On Armed Response duty, one night my supervisor and I do a key service at a local primary school in Claremont. We’d done it together a few times before this.
A key service means the keys to the premises are kept at HQ. So when the alarm activates after the school has closed, a key is brought out and we do the checking of the school together. This was just a normal procedure on a cold night and we unlock and go in.
We check the alarm to see which zone activated, then compare the number to an index on a plan of the school stuck in a laminated cover on the wall next to it. We go to the area or room that was activated and check it out. The procedure was that no matter if you find a reason or not at the area that was activated, you still do a cursory walk around in the school checking for other faults. Sometimes you can spot the reason for the activation, like a fan left on and blowing dangling photos which the passives pick up as movement. Maybe a door or window blown open by the the wind. Sometimes from burglaries where something left out, like a TV or radio, has been stolen by breaking a window. But most time no reason. Just a locked up classroom.
This time it was one of those times and we started our normal stroll around the inside of the school.
We turn down one passage and walk towards the school hall. In front of us is a solid double wooden door standing ajar with a gap betweeb the doors as if someone never closed it properly and they sagged open. There is a round black metal rod on both doors that clicks into place and locks when you close it.
We think nothing of the open doors because we’d found it like that before. The hall is pitch black beyond the door. Just next to the open doors is a short flight of steps that lead up to the stage area of the hall. The bank of switches for the halls lighting is at the top of them next to the stage curtains.
I run a quick step up the steps to put on the lights as my supervisor slips through the open doors and instinctively he bangs the doors closed behind him. I switch on the lights and see that whoever used the hall last had left a microphone on its stand in the middle of the stage.
A “mic” to me is like an unattended drink to a “alkie”. I can’t resist it.
So I walk over switch it on and start singing Tom Jones’s “Delilah”. My supervisor is walking across the empty hall and laughs at me. He’s used to my antics.
I’n belting out”Why? Why? Whhhhy? Delilah” and he’s standing laughing at me when a hellofa bang resonates very close to us.
We both instinctively go into a half crouch with our hands on our firearms. We look at each other and I make query eyebrows at him. He stands up and laughs, shakes his head and says, “it’s only the bloody door” and points at the door he’d just closed. I jump off the stage and we walk over to check it out.
It was open again. Again ajar.
We laugh and say some stuff about the blady door giving us such a fright. I bang it closed, hearing the click of the arms engaging and we turn to continue our check of the hall and changing rooms on the others side of it.
We’re in those rooms when again a loud bang with a metallic rattle is heard. We quickly walk back into the hall and the door is standing ajar. This time I feel the goosebumps running up my arms to my chest. I feel my jaw tightening. I look at his big eyes and realise mine must be the same. He says, “Ooh fock. Spooks!” and draws his firearm.
I giggle.
Sorry,but it’s a thing I do when I’m nervous. I’ve had countless times said to me, “what’s so funny?” or “do think it’s funny?” in a tricky situation. It’s got me into trouble my whole life. Maybe it was the thought of him shooting a spook that got me giggling.
We stand looking over at the doors. I say, “I dunno? Fahk man. I know I closed it.” We walk over to it.
The one side of the door is still slightly quivering from the force of being opened. We stand and look at it and look at each other. We’ve both got scared sheepish grins on our faces.
I ask, “are we finished the hall? We going out now?”and he nods, “Ja.Ja.
I say, “I’m just gonna put the lights off” and he says quickly “I’ll go with you.”
We go on the stage from the front steps and put off the hall lights. We walk down the narrow staircase and come out on the other side of the door.
We stand again and look at it. He’s put away his firearm and we’ve got back some of our lost courage.
I ask, “must I close it?” and he says “Ja. It’s just a door” but doesn’t move to help me.
So I bang it closed and watch the arms engage. I then shake it to check it is secure and it shakes slightly in it’s rigidness. We walk away talking and laughing at ourselves but we both look back at the doors as we turn into another passage. We’re standing at the front door and my supie is writing a company slip out to leave as proof of our visit and what we found. He’s standing bent over writing at the receptionist’s window and I’m standing admiring the school kids art on display on the foyer walls.
Suddenly, again, another loud bang reverberates down the passage. This time it’s almost a double crash-bang as the doors bounce back to strike the walls twice. Almost in anger. The halls echo the bang eerily.
Before I know it I’ve got the front door open and we’re both standing outside on the stoep. Him with the incomplete slip in his hand.
I ask, “you wanna go check?” and he says, “Fahk no. You?” and I answer “Fahk no” and we both burst out laughing.
He completes the slip outside and stands and looks at me. I ask, “what?” and he says, “we never set the alarm.” He holds the slip and the keys out to me and says, “Here. You do it.” I call him a “chickenshit” and he clucks and flaps his arms and we cackle in our nervousness.
I slip in. Drop the slip by the reception window, quickly punch in the alarm code. Hardly breathing, expecting cold fingers on my neck. I step out with relief and alarms set.
We laugh again outside by our cars and go our respective ways. Him to return the keys at HQ and me to my next call. In case you’re wondering, the slip said, “All in order. Found no reason for alarm activation.” Nothing about spooky doors.
We did that school many times together after that and now being aware of the doors that liked to stay open we never, ever found them closed and never, ever tried to close them again.
We took the same idea with leaving sleeping dogs to lie, we let the doors that wanted to stay open, stay open.
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FacebookMilton Powell was a timid small man who ticked his fingers on the steering wheel of his old mercedes that they were travelling in to his own mantra playing in his head.Obladi-oblada,over and over to try and shut out the spiteful screeching of his wife and children.
His doctor had told him not to work himself up anymore as his heart was showing signs of stress.His tablets were in the cubbyhole in front of his large wife and he didn’t want to lean over to take ity or ask for it because she would just start shouting at him for taking to many tablets or tell him to”just be a man,it’s not your heart.It’s all in your head”in her loud abrasive voice she always used when there was no company.
