessel

  Edited by Maire Fisher

  Cover Art and Lettering by Hannah Morris

  Printed and bound by CTP Book Printers, Cape Town

  Set in Palatino 10.5/13.5 pt

  For my mother, Sheena

  I’m gonna tell you all about it, Mom. I’m gonna tell it like I’m on the end of your bed, talking to you.

  I’m not gonna cover up, cause there’s no need. You’ll see how it’s all a flippin miracle. The whole weird year.

  It’s only one year in my life, Ma, but it’s all the stuff you slept through when I was a kid. All the stuff you fished through when you got up.

  I’m warning you, Ma, this is the truth.

  Contents

  Miracle Number One

  Miracle Number Two

  Miracle Number Three

  Glossary

  Acknowledgements

  miracle number one

  New Year’s day, a gull whacks into my window.

  They say birds bring messages from the dead. I dunno who sent it but I’m ironing my socks when it smacks into the glass. I nearly wet my pants, I get such a fright. Shame, poor bird lies on its side, feathers floating. I hope like hell it’s dead.

  The South Easter blew it in. It hammers our building, chews on the paint. Spins off the South Pole and stays for days. It’s turned the sea on its head, now it’s blowing in birds.

  The gull gets up, tries to walk a straight line. Bang! Into the glass. I clench my fanny. I can’t help it, it’s an old habit. You told me Mom, keep your fanny closed, else the birds can fly in. You said it to stop me peeing in my pants.

  I’m still scared of thrashing wings and sudden thuds. Birds, and flying insects, if they come too close. The gull shuffles to the corner of the balcony and watches itself in the glass, its eyes that pale blue, like paraffin.

  I creep round inside the flat. Knock back five Syndol, eat a lump of cheese. Down some cold Coke. I check out the bird, scared he’s gonna try again. He sits between the broken wheels of my swivel chair. The sun cranks up above the bottle store, lights the glass. He turns his back and waits, like he’s waiting for an ambulance.

  I put water in the mayonnaise lid. Find a piece of pie in the bin, cut it up tiny. I creep out on my knees. Slide the stuff towards the gull. Chuck myself back in the flat.

  Annie’s pissed off I didn’t wanna party with her on New Year.

  ‘So what did you do, ou meid?’

  ‘Ag, just chilled. Read the TV Times.’

  ‘What, up your stairs?’

  ‘Mmmm. Tassies and me.’

  Tassies is the cheapest red wine you can buy. But I’m not hung over. I just had a couple of glasses to wash down my Syns. I don’t like to overdo things.

  I gave my TV away but I still get the mag in the post. Annie can’t read so I bring her news of the stars.

  ‘Julia’s pissed off with Danny. She bust him in his co-star’s caravan. But Danny got into Julia while he was still married to his ex, so what does she expect?’

  Annie shakes her head, pissed off for Julia.

  ‘Poes.’

  A Porsche slows down, a banged up yellow Carrera. A man with black eyes and slicked back hair nearly strips the thread on his neck. Annie shoots in the air, twangs the tar like it’s a trampoline. She waves, sends three Egyptian geese shouting up from a roof. The Porsche slows down, staggers a bit along the M5.

  ‘He looked famous! What do you think? He was famous, man!’

  She does tricks for his mirror, tryna pull him back.

  ‘Where from?’

  Annie shrugs, tryna think.

  The geese, fat as butter, swear as they land on the wall of the housing estate.

  ‘Shit. New Year’s for the birds.’

  We’re trawling again.

  I slide my hand up our lamp post. Annie points a toe, swivels her hip in its socket, like she’s loosening up to dance.

  Down the road, Natasha comes out the bush. Sluips to her yield sign, all limp. White smoke from the bushes, must be her tripping pimp.

  ‘What’d you do?’

  ‘Smoked a hubbly bubbly with Alice.’

  ‘Who …?’

  ‘My dad’s new girlfriend.’

  ‘What’s she like?’

  She shrugs. ‘Twenty.’

