kagablog

The establishment has always been the establishment. For the rest of our lives we show them the finger. Then you die and pay taxes. Unfortunately not in that order. That’s life in a nutshell. How it always was. how it always will be.

The bar is almost empty. I’ve been here since I was in my thirties. Now I’m 43. Me and my mate Hungy Eyes. We’re both of us getting bitter. Decay has set into our dreams. It’s not the government’s fault. It’s YOUR fault. You fucking asshole. the man in the mirror just shrugs. Avoiding responsibility is nothing new. It’s what we’ve been doing for years. Hungry Eyes snorts. He won’t give an opinion.

“I always stroke before I give an opinion.”

When did it all go wrong?

“I don’t remember anymore. I don’t remember myself. I don’t remember.”

Why don’t you want to remember Hungry Eyes?

“In order to reach you you don’t know the paths I’ve taken.”

What he says sounds like it could be a quote. But from what? His heads lolls over the bar counter. Ziggy Stardust the bar tender grins like he’s fishing for a tip. The music is loud and it’s Bucky Done Gun by Maya Arulpragasam. Back in the old days music was by groups called The Sweet or Deep Purple. Names you could remember. I’ve always thought I had time. Now that my time’s run out I realize time always had me. By the balls. Well get cracking then!

Imagine a building made of memories. A building of stars. That’s my life. A building I spent all my life building. Now it’s crumbling. Ruins is what’s left of my building. Hungry Eyes is right. Decay has set into our dreams. I never allowed what I already knew to get in the way of what I didn’t know yet. I always had ready answers for all the questions. I was too glib, too facile. My tongue’s caught up with my wrinkles. Now I haven’t got a single answer for any of the important questions.

Questions like “whose round is this?”. Well there are only the two of us on this side of the bar counter; while on the other side of the bar counter there’s grinning Ziggy Stardust who wants his tip and manager Dodo who grumbles and mutters but doesn’t come clean with a single distinguishable sentence all night and hasn’t done so all year. He’s supposed to be the manager here but he’s almost as useless as the jukebox that keeps chowing our money but treats all the old songs like they were scratch re-mixes by Maya Arulpragasam. It’s taken me all fucking night to remember that name.

The last time I called her she simply put down the phone. My voice must have sounded like poison. Oh baby, I found a way to forgive you but I never found a way to forgive myself. Instead of redemption I learned how to fly. I learned to fly but I can’t walk. I can’t walk out of here alive. Better have another whiskey. But whose round is it? It must be mine. Hungry Eyes is in no state to pay. But he is still in a state to drink. He’s a South African. There’s always a bucket of dop at the end of our rainbow.

Ziggy Stardust comes nicely with the two double Jamesons. Hungry Eyes takes his with lashings of ice. Ice is free. I don’t like to water my poison. Just a dash of lime to remember that life is a lemon and I want my money back. Talking of which Ziggy Stardust is grinning much better for his tip. What kind of a man is it that only smiles when he knows he’s going to get money?

Hungry Eyes drains his glass then he drains another while he waits for Pink Floyd to shoe shine on you crazy diamond again but the juke box is curved or busted and the Bohemian laughter can’t drown out our sorrows. Am I laughing that loudly? It must be hysteria. Baby I was there when you dropped your mask. And every part of you was a part of me too and we both knew that we would always be together.

Spookasem walks into the bar. She’s alone. Hasn’t done any business tonight. She’s trying very hard to be natural. That’s what makes her phoney. She orders three single malt whiskeys at a time. It’s like drinking a cigar. That’s how she got that voice. Which is why she’s called Spookasem. Ghost breath. She grins her death grin at Hungry Eyes and me. Lifts the three whiskeys into her gullet one after another. Mashes them back. She’s in so much pain. Her eyes betray her. Desolate pools of dark wilderness.

She parks her carcass on the bar stool next to mine and growls “So what can you tell me hey?”

I haven’t said much all night so I roll. “I enjoy living in South Africa. It’s less lonely than Europe. Europe is populated by ghosts. The ghosts of history and culture. A dead world haunted by memories of its glory days.”

Spookasem burps then she asks me to dance. Takes me around the challenge pool table clutching my tired frame with her grisly bones. The nice thing about slow music is that it’s actually fast. She’s dancing the tango while I do the tarantella. She grips me by the throat.

