Blind Date at a Funeral

by Trevor Romain

  I waited for what seemed like an eternity and then, when the light turned off at Debbie’s house, I snuck back to my car and drove home as fast as I could.

  Ha. So much for basic training and being invincible and not being scared of her father.

  The Eye of the Beholder

  (Soundtrack: ‘I Can See Clearly Now’ by Johnny Nash)

  When I was in the army, we had to stand guard at the ammunition depot a couple of times a week. For some reason, I always had the 2 a.m. to 8 a.m. shift.

  An inner barbed-wire fence, a walkway and then an outer barbed-wire fence surrounded the ammunition depot. It was located in the bush some miles from the base and unless the moon was full, it was a pretty dark and quiet walk between the fences.

  The perimeter beyond the outer fence was made up of dense scrub, large bushes and trees. On each of the four corners were spotlights that were supposed to light up the walkways, but they didn’t do a very good job.

  One night, my guard partner, Colin, and I were walking the beat.

  Although we were thousands of miles away from the operational area, we were all aware of the enemy and how they were going to kill our wives and girlfriends. We were newly trained, eager for action and ready to blast anybody who put his or her face near our depot.

  As we rounded the corner closest to the guardhouse, something caught Colin’s eye. He grabbed me and pointed. My heart nearly stopped. Up in a tree, about twenty metres from the gate, sat a man.

  We both fell to the ground and assumed an attack position, pointing our rifles at the man.

  ‘Halt,’ I said stupidly. How could the man halt? He was already halted. He was sitting in a tree for goodness’ sake.

  ‘Come down, or we’ll shoot,’ I barked.

  There was no reply. The man did not move; he just sat there. Colin and I became very nervous. It was more than that – we were petrified. Even though I had just completed basic training, I was not ready to shoot anyone. I kept my rifle trained on the man while Colin went for help.

  A few minutes later he came back with the bombardier.

  ‘Where?’ he urged.

  ‘There,’ I pointed.

  ‘God, you’re right,’ he said. ‘What the hell are we going to do?’

  ‘Should we shoot him?’ asked Colin.

  ‘Are you crazy?’ said the bombardier.

  ‘Why?’ I asked. ‘He might have grenades.’

  The bombardier disappeared and came back with another bombardier. He started yelling at the man in the tree, but got no response.

  ‘Should we shoot him?’ asked the first bombardier.

  ‘Are you crazy?’ said the second.

  ‘Why?’ I asked. ‘He might have grenades.’

  Nobody knew what the hell to do.

  The man was too far in the bush for us to see what he was carrying. With the use of a fading torch, it was determined that he had a bazooka, two rifles and at least six grenades.

  The bombardiers agreed we should do nothing but wait. It was decided that if the man moved one inch, we would blast him to smithereens.

  It was close to dawn and the grey-pink morning light was beginning to spread slowly across the landscape.

  The man was either sleeping or very well trained, because he didn’t move.

  As we waited, I spotted at least two other men with rifles far off in the trees, but I said nothing for fear of starting a third world war.

  Then, a little later, the sun popped its orange face over the horizon and the enemy was immediately visible.

  My heart almost stopped.

  The man sitting in the tree, laden with grenades and a bazooka, was not a man, or a woman, or even human. It was only an army uniform that one of the soldiers had hung in the tree to dry after he’d washed it.

  Pick Me Up

  (Soundtrack: ‘Show Me the Way’ by Peter Frampton)

  ‘Get out of this damn car. Now!’ he yelled.

  ‘Ag sorry, man,’ I said.

  ‘And next time you try that stunt, I’ll moer you.’

  ‘Just because you have a larney car doesn’t mean—’

  ‘Get the hell out!’ he screamed.

  ‘Jasus. Don’t have a thrombosis!’ I shouted.

  ‘Fokoff.’

  ‘Relax. We’re going. We’re going!’ I said.

  We jumped out and before we’d even closed the door, the car peeled off down Louis Botha Avenue and we ran after it, half-heartedly throwing zap signs at the guy.