  Annie’s dad’s a Rasta dope dealer. Only dope though, not tik or mandrax. Annie’s beautiful. She’s got blow up lips and when she looks down, her lashes are like butterfly wings on her cheeks. Her skin’s smooth as wind on the dunes. She’s got a cute body, too. Curvy calves, high boobs. She’s short, and she’s got rubber joints. Now she hop, hop, hops on the tar, hooking men’s eyes as they swipe past in their cars.

  I stick my foot up against the vibracrete. There’s no need to show the whole number. A short skirt and shadow hit just as hard. ‘There’s a bird at my flat with bad whiplash. Geez, I hope it buggers off, cause if I touch it, that’s the end.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘If they smell human hands, the other birds attack it.’

  Annie’s not interested. ‘You got a Triple X?’

  I give her a peppermint, go close. ‘Your eyes look a bit yellow from the dope.’

  She disses me with a thick cluck of her tongue. ‘Your eyes look like you need a good klap.’

  As I duck, Johan, the skraal policeman from Pretoria, pulls up in his off duty Corolla. We try look away, stare down the M5.

  There’s no way I’m gonna waste myself on a freebee.

  ‘He wants you, Annie.’

  ‘Uh-uh. You, Tess.’

  But Annie usually gets him, cause I’m Hanif’s favourite.

  The Pretoria policeman came here green, but he got wise quickly on the flats. When he started at Muizenberg, Hanif showed him round. First time they picked us up, I heard Pretoria ask, ‘Is this the free punda?’

  I tuned him from the back of the van. ‘Fillet steak please, when you talk about me.’

  ‘What?’ Annie climbed in with me.

  ‘Punda means meat in Zulu.’

  I remember from home, those boys on 500 XTs. Popping wheelies, screaming, ‘Punda!’ Fresh broken voices, strap on an engine and be a man.

  Funny enough, Pretoria doesn’t scream, ‘Punda!’ when he comes. His voice unbreaks, goes high. Squeaks, ‘Wee-wee-wee-wee,’ all the way home. Pity not back to Pretoria.

  A boy in a dark blue Beetle slows down. I run like mad to catch him, damn glad of my takkies. Annie’s in funny, chunky clogs. She gets to clomp over to Pretoria. She gets to jump him for nothing and hear him cry when he comes. That way she gets out of five hundred bucks for loitering. They can’t bust us for sex unless they get proper proof. Photos of us stuck together or something. So they bust us for hanging on the pavement, instead.

  Don’t worry, the cops round here know their rights. Spread your legs or they chuck you in jail.

  The boy’s got Metal playing low.
Shaved sides, a pile of curls left on top, like a monk. I tell him one hundred bucks. He sucks air, nods. ‘Not in the car,’ he says, all nervous, ‘Everyone knows my Beetle.’ His voice is wobbly, but deep. He’s older than his baby skin says. ‘My mom’s working overtime. She’s a nurse.’ Like I’m interested.

  Tells me he works at Musica. ‘What music are you into?’ he asks.

  ‘Ag … everything.’

  I haven’t got any music, but I keep it in my head. Must be from my dad. My real dad, I mean.

  ‘Rock,’ I say.

  ‘What artists?’

  I shrug. ‘Females.’

  Musica cuts the clack-clack engine and we freewheel into his drive.

  It’s a witch’s house. A double storey, the top floor put on skew, creepers tryna climb in the windows. A black cat, looks like its nose’s been dipped in white PVA. Another ginger one with popout eyes. They jump off the stove, leave a nest of hairs. There’s a trail of golden syrup going from a tin, over the edge onto the floor. A troop of ants stuck there, in their line. Photos on the fridge. A black haired woman in a nurse’s uniform, her hands held out like she’s gonna catch. The same woman drinking beer with friends. A monster pink fish on a fire, looks like a grunter. A close up photo of Musica with her. Black hair hangs long, over her breasts. Her eyes are pinker than the fish, from the flash. The same shaggy fern from their kitchen. Her hand on his neck riddled with rings. Musica’s laughing. The black haired woman balances a smile. They both have brown eyes.