She’d hid his tablets away before when he complained about chest pains and thumped him on his chesttwice,hard,to wake up his lazy heart as she said.
He worked late every night,sometimes just doing a crossword puzzle just to delay his time at home.His wife and kids were spending uncontrollably and he was juggling the books to stay ahead but that had lost that battle months ago.Whenever he tried to broach the subject of money at home his wife,Marie,would stand over him shouting with spittle flying from her fat,fleshy lips that”It was your job to provide for us.A man’s job.Are you a man?”She’d often punched him.
His 11 year old daughter had attacked him and scratched his face and broke his glasses when he refused her money for ballet classes.Diplomatically he tried to reason with her by not mentioning her size,but she just screamed”Mommy.Make him”and threw herself at him with her mom watching,arms crossed over her huge breasts.She said”Now you’ve upset Mona”and fat Mona sat on her dad smacking hin while he tried to cover up.The son,leon,just ignored everything and sat watching TV popping ghost pops into his mouth.
The kids took after their mother.Fat,loud and spoilt.Mona was 11,walked splayed legged because of two extra hanging balls of fat on the inside of her legs looking like inturned knees.Her arms also always held out like a puffed up body builder because of her blob shaped body.Leon was the same shape and diposition and screamed and threw tantrums when he couldn’t get his own way.Maria,the mom,was huge in all directions with her stomach pushed out even more than her massive boobs.Her cheeks were wobbly jowls and she had huge gunnysacks hanging from each arm which shook as she gesticulated.
“The sound of music” was their favourite movie when they were newly married and he used to sing to her”Maria,makes me laugh” and she would smile.But that was before she balloned into a Zepplin.Now he sang to himself”Maria, makes me barf”
He hated his life but was to weak and to catholic to do anything about it.
So the family was driving along on their way to church with the kids fighting over a cell phone on the back seat.Mona was trying to see what Leon was looking at and he didn’t want to show her.They were screaming and rolling about on the back seat.Mrs shouted at Mr “Do something about it”
She couldn’t turn to reach back because of her large girth.
He felt his heart flutter a bit then calm again.He broke out in a cold sweat and tried to keep his breathing shallow.He said”Kids’stop it”softly and Mrs shouted,hitting Mr on his arm”Louder.Louder.Be assertive.Be a man”
He swallowed dryly,then tried again but only croaked.He started to cough.Felt something warm snap in his chest and Mr knew no more.
He slumped over the steering wheel,arms dropping lifeless into his lap.
In the back the kids were crammed into a corner by the sons door,still fighting over the cellphone.
The door popped open and Leon fell out head first.His face down dragging on the tar with his leg still caught in the car door.
His father always said that he would one day make a mark on victory road.He sure made a mark on all the pedestrians that saw him loosing his face on the black tar of Victoria Road that they were travelling on.
Mrs was screaming and gripped the wheel but she only managed to swerve it sharply.
It hit another car travelling tpwards them,bounced on the pavement and flew into a hardware shops large plate glass front window.
There were corrogated zinc sheets stacked horizontly on a shelf and they slid down into the smashed windscreen and decapitated Maria in mid-scream.
Her head rolled backwards and a half chewed marshmallow fell out of her mouth.
Her daughter was stuck upright in the back with the weight of her mother’s body trapping her.She was unconcious with her head thrown back.
The fire department,ambulance and police all arrived and milled about the wreck in the shop trying to make some sense of it.
Two firemen who’d seen it all before just got on with the job at hand and tried to force the door by the daughter to get her out but failed because of the buckiling of the metal.
The one foreman pointed out a huge hand held circular saw that was still on display in the shop.
His partner nodded with”A good idea” and picked it up.
The other one plugged it in and they started cutting on the door frame by Mona.
The circular saw dug in,froze,dug in and froze again.
The fireman forced it hard and again tried to cut the door frame.
It began to cut,Dug in,froze,screeched,then the blade shot loose,flying into the car and sliced Mona’s head off neatly below her chin.
Twin jets of blood shot up and rained down on mother and daughter’s haeds lying nose to nose on the back seat as if they were both trying to get to the uneaten marshmallow.
The firemen both peered in,looking at the two headless bodies.
The one chuckled and elbowed his partner and with callous graveyard humour said”Like mother ,like daughter.It looks like it runs in the family.”
I saw a bit of “THE WEDDING” while my wife was watching it. I can’t say I watched it with her. Nah, I’m too macho for that. I saw Prince Harry with his untidily styled hair, walking in his distinctive, legs slightly bowed, stepping stride. His shoulders looking large with all the epaulets with gold embroidery on it.
I asked my wife “Did I ever tell you about meeting Prince Harry?”
She said “Ja right. You’re probably building up to say something smart. I know you.”
I laughed and said “No. Really. Truly. I promise”
She waves me quiet, “Shhhh. There’s Elton and David” and she points at the TV.
I ask “Who’s David? You mean Beckham?”
“No. He is also there with Posh, but not him. I mean Elton’s husband.”
I ask innocently, “does that make Elton the wife?”
She says, “I never said that. I mean spouse,or life partner.” She turns to me and asks “What do they call it again?”
I say “Bum Chum” and she smacks me on my arm.
“Don’t be like that. Don’t be nasty. What do they call it again?”
I say “I’ll phone Cliff Richard and ask him” and duck away from another smack, laughing.
She loves Cliff from his early “Summer Holiday” days and always point blankly refused to discuss that Sir Cliff might be “otherwise.” So of course I teased her and so did my sons as they grew up. It’s still a family joke and they phoned her with serious concern on the day that Mr Harry Webb came out of the closet. I must say he did it in good taste. Nothing less than I would expect from a man of his integrity and stature. I also love his music. Miss You Nights is my favorite.
