“Booby the Booby” – part I of II

In this 2 part MUST-READ short story, Gerrry captures in astounding detail, life in Durban about 3 decades ago. Analytical, witty, insightful, authentically Durban and incredibly entertaining, “Booby the booby” sets a new standard for short-story writing here on Bruinou.com. Enjoy. Ed. My thoughts have strayed and when Mickey clicks his fingers a few inches from my face, I look up to find that he is staring at me. “What? What’s wrong?” “Tommy, you thinking of your stekkie (girlfriend) again? I said, if you waai (go) somewhere with me tomorrow afternoon, I’ll wys (show) you something so amazing, you’ll tell your grandchildren about it!”

It is Friday night in the Mayville Hotel. The bar will close in about thirty minutes and the noise level is high, the sobriety level low. Mickey’s voice has become richer, deeper and much louder. Most of his words, rounded and smoothened by many a downpour, slide easily out of his mouth. Alcohol word erosion?
“Liss’n Miggy,” I imitate his slur, “Listen, there’s nothing, I repeat, nothing amazing I haven’t seen, heard of, or read about.”
“You wanna bet on it, ekse? My ten says you will be amazed.”
“Make it twenty!”
Mickey’s flushed face alters as his eyes narrow into slits and his mouth becomes a smile. He takes my hand and shakes it vigorously.
“Done! Easy money, Tommy. Another moegoe exposes himself every minute.”
“Oh, come on, you’re quoting me now. Be original for once, ekse.”
He grins, “Never mind that. What’s wrong with you?”
“What you chooning now?”
“You only had three or four dops since coming here hours ago! You slipping, ekse! I think I’ll buy you a couple of stiff dops, seeing you’ll be giving me twenty bucks tomorrow!”

The barman shouts, ‘Time, gentlemen, please!’, so we gulp the last of our drinks, then lurch out to our cars. I pause as I take out my keys. I’ve just remembered that Mickey is supposed to show me something amazing tomorrow, but I do not know where to meet him. When I walk over to his car, a dark green Morris Minor, he rolls down his window and laughs at me.
“What kind? You wanna cancel the bet?”
“Don’t be silly. I wanna check that wonder of the world, but you never chooned me where we’re waaiing tomorrow.”
“Oh. We’re waaiing to Overport.”
“Where in Overport?” The port of Durban is not visible from this curiously named suburb, which lies behind the ridge overlooking the city. The only way to see the port from there is to pour it out of a port bottle.
“38.” Mickey’s words are almost incomprehensible.
“Did you say 38? You gonna wys me something amazing at 38? Why didn’t you say so! Isn’t Pat your cuzzie?”
“Ja, we waaiing to his pozzie!”
The house is called ‘38’ because of its street number. It is an old, dilapidated tin-roofed gathering place for wastrels and idlers, whose primary aim is to be drunk or drugged all the time. When the weather is fine the daily jollification, which features excessive drinking, dagga smoking, swearing, arguments, and sometimes fighting, usually occurs in the back yard of the property. It is not uncommon to find more than one person lying temporarily dead in the yard.
As a parting shot, Mickey tells me not to forget to bring the twenty rand I’ll have to pay him tomorrow.

There is a burst of raucous, mocking laughter as Mickey and I reach the back yard of the house called 38. Four men and a woman form a rough circle as they sit in the shade of a massive avacado pear tree. On the ground before them stands a vodka bottle that is three-quarters full.
I know three of the men well. Pat, an ex-teacher, owns this house. He looks like his cousin Mickey: very dark, short and powerfully built, with a paunch that expands by the year. Both are dressed in baggy shorts and T-shirts.
Two of the men, Buzz and Jake, greet me loudly and enthusiastically; we attended the same primary school. They are unemployed, and perhaps are unemployable.

Buzz gave himself that nickname five years ago, shortly after Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin walked on the moon. I think he would be delighted if I were to rename him Alcohol Buzz, so I stick to Buzz or Buzzy Boy. Dark, curly-haired and of medium height and build, he is quite cunning and canny, but he unwittingly displays lack of sophistication and higher learning when he tries to portray himself as an educated man. He often says that he wants to improve his vocabulary, but he seldom bothers to consult a dictionary.
One night, while he and I were drinking at the Mayville Hotel, two men joined us at our table. Buzz did not know them and he found out that they were teachers when I asked them a question about a new mathematics syllabus. During a lull in the conversation, Buzz showed his eagerness to impress. He unbuttoned his shirt, pointed to a scar across his stomach and proudly asked,
“You gentlemen ever seen a long scar like this?”
One of the teachers asked, “What the hell happened to you?”
“Oh, I got it from an operation I had two years hence.”
I grinned. “Great balls of fire! Buzz, you actually got the scar before having the operation! Doesn’t the logic of cause and effect apply to you?”
While the rest of us laughed, Buzz sat there looking confused and stupid. He was embarrassed when I told him the real meaning of ‘hence’, but he still does the same sort of thing. Perhaps he will never change.
Buzz thinks, and sometimes says, that he is a genius. I tell him often that he is more like a genie’s ass. Whenever I say this, his smile becomes strained, but he seldom dares to counter-insult me.

Jake is tall, fair, and gaunt. He has short brown hair and a ready smile. Women seem to find him attractive, despite his poor physique. He has six children from four relationships. When he is very drunk he boasts, uncharacteristically, that he does not have to look for a job because he has a reputation as a very fine motor mechanic. He does not mention that he seldom works for more than a few months before losing his sobriety and his job. Since he has not worked for a long time, potential employers do not seem to be trying that hard to locate him.
The woman here today is very dark, plump, and may be about forty years old. Her puffy, well-travelled face makes her look used up. She is wearing a white blouse and red skirt. I smile at her bright red floppy lips. Perhaps she sees herself as still young, fresh and attractive, for her eyes soften, then light up as she smiles flirtatiously and greets me in a husky, drunken voice,
“Hello dearie, I’m Grace.”
Quick as a flash, Pat adds, “Not Grace, Disgrace!”
It doesn’t surprise me that Grace joins in the laughter. A light-hearted insult will not get her angry enough to flounce off while liquor is flowing.