  There are swirling things in the lounge. A hanging number like a mad queen’s hat. I speed up, sheez, it could land anytime. I try touch the ginger cat, but it shrinks. The black cat makes a game of stalking me. Musica rushes up some squeezed stairs, bangs on some loud music. The words all mashed, the sound of smashing steel. The black cat streaks past me, disappears. I go slowly up the stairs, try figure out a painting on the wall. I’m thinking it’s a mountain fire, spitting sparks, bursting pods, when I feel this burning on my shin. The black cat’s wrapped around my leg, cutting me with razor blades. ‘Shit! Shit! Shit!’ I kick hard. The cat flies off, hits the wall. Sheez, I’m dripping blood into my takkie by the time I get up the stairs.

  His shirt’s already off. A bunch of poodle curls on his chest. His skin’s like weak coffee inside his t-shirt tan. ’Shoeshine!’ he shouts when he sees the blood. He stumbles out.

  Metal teeth sawing on the CD. Aloes in pots hang from the ceiling. They thrust up stiff, shoot out needles. On the wall a poster of a skraal Metal dude. He’s shrunk to tiny, creeping out a huge eye socket. Musica shouts something from his bathroom. I stick my head in the door. ‘What?’

  ‘Shoeshine. She never had a mother, so she never learned to keep her claws in.’

  ‘Flippin killer cat.’

  Musica likes the skin on skin, likes the stroking stuff, but he’s scared of my hot spots. He won’t touch my breasts or my fanny. When he goes in, he shudders.

  On the CD, some aggro oke screams stuff to his chick, like, Hey, gimme your fat, I wanna feed it to my big fat cat.

  I start feeling shaky halfway through the job. It’s the Syndol, wearing off.

  The singer shouts, like, Ja, it’s just another screw her and lose her situation.

  I try a trit-trot on his hips, like I’m rich enough for riding lessons. The ginger cat lands, kneads the bed around his head. I keep an eye on it. Check the door for the black cat. It takes a long, long time to get an orgasm out of him. It’s watery and weak, but does that boy smile. Leaps off to the toilet, past his spiky cats and his dangling aloes.

  The singer’s upset, the chick just ate the cat. She spat out a furball and gapped it to the bank.

  I zip the bucks into my flat cloth bag. Sling it over my bra. Pull on my shirt. I’m glad I charged him extra. Covers my kaalgat, plus the torn skin on my shin. I tell him, ‘You do it very nicely. But there’s a chance you’re actually gay.’ I know these ous.

  His face goes pink, swells up like he’s poisoned. He nods a tiny nod, then breathes out his whole life, maybe. His voice is weirdly handsome, like someone else’s talking through him. ‘Okay.’

  I wanna get to the chemist. Someone’s loosened my joints, unscrewed them. This useless lurking feeling, it pisses me off. I hate the feeling that something’s coming. Let it come, I’ll kill it. It’s not like I’m hooked. I’m not like some of the girls on the road, killing themselves slowly with mandrax. Smashing their lights out with white pipes. Their biggest mission to hit the deck hard, go unconscious. That’s like heaven to them. They come with black bruises, cuts from the floor punching them. I’m not like those girls. And I’m not like the begging bergies on the beach who’d crawl after wine on flippin bleeding knees if they had to.

  I wait for the usual pharmacist to go to lunch. The tired one. She’s always exhausted, from fighting viruses, pollen clouds, fighting the rot the South Easter brings. Tired, maybe, of tryna keep the pensioners alive. She gets into her Datsun, avocado green.

  I walk through blue light from the stained glass window. The new guy’s only served me twice, but the counter girl must’ve said something. He’s not happy when I ask for Syndol. He’s got a white coat and a hole in his nose. He’s so pale it’s like he squirmed out of an egg and he’s still gotto grow another layer of skin. I stand in the slab of sunlight in front of the dispensary. Lie easily. ‘Bad, bad period pains. Shocking.’ I press my fingers into my stomach. He scratches his empty piercing. Blushes a bit. Dispenses.

  I’m at Mays café chasing my pills with seventy percent orange juice, paging through the Fair Lady. I’m gonna live long cause they say here that sex keeps you young. And walking. I can’t buy the mag. I’ve got a pink fifty stashed in my bag, but that’s the day’s rent. After the Syns and the juice I’ve got two rand something in the palm of my hand. And a sweet, relaxed feeling coming on.