“Do you want to hear about my meeting Prince Harry?”
“Not now. Look there’s…” and I don’t think I ever got to tell her. I’ll let her read it here.
I was an armed response officer on duty one quiet night shift. It was the early hours of the morning and I was at an all night garage for coffee. My area was central Claremont and the garage was right on the border of it. It had recently revamped the inside to more of a supermarket. A very busy all night garage/shop that was plagued with bums, drunks, vagrants and street kids and we regularly responded for panics there when the street people became aggressive and demanding in their begging. There was also other calls like fights, theft, shoplifting and lots of other odds and sods calls that mostly have to do with too much booze.
The funny thing about working in that area was that although I was and still am a die hard Stormers fan, I used to hate it if I was on duty and we won a home game just around the corner at Newlands Rugby grounds. Then parties would go on late into the night and you can expect trouble coming from somewhere and you can bet it will be booze related. When Stormers lost the night would quickly go back to its normal chaos. So it was a work/ sport dilemma. On duty and we win I say “Oh yay,we won” very half heartily and inside roll up my sleeves for the trouble to come. We lose, I say “Damn” but inside I say “Yippee.”
Being so close to the garage and with the incentive of free coffee I used to hang out there when the night was slow. The shop loved us being there for the extra security and when the problems saw us already there they would move on.
That night three of us armed response officers were there. Me. an older white guy, a black uitlander from Congo (my back-up and best friend at work) and another young coloured officer who was here illegally, meaning that he had no permission to be so far out of his area. He’d just sneaked off for some coffee.
It’s about 2 a.m. and we’re inside the shop standing making our own coffee by the bakery glass counter where the doughnuts, rolls and croissants are displayed. I am busy with our three insul cups on the other side of the counter, that’s how well known and trusted we were. My Congolese mate is on the other side of the counter talking to me and the other officer is looking at something on a shelf further down the aisle. We’re all in full uniform, khaki shirts, combat trousers tucked into brown boots, our company epaulets on our shoulders, 9mm on the hip and a big new style cumbersome looking bullet proof vest.
I notice my Congolese mate making noises with his throat trying to get my attention. I look over at him and he is standing to attention, head forward and making big eyes at me then looking over at the door. I immediately think that our area manager is here and my mate down the aisle is going to be caught out of his area.
I look up and see a smiling Prince Harry walking towards us. A casual looking bodyguard behind him with alert eyes looking all over.
The two girls behind the tills see the prince and with an “Oooo” one starts patting her hair into place. The other one jumps off her chair and takes two steps to the open bakery area and whispers loudly “Prince Harry’s here”, they all come out to look and you hear the prince’s name all the time.
He walks straight to us at the coffee area and says “Evening chaps. Or is it morning?” and laughs. His face is flushed and you can see he was having a good time and now he had the munchies.
I step out from behind the counter and stick out my hand which he immediately grabs with a good strong grip. A sign of good character I was taught in my youth. It suddenly struck me that I didn’t know how to address him. Your Highness? Your Princeness? Your Majesty? Your Honour? So I shook his hand, grinned at him and said “Howsit?”
He registered it with a grin of his own and gave my hand a final shake with a “OK. Howsit?” He then stepped towards my Congolese friend who was standing to attention, stuck out his hand and said “Howsit?” My friend shook his hand trying to click his heels and bow at the same time, looking lost. I said “He’s from Congo” feeling like John Cleese in Fawlty Towers explaining away Manuels peculiar behavior.
Prince Harry waved a “Howsit?” to my mate standing there with big eyes and open mouth down the aisle. Prince Harry rubbed his hands together looking at the display of ”lekkergoed” behind the glass and asked “What’s good buys?” and we all started loosening up and talking nonsense stuff while the staff hurried over to serve him. Prince Harry handled himself well, nodding to people, being friendly while his bodyguard circulated, checking people out.
Behind the counter stood a thin, black bakery staff member in his whites with a white hairnet fashionably placed over one ear only, like a beret. He was very well known to us. A loud falsetto voiced, very camp homosexual. He was the only one of the staff, or anyone really, making a big thing of the prince.
“Ooooo! Prince Harry. Where’s my phone? Oh Lord. Prince Harry is here. Take a photo. Take a photo. Oooooh mmmy Looord. Ag, isn’t he pragtig. A prince nogal” all this is said loud too loud. Making a spectacle of himself. We’re all smiling at him but he’s gone overboard now. It’s become crass. Some of the other staff are now whispering “Shhhh!” to him but he carries on. “Ooooh Prince Harry. John will never believe this.”
The bodyguard steps over to the counter and gets the fluttering bakers attention. He drags his hand across his throat in the universal gesture of cut it out and shakes his head at the loud baker. All done quickly.
The baker immediately freezes. Hands still out in front of him, his mouth open in mid squeal. The body guard nods thanks and moves off. Prince Harry gets his grub and moes off to the till to pay.
I hear the baker now ask in a frightened voice “is he going to shoot me?”
Prince Harry walks out carrying his stuff, smiling, and calls “night all” to us.
I now hear the baker crying and carrying on about how the British are going to send a whale to chop off his head because he was rude to Prince Harry. “It’s true,” he says, “I seen it on TV.”
I look at my mate and ask, “a whale?” He shrugs. Then I catch on and start laughing. He means Seals.
I get involved by explaining to him that the bodyguard meant cut it out, not cut it off. He eventually calms down and went back to his loud persona and started moaning that he never got a photo and no-one will believe him at home.
Then to me he said, “And you. You were next to him. How’s he smell? I bet he smells gorgeous…”
I saw a spiteful dying old lady call her crying daughter a bitch,
Seen a three day old bergie body, head in a waterlogged ditch.