  Why was he so upset? Well, because we pulled a fast one on him. We tricked him. We used emotional blackmail on him.

  Yes. Emotional blackmail.

  Confused? Let me explain. We were a bunch of fourteen-year-olds, hitching down Louis Botha Avenue in Joburg on our way to Corlett Centre to go to the ice rink on a Friday night. Not to skate, mind you. But, as per usual, we heard that the Waverley chicks would be there and we wanted action.

  Yes, action. Like we even knew what action was.

  We always hung around in a group. It was great for jolling but, as you might imagine, not easy for a group to hitchhike together. Nobody wanted to stop and pick up five or six guys at a time.

  So.

  We would choose one of us to stand and hitch alone, while trying to look as forlorn as possible.

  And the other knuckleheads would hide behind a bus shelter like Trompie en die Boksombende, until the car stopped and we’d all saunter out chatting as if the man who picked us up had actually invited us all to climb into his little Anglia for a soiree, like they used to cram into phone booths in the USA.

  Sometimes people let us into their cars and other times they’d flee or yell at us like the guy above.

  Stop for a second. Did you say fourteen-year-olds hitchhiking? Yes, I did. In those days it was okay to hitch. We hitched everywhere. Starting at about twelve years old. We hitched into town to watch movies at the Empire, His Majesty’s and the 20th Century, among others.

  We hitched to Yeoville to go to Rockey Street. Or to the Piccadilly bioscope.

  We hitched to Barnato Park School for a social. Or to the Longhorn Steak House on Corlett Drive. Or rugby at Ellis Park. Or Turffontein, because your brother had a girlfriend there, but that’s another story.

  We hitched to Hillbrow to loiter around and look for chicks. It seems that’s all we ever did – look for chicks. We were definitely doing something wrong though, because we never found them. But the search, man, the search was what it was all about.

  Now I must say, hitching was a pretty cheap and efficient way of getting around in the days before murder and mayhem enveloped the world.

  We had our ups and downs while hitchhiking though.

  Sometimes you’d get picked up in a bakkie by a guy who was so intoxicated he’d jam on brakes and we’d all go flying to the front of the bakkie, then he’d accelerate and we’d almost fall off the back. The guy would be so wasted that you’d be banging on the top of the cab for him to stop. And then he would stop, like ten blocks after you wanted to get off, and he’d reverse back up the road at 90 kilometres an hour into on-coming traffic.

  Then you’d get the guy driving an old Zephyr who was so stoned on zol that he would drive at 10 kilometres an hour and think he was driving 120. His eyes, bigger and redder than the brake lights of the car in front of him.

  You would sometimes get involved in a domestic dispute between a couple sitting as far away from each other in the front seat of their Cortina three-litre Escort as possible. And, in the back, you were the go-between. They would look around and expect you to be their therapist.

  ‘Tell him I’m not going to Plum Crazy.’

  ‘She said I must tell you …’

  ‘Yes, I heard what she said – she’s sitting right next to me. Tell her I’m not going to Raffles with the larneys. I am going to Plum Crazy to listen to Circus.’

  ‘He said he’s not …’

  ‘Yes, I heard what he bloody said. Tell him I want to hear Julian Laxton.’

 
; ‘She said she wants …’

  ‘I know what she said. Tell her I hate Julian Laxton’s stjoepit hat …’

  And on and on it went. From the Radium Beer Hall, all the way to town.

  One of the very last times I remember hitchhiking was on the way back to camp the day after I had a life-changing experience in the army.

  All it took was twenty seconds to change my life. It was as simple as that.

  It’s amazing how one second I was your average South African troepie doing my national service. The next moment, I was your average South African troepie doing my national service, but I was different. I was different, but I didn’t know it at the time.

  My life didn’t change because I went bossies in the army or anything, although we were all a bit crazy, mainly from eating horrible food.

  It wasn’t because of being broken down and rebuilt the army way. Or from being bored out of our skulls. Or standing guard instead of having weekend pass because some fool called his rifle a gun.