  A Congolese honey whistles from outside. Calls me with a twitch of his head. I’ve seen him round town. He’s double my height, skin like a seal’s. A French accent. ‘My friend wants to pay you.’

  One more jump and that’s me for the day. No need to go back to the road.

  We go round the corner to the barber shop. Some men stretch out the door, watch us coming. One oke sinks back, hides out. They nudge him, punch him. Snigger.

  I go straight in.

  A line of men on plastic chairs, facing a long strip of mirror. Polished shoes, shocking white teeth. Their t-shirts like flags on their black skin. On the walls, photos of shiny black guys in good clothes. Hair climbs up the barber’s wrist as he shears it. Henrique’s in the chair, the refugee oke from my block. He tries to look away, but the mirror catches him. I ignore him, go up to the oke who’s tryna hide. He’s short, tinted a bit yellow. Black wisps on his lip. Sweating. The buzz of the haircutter stops. The barber’s got a whole peeling of black hair parked on his shoe.

  ‘You got a room?’

  ‘Whoaaa,’ the men roar.

  The tall guy answers, the one who fetched me from the shop.

  ‘He’s got a room, go with him.’

  ‘You got money?’

  ‘He’s got money.’

  Some oke calls in that French rhythm, ‘It’s his birthday.’

  The man shrugs, smiles. As we leave, I point to Henrique. ‘He lives in my block. I told him, not in my block.’

  They slap Henrique on the back, squeal like boys. Henrique hangs his head, proud.

  Henrique collects the rent for the landlord. He came to my door the other morning, nowhere near rent day. Clean shirt, clean trousers, like he was gonna go play golf. He kept his voice low, tryna get me before the others woke up and started babbling on the phone, breaking wind, you know, fixing up yesterday’s stew.

  ‘Not for men who stay here.’

  Something glittery got into his eyes.

  ‘Not in my block.’

  His lips went into a pink curl. ‘Ah. White girl.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid, man, I sleep with all colours. But not
in my block.’

  I shut the door on his face, his big hands lifted up too late.

  On the way to his place, I tell Birthday Boy a hundred for a jump.

  He stops dead.

  ‘Fifty for a blow job.’ I open my mouth, point into it.

  ‘Thirty,’ he bargains.

  The South Easter’s dried the sweat on his temples. A beach bergie shoves a piece of paper in my hands. He’s got a wide face and a mile wide gap between his teeth. He stinks of vrot wine, but he stands straight, like a flippin official. The paper says Shark Spotter Fund. They’re tryna raise money for okes to park on the mountain and watch for fins in the sea. Ring a siren for whoever’s dumb enough to be in it. I check out the sea, get the creeps. God knows what’s under that boiling foam. I tell the jump, ‘Fifty, or forget.’

  I follow Birthday Boy up some sticky stairs. The building sways like it’s gonna faint. They say they’re gonna bulldoze all these old flats. They say Muizenberg’s gonna go yuppie.

  A boy and girl slide down the stairs on their stomachs. The boy grabs her ankle, she bangs her lip on the stair. Fat little plaits, bleeding mouth. She kicks the boy in his face. He chucks himself on her. They scream like fighting cats. I pull the boy off. He runs outside like a windup toy, chases a teenager on a skateboard, grinding past. The little girl asks me for money. But I’m watching the jump. Double checking his eyes. So far I see clean. Careful. A Congolese nerd. But he could be a war vet, used to cutting off boobs.

  Birthday Boy opens a splintered door. I see black braids, women talking nonstop. He shuts the door quick-quick. Hurries me to a door at the end of a passage. High up windows, milky from sea air. Stinks. It’s the flippin toilet. He slips in, feels along a ledge. Pours Jeyes Fluid down the bowl. Shuts the lid. He agrees, ‘Fifty,’ and sits on the lid.

  I check the lock’s already torn off before I go in. My eyes water, my nostrils sting as I notch up the rands, nod my way to a round figure. When I look up, I see the Jeyes Fluid’s got him too. He’s sniffing and rubbing his eyes. His broken up breathing, I take it, has got something to do with me.