Seen a headless mom with the engine on her lap.
A crying, blood splattered baby still strapped in the back.
I helped handcuff a smiling man for raping his young daughter,
While she cried”Leave my daddy” and gave him some water.
Held a gun on a drug crazed man with a gore matted pipe,
His mom shouting “Shoot him”, at his feet his bloody wife.
I’ve been shot at and stabbed, knocked off my feet,
Helped in a horribly mangled war zone, body parts in the street.
Seen rape and shootings, incest and matricide.
Seen a good looking father kill his family, then suicide.
You cope with it all with gallows humour of the dead.
“He’ll need no more Panados” as you pick up his head.
“All in the family” as you assist on an incest.
It was just a job. Not a calling or a quest.
Not every day was bad but it helped to fly the time.
Adrenaline to me was a shot of good wine.
But by far the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.
Was this Valentine’s Day, not to contact you!
The opportunity I’m talking about is a photo opportunity. A while back I attended my brother-in-law Ernie’s funeral, also there were two of my high school buddies and the three of us plus two others were involved in a haircut incident at school. The photo would’ve been perfect to accompany this story. Those days we were young, dumb and full of come and now 35 years later, between the three of us there wasn’t enough hair to make a wig for a cat. Here’s what happened.
I was in Standard 8 (grade 10 now but it shows my age that I still think in standards) at Ysterplaat High School in Brooklyn, Cape. It was still a time when the Boere ruled my country and we had to wear school uniforms and a follow a hair code. The boys hair wasn’t allowed to touch your shirt collar at the back of your neck and also be free of your ears. The front fringe (we used to call it a kuif) wasn’t supposed to cover your forehead. It was the early seventies and the preferred haircut was what the boere youth wore, (we called them rockspiders, dutchmen, farmers… they called us rooinekke, soutpiele…) They wore their hair short back and sides and very little on top. We called it whitewalls like the tyres because they used to crop it so short that the white of the scalp would show through. We, the English boys, wouldn’t be seen dead with whitewalls. We were proud of our longish hair and devised ways of disguising the length. Like just before the bell would ring for us to line up I would wet my hair under a playground tap and comb it away from my ears, tuck the hair at the back in as much as possible, loosen my collar and push the back collar down away from my hair and then stretch my neck foreward and hang my head down when the teacher or prefect passed on hair inspection. It worked only so far, the teachers used to use a pencil and flick your hair by your ears out and so we got caught and warned to get a haircut. We, of course tried, other tricks like my mom’s hairspray or Vaseline. No hair gel those days. We were warned a second time. Then one day we were pulled out of the lines to stand in front of the whole school and the principal loudly told us that he was tired of us flaunting the rules and he was going to take us right there and then for a haircut at the local barber. There was Mario and Chris in Std 9 and me, Pillows and Tommy in Std 8. We were marched off with the principal leading. Mr Visagie, known as Sarge behind his back, and the Afrkaans teacher Mr Mahnke. A massive boer with huge ears with fat, hairy lobes but a heart of gold.
We were marched down the corridors and first had to stand outside the office for all the kids passing us going to classes to giggle and point at us. Then we marched out the front gate of the school and in single file off to the barber. Most of us had the attitude of we were caught so just go along with the show, but one of us didn’t. Chris and Mario were local surfers and were opposite in looks. Chris had a mop of too straight red hair and was freckly with a permanent red peeling suntan. Mario was dark of hair and complexion like a Mediterranean dude. Pillows, and I forget how he got the nickname, had a long striding walk which made his head bop forward and backward like a gangster with an attitude. Me, I was just “a rebel without a cause” as my mom used to call me but Tommy, he was in love with his hair. He had the longest, straightest hair and he used to go to extraordinary lengths to hide its length during school hours, even buying a shirt a couple of sizes too small for him so the collar could go further back with the buttons undone. He loved and pampered his hair and was determined to keep it. While we walked we talked and laughed among us but Tommy stayed quiet with his head down.
When we got to Koeberg Road, which is the main road through Brooklyn, MrVisagie turned right towards the barbers shop which was just two shops away from the corner. Chris and Mario turned after Sarge and next came Tommy who turned left towards his mom’s house. I pulled up short to watch him and Pillows and Mr Mahnke walked into me. Mr Mahnke called out to him, “Mr Thomson. Get back here now.” But Tommy just speeded up walking away from us. The other three now also stopped and Sarge took a couple of fast steps after Tommy then shouted, “Meneer, jy maak n groot fout. Kom terug. Dis jou laaste kans.” (Mister,you’re making a big mistake. Come Back. It’s your last chance). Tommy now ran across the road through the traffic and we laughed. I shouted, “Go Tommy” and got smacked behind my head and told to shut up. The adults discussed what to do while we grinned at one another. Sarge said, “We’ve come for a haircut and that is what we are going to do” and led us into the barbershop.
We all sat on the hard bench by the window with two barber chairs in front of us. The two barbers stood talking and laughing with Sarge and Mahnke and then Sarge left with a partying shot of “make me happy and this will be the end of this” to us. Mahnke stayed. Picked up a magazine and settled in. One of the barbers walked over to the nearest barbers chair to us, dusted it off, then looked over to us grinned and said, “OK, who is my first victim?”. We all looked at each other then Chris piped up,”OK, might as well get ot over with” and jumped up and went to sit in the chair. While the barber put the bib around him, Chris touched his hair and said goodbye with an exagerated sniff. The barber picked up his scissors and asked, “How do you want it?” and Chris said, “All off”. The barber asked, “Are you sure?” and Chris replied”Yeah, might as well be first.” The barber put down the scissors and picked up the hairclipper and shaved Chris’s head a super short boere haircut so that his white ears stood out like foreign appendages and coupled with his red hair and super white skin made the sight hilarious. Mahnke said, “Now that’s a haircut” and we all laughed and hooted. Chris got off the barbers chair and came over to us blushing like mad as we canned ourself. The barber dusted off the chair and said, “Next”. Mario stood up, walked over and sat down. The barber put the bib around Mario and asked him, “how do you want it? The same as him?” Mario smiled and said, “No. Just trim it away from the ears and the collar and thin it out a bit on top.” The barber said “OK” and picked up his scissors. Chris jumped up and asked, “You can do that?” with disbelief. The barber answered with a smile, “Ofcourse Boetie. This is not the army” and we all fell about laughing again. Those of us who were still waiting laughed even more with relief because we really didn’t know better and also expected whitewalls.