  It wasn’t because of a near-death experience when an idiot almost killed us at the shooting range because his rifle jammed and he was waving the rifle around trying to un-jam the thing.

  It wasn’t because we had to bite the edges of our beds to make them square or iron a seam in our shirts or polish our boots in the dust for hours, or sleep on the floor so our beds could be perfect for the morning inspection.

  No. None of that.

  It was a simple thing. And I’ve come to realise, now that I’m a bit of a toppie, that simple things are sometimes extremely complicated.

  I did not wake up that morning with a premonition. I didn’t have a dream that my life would change. It just happened naturally.

  I was at the military hospital. I was recovering from surgery on my knee. I was talking to a guy who had terrible shrapnel wounds from an attack on the border. The poor guy was bruised black and blue. He was one of the lucky ones. One of my best school buds, Howard, wasn’t so lucky.

  I hobbled back to my ward after chatting to the injured guy. I always stopped and spoke to people on my rehab walks. Firstly, because I can never stop talking and secondly, because I was bored out of my skull lying around that hospital.

  On my way back, I saw a little kid sitting on the edge of one of the beds in another section of the hospital. He was about three or four years old. They said he was a kid from the Caprivi Strip. Some SWAPO thing went down and the little guy’s legs were mangled in a land-mine incident or something.

  For some reason that I cannot explain, I was drawn to the kid. And that’s where it all started.

  Literally.

  I walked over to the little boy and he put his arms up to me. I didn’t know what to do. I looked around. No nurses or doctors were in the ward. Only an old toothless guy cleaning the floor with a mop, but he didn’t seem particularly interested in the kid.

  What happened next is why I now work with kids who are terminally ill, hurting in some way, or who have suffered trauma.

  That little boytjie was whimpering and continued reaching out to me. Without giving it a second thought, I bent down and picked him up. He put his arms around me.

  I have never been held so tightly in my life. The little boy hugged me and wouldn’t let go. Shame man, he put his little face against my neck and started to cry.

  His tears ran down my neck.

  And inside my shirt.

  And touched my heart.

  And changed my world.

  Not changed as in, ‘Ahaaaa, I now know the meaning of life.’ Not changed in the biblical sense. Not changed as in, ‘Stand back, people – now I know my mission.’

  To tell the truth, I did not even know my life had changed at the time, except that, as I was hitching back to Potchefstroom a few days later, I kept on thinking about that little kid and his sad little face buried in my neck. I had no clue my life had changed but, in the deepest part of my soul, a small micro-seed of compassion had started to grow.

  Picking up the little boy that day set off a little spark, deep inside me. A spark that became the light that now guides me, especially when I get lost in the darkness of my own self-importance.

  When the Door Opens

  (Soundtrack: ‘Fear’ by Blue October)

  I truly believe he tried to kill me.

  And on more than one occasion, I might add.

  He was a textbook bully. I believe his sole purpose on this planet was to make my life miserable.

  Every time I was within earshot, he would pass a snide comment.

  ‘Hey, skinny malinky,’ he would say. ‘Don’t lift your arms, otherwise you’ll fall through your own arsehole.’ Then he would guffaw and slap his posse of friends on the back. They would roar with laughter at his joke, just to appease him, even if they didn’t think he was funny.

  His favourite thing was to stand on the platform and swing around the pole as the bus hurtled down the road, no matter how many times the bus conductor told him to get back inside. I must admit that swinging around the pole while the bus was going was fun and I did it a few times myself, until my friend once leaned out too far and almost collided with a granny who was trying to cross the road.

  He liked to pretend he was not going to mess with me and, as I passed him, he would hold onto my haversack book bag so that I missed my stop completely.

  It only dawned on me in my last few years of school that I could take the next bus, which was only ten minutes later.

  One afternoon, a Putco bus happened to stop where we were waiting. The door of the bus was open because it was a very hot day.

  I was standing and daydreaming when I felt a huge shove behind me. It was the usual suspect.

  ‘Why don’t you catch the green mamba?’ he said referring to what some people called Putco buses in those days.