Well Chris was paraded into Sarges office and was laughed at or congratulated depending on how Afrikaans the onlooker was. We were the highpoint of the day with Chris being the Jester. Luckily Chris could take all the ragging but Mario told us it was ten times worse at the surfing spots where Chris stood out like a wanna-be cool guy among all the long haired surfers.
Tommy never came back to school.
PS: Years Later… in his late twenties Tommy underwent chemotherapy for cancer and he was a survivor. He lost all his hair due to the chemo and I had a long bonny which I used to tease him with in typical good friends humour. Now he has the most hair among the three of us. Me,Pillows and Tommy. That’s where the photo oppurtunity comes in. It was the first time we were together in about 35 years. It sucks when you think about something only afterwards and that moment will never come again. Well,Probably not ….
I got married in the 70′s very young. I went to a unisex hairdresser in Cape Town to have my hair done for my wedding. Those days I had long hair just touching my shoulders but it tended to frizz out in damp moody weather. So I’m sitting on the barbers chair and talking to the plump, obviously homosexual, hairdresser. Gay meant happy people those days. His mannerisms are all camp and his right hand flops around as he talks. I tell him I am getting married later that day and he says, “Oh you poor dear”. He calls across the room to his falsetto voiced partner and tells him about my impending marriage. They both comiserate with me with jokes and humour. The phone rings and my plump hairdresser answers it. He talks and laughs and I half listen. I think the caller was asking him out later that day after work and his reply was, “No, I’m sorry I need my beauty sleep. I got up this morning at the crack of Andrew ”A bit more chat and he rings off. He carries on with doing my hair and we chat. I ask him if I heard right and what the crack of Andrew meant. He laughs out loud and pats me on the cheek and says, “Oh so sweet and innocent. You work it out Lovey.”
When I leave I get a hug and a kiss from both of them and a good discount with a pooh-pooh away when I tried to tip. I started smiling broadly at the alter later that day and everyone thought is was for the pleasure at the moment of intimacy of the wedding but it was that the answer had just came to me and I couldn’t say anything. It caused me to smile many times after when I thought of it. My interpretation is that Dawn was a woman so they gave it their own masculine touch with Andrew and the crack of course is a body place they like. I alweays thought it was cute and am smiling now with the memory. I hope I’m right in my interpretation.
My Mom was the disciplinarian in our family.I’d heard that before my time my father had given one of my older brothers a hiding using a clothes hanger and not sure further,if he got carried away or what ever the reason but the words that was used when I was told the story was that my Dad had “beat my brother open”After seeing what he’d done he swore never to hit any of us again and I cannot personally remember him hitting anyone.My mother was another story.She was a small five foot powerhouse that everybody respected and to be rude to her was at your own peril.She would hit,smack or punch you if you were within striking distance and if you weren’t she would throw anything that was closest toher at you. And I do mean anything.There’s been cups,knives,forks,plates,peelers or anything that she was busy with when one of us pushed her button.Her name was Louise and among her sisters was known as the Afrikaans version,Leviess,and all my cousins ans friends called her Aunty Viess(pronounced-Vee-iss)Here’s a couple of stories of my Mom not taking crap from anybody.
My Mom and my older sister Lorraine were in a train coming home from Cape Town one rainy afternoon.It was still the old style trains and my family were sitting in the second compartment from the door.The train was sparsely occupied with people dotted here and there.In the compartment nearest the door was a forty-something white man sitting reading a newspaper.This was diagonally across from Lorraine and at some stage this dirty lecher started flashing his willy at Lorraine from under his newspaper then hiding it again.Lorraine told my mother who leaned forward and looked back at him but ofcourse he dropped the newspaper and acted innocent.As soon as my Mom sat back out of sight he started again with his free willy act.Lorraine told my Mom that he was doing it again and Mom said”Just ignore him.I’ll sort him out”
We lived in Crawford and as the trains doors closed at Athlone station,the one before Crawford,my Mom picked up her umbrella and said”Come” to Lorraine.They stood and made their way to the doors and as my Mom came next to the lecher who was sitting acting innocent and reading the newspaper,she suddenly used the umbrella point to pull the paper away and saw his free willy as he tried to put it away my Mom started hitting with the umbrella all the while calling him all the dirty names she could.She hit and hit and all the other passengers stood up and looked at this little old lady laying into this man that was doubled up on the seat and trying to cover his head with his arms.My Mom just kept on swinging and hitting him until the train pulled into Crawford station.Out of breath by the doors she told everyone in the train what he was doing and then they got off with her still shouting threats and shaking her broken umbrella at him.He definitely flashed the wrong one and we teased my Mom on rainy days thereafter when she took and Umbrella to bring it back in one piece this time
We were living in a small flat in Brooklyn on the first floor and I brought one friends home with me after school.Peter Thomson was my best friend in high school and his mom was my mother’s church buddy.We often used to visit one anothers homes and Tommy had a habit of dropping off to sleep whenever he could.My mom often used to shout at him”If you want to sleep go home sleep in your bed.Don’t come here to sleep”.On this particular day my mom was busy in the kitchen when we came in.We both greeted her and I went to my bedroom to change out of my schoo; uniform while Tommy waited in the lounge.After changing and messing around in my room I stood talking to my mom in the kitchen.She asked”Where’s Peter?”I answered that he was probably crashing again and my mom said”That’s the last blady time he comes here to sleep” and she grabbed a pot and tumbled some potatoes into it.I shouted “Tommy!Watch out!”but he only woke when the first potato hit him on the chest.He jumped and said”Aunty”and my mom said”Don’t you auntyme.I warned you to sleep at home”and she let fly with more potatoes.I stood behind her cracking up with laughter as he scrambled for the front door while being peppered with potatoes.He slipped out and ran down the stairs thinking he was free of the mad woman but my mom went on to the balcony woth her pot of potatoes and as he came out of the entrance to the flats she let fly again hitting him on the shoulder.He stared running and she kept sending potatoes at him.By now he was out of range and I’m still cackling my mom turns on me and says”Stop your laughing and go fetch my potatoes”.Tommy never ever fell asleep while visiting our place again.
Mrs Pfister was a busy body friend of my mothers that always liked to tell stories and get someone into trouble.She saw me smoking at the local bughouse when I was about fourteen.I saw her see me and knew I was in trouble so I just carried on smoking.After the movie she hurried off ahead to get to my house before me and get me into trouble.As I came close to home I saw Mrs Pfister come out of our house and she wasn’t looking happy at all. As we passed one another she mumbled something about me being to big for my boots and more in that vein but just ignored her.I walked inside and ny mom called me to the kitchen.She was sitting by the table smoking.She stood up,beckoned me over and as I came within striking distance she put down her smoke and smacked me a open hand shot in my face.She said”Don’t you blady make me lie for you”and smacked me again.I said “Mommy”and backed away and she followed me smacking some more as I was covering up.”Don’t you blady mommy me.That blady woman comes into my house to skinner about my kids”and she let fly some more.The story eventually came out.Mrs Pfister came in and couldn’t wait to get the story out that she’d seen me smoking but my mom deflated her by saying”Yes.I know.I gave him money for a packet of Styvesant”.Mrs Pfister never carried stories to our house again and whenever I saw her at the bughouse I wouls make a point of lighting up and blowing smoke her way.Great feeling when your mothers got your back.
My families blood is definetly thicker than water and we’ll cover one another whenever needed although time has diluted it abit.There’s many more stories about my mom being mom and throwing plated and stuff but I’ll leave it for another time.She was a strong independant lady and I miss and will love her always…
I was working as a telephone guy in the heart of Cape Town doing installations in the many buildings and working from the old Main Post Office in Darling Street.I’ve always been a boxing fan and my best buddy at work was also one.He was an ex-amatuer boxing local champ in his division and we often spoke boxing.We heared that Muhamad Ali was going to be at Grootte Kerk with other celebrities to help calm down the violatile mood that was in the Cape at that time with riots and unrest all over.We left the office,stashed our tools at a nearby building and walked up Adderley Street to the top and stood around with the crowd outside the church.
We saw Muhamad standing large next to Bishop Tutu and some other dignateries,also padre’s,reverends and imam’s in the clothing of their religion.We couldn’t see properly over the crowd and climbed onto the big window ledge of the Board of Executors building with others and held onto the burglar bars for balance.The small group of dignateries stood on the steps by the closed door of the church and Tutu just started talking to us in his well known nasal twang when you could see a shifting of attention away from him and people in the crowd started talking and moving around restlessly.Then we could hear a scary sound faintly pulsing our way.It was the sound of a crowd chanting rythmically.A power sound.Awoo-awoo,woo.Awoo-awoo,woo.A sound Cape Town was learning to dread.
Suddenly a middle aged coloured lady dressed in the blue uniform of a local take-aways came running around the corner from Adderley Street into Wale Street with styrofoam packets of food clutched in her arms.She shouted “Hier kommie coons.Hier kommie coons”with absolute terror in her voice and pushed people out her way as she tried to make her way through our crowd.We were all still looking at one another with amusement,”Coons?”,when the Awoo-awoo became louder and around the same corner,filling both sides of the road,came a chanting crowd with knees pumping to the Awoo’s and intense purposeful looks on the front rows faces shining with sweat.
Madness took over.People screamed and scrambled to get away.I remember glancing at the church steps as I jumped off the window ledge and saw people hustling the dignateries into the now open church doors.The rioters had swopped their chanting for a roaring AAAGHH and charged into our crowd.People ran and tripped over each other, no-one knowing which way to run.I immediately lost sight of my buddy in the mad melee and started running and jumping over fallen people.I swung down St Georges Walk and ran a bit then started walking fast.I thought “Why should I run?I never did anything” with stupid bravado.