  I resisted, trying to stop him from pushing me towards the bus. He was much bigger than me and I found myself halfway through the door.

  ‘Get on the bus, you chicken,’ he yelled.

  ‘I’m not chicken,’ I barked over my shoulder.

  Just then my friend, Mark, appeared alongside me.

  ‘C’mon,’ he said, stepping up and pulling me into the bus. ‘Screw them.’

  As kids, we had heard that if you stepped into a Putco bus, you could expect a bicycle spoke in the ribs, robbery, dismemberment and certain death. It was simply not done. Taboo. Verboten.

  The bus driver raised his eyebrows and before he could say a word, I blurted out, ‘Sorry. Those boys pushed us.’

  My buddy Mark chimed in, ‘It’s only a few stops. We’re going to Thelma’s Fish and Chips.’

  The driver smiled and nodded. He must have laughed really hard afterwards explaining to his buddies how these two white schoolboys were shitting bricks on his bus. I must admit I almost had a thrombosis with fear.

  I tried to give the driver my bus ticket and he said, ‘Those tickets, they do not work on this bus, kleinbaas. Stand here.’ He pointed to a spot just behind his seat. Then he put his foot down and the green monster lurched forward, leaving the boys at the stop coughing and spluttering in a cloud of black diesel fumes.

  Surprisingly, when I got onto the bus, nobody killed me. At least not to my knowledge. I may be dead and not know it. Nobody handed me the dreaded Ebola virus. Nobody scowled at me. Nobody robbed me. In fact, the riders on the bus, both sitting and standing, didn’t care that we were on the bus. We were the least of their worries. They just wanted to get home to their families in Alexandra township.

  The Girl with No Name

  (Soundtrack: ‘Dancing in the Moonlight’ by Van Morrison)

  I saw her from across the room. She was bathed in a bright spotlight, although there were no spotlights at all in the hall.

  To tell the truth, there was very little light, except for the neon halo above Jesus’ head.

  We were in the community hall at the Maryvale Church. They were having what we called, in those days, a ‘social’. It was basically a planned and caref
ully watched event for early teens. It was an attempt to give kids who went to all-boys and all-girls schools an opportunity to socialise under the watchful eyes of a bunch of stern nuns and, of course, the Lord Jesus himself.

  In essence, girls were dancing in clumps and boys were ogling at them from the dark wooden chairs that lined the hall on either side.

  I was sitting with my friends when I spotted her.

  She was dancing with a group of girls. In my mind, she was moving in slow motion. I stared at her without blinking. I didn’t want to take my eyes off her in case she disappeared. She was beautiful.

  Her friends noticed me staring. Hands lifted to mouths in pre-teen giggles. Whispers ensued. I blushed and dropped my head with embarrassment.

  My friend, Mark, nudged me urgently. I looked up. To my horror, I saw the girl walking towards me. Mark got up and ran. The chicken.

  I wanted to run too, but I froze. The blood suddenly rushed from my feet to my heart, rendering my limbs useless. I tried to move, but my legs simply wouldn’t respond.

  She reached me and extended her hand.

  ‘Would you like to dance?’ she asked, smiling.

  My thirteen-year-old heart pumped so loudly I couldn’t hear what she was saying.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘C’mon,’ she said. ‘I like this song.’

  I had never danced in public before. The only dancing I had done was the old ‘hairbrush routine’ in my living room, while The Who belted out ‘Pinball Wizard’ on my red portable record player.

  I got up.

  She took my hand.

  My knees were jelly. My mind was toast.

  We danced. Or should I say she danced. I rocked awkwardly from side to side with a supercilious grin on my face.

  Then the music changed.

  A slow song!

  I turned to leave.

  She put her hands on my shoulders.

  ‘It’s a slow dance,’ she said. ‘Is that okay?’

  ‘Sure,’ I replied.

  I thought I was going to expire.

  We swayed to the music.

  I had never been so close to a girl before. I was so close I could smell her shampoo and it smelled like apples. I was in heaven. I wanted the song to last forever.