This was happening with people all running and shouting around me.I turned around and saw a guy with a brick in his hand,point at me shouting something and start running at me.I froze.I didn’t know what to do and just watched him run at me and lift the brick above his head to throw.I stepped back and expected a window behind me to block me but I misjudged myself by a foot or two and fell backwards as he let go.The brick hit the window above my head where my head would have been if I was still upright.It then fell down and hit me on my shoulder.The window starred but never broke.The guy shouted and kicked at me,just missing my out stretched leg and ran on.The door of the Athens Bank opened a small gap and an old black security guard shouted at me”Sir.Come.Come quick”I jumped up and ran inside and stood around with lots of shocked people all talking at the same time.A lady screamed”Oh no” and I looked at what she saw.An old white lady carrying bags in each hand was bowled head over heels with her dress up and her scrawny legs and old ladies bloomers for all to see.She lay where she fell and the rioters grabbed her parcels and ran on laughing.I wanted to…really wanted to but I was scared,then I saw a genuine hero.A young white man,obviously a office worker with his buttoned down long sleeve shirt and tie,came running out of the building opposite and helped the old lady to her feet.He walked with her with his arm supporting her towards our door.Three rioters ran at him helping her and he just stopped and looked at them with distain and disgust and pushed the old lady behind him.I think their humanity clicked in and they looked at one another and just ran past him shouting something.He struggled on with the hobbling old lady to our door and we helped them inside.We lay her down on the carpet inside and someone put a jersey under her head.She had blood on her face and knees and had lost her shoes.The main trouble makers had moved on after their destruction and I decided to make my way towards our office in the Main Post office. The security guard let me out with a good luck and I walked down St Georges walkway.There was broken glass all over with all different kinds of goods hanging out of the broken windows where the rioters had just grabbed what they could and ran.There was still groups hassling people and screams coming from different directions.As I crossed a side road and looked I looked down it ,I saw a group raiding a Foschini window display with someone inside the broken window handing clothing out to the others.There were two broken clothing dummies lying at their feet,one with its fingerpointing accusingly at the destroyers.There was a man who I recognised as Trevor Manuel with one or two bodyguards and he was shouting,pleading at them to stop stealing.The obvious leader of the group shouted back at Trevor and smacked him with an open right hand to the face and provokingly stood with his head foreward shouting at him.Trevor’s bodyguards moved foreward but he stopped them and they backed off.I moved on with the thoughts of if they do that to him chance have I got .I came to an upset middle aged black lady talking loudly to herself as she picked up what was left of her stall with scattered sweets and sunglasses all over.I came into Adderley Street and saw an old Mercedes burning outside the Standard Bank.As I turned into Darling Street there was a chemist scooter still smouldering,already a husk.A bit further down two more cars throwing up clouds of smoke.I now came to the Main Post Office building and had to hold my P\O I.D. up to the window before the security guard let me in.My friend came about twenty minutes later.He ran up Wale Street with others and hid in a icecream shop with others.
At least I got to see Muhamad Ali in person.
While I was the telephone guy for the ships in Cape Town Docks I would prowl around at night waiting for a call or a new ship arrival to dock so I can install the phone on deck.I would stop at ships that had a phone on board and do a test on the phone and most times it was just an eyeblind so I can start chatting and hit the breeeze for a while with who ever was on board.Inevitably you’ll get offered food or coffee and its good fun to chat to foreigners.So I stopped by a Japanese Maru fishing trawler with a security guard and a stand by Japanese Engineer chatting in the wheel house.All the Japanese Maru vessels always got a phone.I greet them and they wave me on board.I go up the gangway and accept a mug of coffee and start chatting.The engineer has a T-shirt and boxer shorts on and is smiling at me with his hand moving inside his boxers at the front. I, by now know that the Jappy can’t speak Afrikaans and I ask the security guard,half in jest”Is die ou n moffie?”and I indicate with my head towrds what his doing with his hand in his pants and the Jappy still smiling at me.The guard bursts out laughing and says to me “Do you want to see his prick?”.”Are you crazy?I’m not into that shit.”I answered indignantly.The guard laughed some more and said to the Engineer”Show.Show”and pointed at his crotch.The Engineer smiling broadly immediately pulled down the front of his pants.I was putting my mug down to leave and looked at what he was showing instintively and did a double take with a “What the fahk?”.I couldn’t help myself and took a step closer and looked more closely at the weird gila monster type pipi.It was once a normal size circumsized pipi at rest but it had strange appendages protruding from its body.It had five same sized warts arranged arround the stem close to the head,then just behind the top wart there was a bulge,like a minature pregnancy.I couldn’t help but stare.The skin was taut on the tiny antennaes,no wrinlkes like a normal wart.It looked arranged and I could’t figure it out.The Engineer said “Touch!” with no homosexual hints behind it.They were both laughing aloud at my expressions and the guard said”Do it.Its weird.I did it”So I tentatively touched the top wart-thingie.It bent over and jumped back into place when I released it.The top of the thingie felt hard like there was something inside it.I did an exagerated shudder which cracked them up some more and in my best pidgin english I asked the Engineer what it was.He said something in his language and took a small screw type jam jar out of a cupboard below a smiling effigy of Buddha.
He emptied the jar out on the counter top.He picked up a small soft satin cloth the was tied closed,untied it and pourd the contents out into his hand.It was tiny pearls,shimmering in the flourescent light of the wheelhouse.He then looked at me,nodding”Yes.Yes” as if I should understand.I shook my head.He carefully put the pearls back in the cloth.Then he bunced his T-shirt up and stuck his finger in it.He took his finger out and held the limp cloth in a empty balloon shape.He pointed at the limp cloth shape and pointed at his weird penis.I nodded,Ok,I’m with you.He took thread that was also in the jar and made wrapping movements as if he was tying the balloon closed and looked at me.I now knew he was showing me what he did to his penis to give it that Jurrasic Park look and nodded to carry on.He then takes a scalpel that looks razor sharp that was also in the jar with the point jammed into a cork and make criss cross cuts across the top of the tied balloon shaped T-shirt cloth.He then took a tiny pearl and made as if he placed it inside the make believe wound where he made the cutting motions.He then made motions of sewing it up.I now think I understood how they did it and the why I think I knew but it looked eina for sex.
So they spend three months at sea and while out there he made these little pearl warts on his pipi to enhance his sex life.The pregnancy hump at the back was also a cut in the penis and a piece of toothbrush handle that had been filed small and smooth, was inserted ans sewed up again.That apparently was for rubbing the clitoris during sex the guard explained to me and laughing at my raised eyebrows.It all gets bunched in cotton wool and they take some tabs to keep the winkie slack while they return to work at sea.
I’d never heared or seen such a thing in my life but was told that it is apparently common among the Japanese sailors.
Hell,I’d never let anyone near my winkie with a scalpel on stable ground never mind a ship rocking and rolling on the open sea.I wonder what his wife says when he goes home?
Glassy glassy is just the South African version of an Ouiji Board. All you need is a flat surface like a table top. The alphabet, A to Z, numbers 0 to 10 and a Yes and a No. Cut them all out and arrange them in a circle around a kitchen drinking glass that you place upside down in the middle of the circle. That’s it. You are now ready to communicate with the spirit world. Here’s two short stories about my participation in messing around with things that should rather be left alone.
We were visiting our cousins in Maitland and somehow the conversation turned to spooks and ghosts and we decided to play Glassy Glassy. So while the adults were relaxing in the lounge we set up in the backroom. It was an extention build on to the back of the house and used as a play/store room. There were two big windows to the outside and a high shelf above it with potplants and other storeage stuff on it. We all sat around a small formica table, rested our fingers on the bottom of the overturned glass in the centre of the arranged letters and started asking the questions.
“Is there anyone there? Please show us some sign that you are her” and more like that. Sandra was the most skeptical of our group and kept on a barrage of “This is nonesense! Woooo spooks.” Then she would pick up the glass, speak into the open end saying, “Hello?Hello? Are you there?” then she would hold the glass to her ear as if a phone. “Speak up. I can’t hear you.” We all said that she shouldn’t do that as you might make the spirits cross and she just said it’s nonsense.
We tried again to contact the spirit world and replaced out fingers lightly on the upturned glass and began asking our question, “Is there anyone there?” This time we got a reaction and the glass moved slowly, about an inch. Sandra jumped up and said, “Someone’s pushing it!” but we all denied it. This time we were getting scared but we all grinned at one another with that look of “I’m scared but I’m staying”. We settled down and tried again and after our first query again the glass started moving towards the letters with a definite purpose and we all looked at each other with frightened eyes. This time Sandra shouted that we were doing it and pushed the glass hard. It spun on the table and rolled off and shattered on the ground. Sandra said something, stood and leaned over the table to look at the broken glass when a big pot plant that was on the shelf above her fell with a loud Ker-rash onto the chair that she had just stood up from.
We all shouted and scrambled to get out the back room and the commotion brought the adults. The size of the potplant was bigger than Sandra’s head and would’ve killed or seriously injured her. The adults shouted at us for messing with things that should be left alone and someone said that if the glass broke while the spirit still occupied it, it would be released and haunt the house that it was in. We all wanted out but my aunt made us stay and forced Sandra to apologise to the now free spirit. Us kids were now crying at the spectacle of Sandra on her knees, hands clasped together in front of her as she said The Lords Prayer aloud. While this was happening one of Sandra’s older brothers righted the chair and stood on it to look at the shelf where the pot plant had stood. He said something like “Holy Hell! Look here” and all the adults took turns in looking at the spot. My aunt told us to clean up the mess, she scooped up all the paper letters and numbers and threw it in the bin. Then she and the other adults went back inside to discuss this happening. I was to small to reach the shelf from the chair so I stood on the table to see but all I could see was a ring of sand where the plant had stood and couldn’t understand what the grownups were shaking their heads about after they had looked at it. It was eventually explained to me that if the pot had somehow shifted it would have broken the ring of sand and smeared it to the end of the shelf when it fell off. With the ring of sand not being broken it meant that the potplant had been lifted off the shelf before it dropped. So who had lifted it? While we cleaned up we kept on looking around with jerks of our heads. Expecting something. We got out that backroom as fast as we could. It wasn’t long before we left and all the way home my mom was telling me how dangerous it was to try and contact the world of the dead and she made me promise never to try it at our house. I promised but was intrigued by the happening and eventually did break my promise.
My brothers were in their late teens or early twenties and one night with friends and cousins decided to play Glassy Glassy at our house. I was the baby of the house and about tweve or thirteen and only after keeping on did they relent and let me sit in the corner of the lounge with my cousin, Avril, who didn’t want participate. As long as I kept quiet I could watch. They set up the table with letters and numbers in one corner of the lounge and placed candles around them and one by us on a mantlepiece above a bricked up fire place. On this mantlepiece was a old style ornament of a big headed black boy, smiling broadly, flashing white teeth around bright red fat lips and a big slice of watermelon in his lap. Alan, Avril’s boyfriend, was game to play but didn’t like the ornament which looked creepy in the flickering candle light. So they turned the black boy around to face the wall, began to call spirits and made contact. I drew the attention to the fact that every time the glass moved the candle by us and the black boy would flicker as if blown on, but there was no wind. They just seriously nodded at one another and no-one told me to shut up. They asked questions and recieved answers and I only remember one question and answer probably because a big thing was made about it afterwards. The question was, “Of all the people here in this room, which one is going to die first?” The glass moved to A. There were two A’s in the room, Avril and Alan. The spirit was asked to give the surname and it went to D and that was Alan.
He said something about it being a lot of nonesense and went to the toilet. My brothers placed the the little black boy ornament by the toilet door facing in and when Alan finished his business he opened the door and we heared him shout and bang the door closed and refused to come out till the ornament was removed. There was some more teasing Alan with the ornament and the game broke up. Avril didn’t live far from us and Alan was to walk her home. They made ready to go and one of my brothers slipped out, ran ahead and hid in a bushy area nearby that they had to pass. As they came stolling by my brother in his best ghostly voice called out, “Alan. I’m waiting for you.” Alan let go of Avie and ran as fast as he could to her house. My brother had to walk Avie home and had to run from Alan who was waiting for her and realised what had happened when he saw my brother.
This happened over thirty years ago and all who were in that room are still alive and kicking.I don’t much believe in fortune telling and such stuff but I can’t help wondering. Live long Alan. Stay healthy.