“Baby don’t start that shit!”

What can I say? “Easy up girl, what are you on?”

Spookasem glances uneasily into the mirror above the bar, “Do I look schnarfed?”

You look like you’ve just come out of the special effects room on the set of NIght Of The Living Dead doll. Ag, it’s not what’s on the outside that’s important anyway. Actually I suspect what’s on her inside is even worse.

Back at the bar Hungry Eyes debates the new South Africa with Ziggy Stardust who only wants tips. Will put up with night loads of so-called “debate” as long as he gets tipped. Democracy of course is overrated. In the beginning was the word. And then? What’s after the word? I think I think in thoughts. But then my thoughts escape me. Or I escape my thoughts. Either way in the end it’s always the box. The box always wins.

Spookasem is trying to convince Hungry Eyes to take her back to his place. I fear that she’s an undercover lesbian. Her dipthongs are very soft. She traces her fingers over his bloated face. “You look like someone drew you.” It’s a very nice compliment unless she’s thinking of a drawing by Munch or Ralph Steadman.

So there I was. 43 years old. In the Bohemian. Sending sms texts to myself. Pretending to have a life. Not wanting Ziggy Stardust and Dodo to know that nobody ever sends me text messages. Posing for the regulars. Watching even troll Spookasem choose my buddy Hungry Eyes over me. Ha ha. Not even caring about that last bitter rejection. I’ve had too much grog to care. A rebel by numbers all of my life. Then the numbers ran out. It used to be lucky seven. Then that number died and went to heaven.

The last time she called me was on my birthday. I was elated to hear her voice and did my best not to let her know it. And everything you said was something that I’d heard before and everything you heard was something that I’d said before. It must have been love because it burned as viciously as a song by Rodriguez. Years later still; the afterburn. I can dimly hear Hungy Eyes and Spookasem talking about me, “He’s not connected to life.” And I’m not. Not after you cheated on me. And I beat you. Actually kicked you in the stomach and choked you. Drew blood. Charming. That’s what love came to. Osho says don’t bother with guilt and regrets, they don’t get you anywhere. Who wants to get anywhere?

I’m in the Bohemian. It’s a bar. Technically in Richmond. Where’s that? Quite close to the Brixton Tower. A concrete monument. The Bo’s the only bar in Johannesburg worth spending time in. There’s no paint on the walls. Even the grafiti is seedy. I feel at home here. No smiling waiters. Only Ziggy Stardust grins. He grins for his tips. He’s an African.

Nobody taught me how to be wild and that’s my problem. I make it up as I go. That’s called improvising. I’m busy improvising the ruins of the building of my life. The ruins of what’s left of the plans and the dreams before the decay set in. But fuck feeling sorry for myself. I’m not a loser, I’m just slightly inabreviated. The ego has landed. With a bump. Thump!

See at least I know the truth. The truth is God went to prison for making the Devil. The Boogie Man turned out to be the Buddha. Even bananas are being abused so why not eat chicken and foie de gras? A goose is a different species altogether. And nobody ever eats swan. Hungry Eyes goes home with Spookasem. Ziggy Stardust gets his tip. Dodo just sits there nodding. As for me? I’m a serious floater. Think about that.

“I don’t know who I am and I don’t know who you are but I know from this moment on that I love you.”

That was my opening line. She looked surprised. “I have nothing to say.”

We stared at each other. Then she burst out in delighted laughter, shrugged her perfect shoulders and said, “But at least I have nothing to say.” She preferred woman on top position. Enjoyed looking down on me from behind the swirling cloud of her wild hair that wrapped itself around her head in constantly shifting constellations. Like the cosmos. Earth mother warming herself on my volcano fire.

A year after the breakup we sat together in an ugly restaurant in Rosebank. Trying to make sense of what had happened.

“You gave me ten years worth of pain.”

She didn’t even flinch. “And pleasure?”

I melted. “A lifetime’s worth of pleasure.”

We both grinned but it was too late for us. our hearts were otherwise engaged. She wasn’t made of stuff I could build on. And my life is a building that I’m busy building. I keep on telling myself that. A building of ruins. So anyway, I’ve been carrying this envelope with the remains of the affair that nearly killed me. I was going to deliver it tonight but your text message said you couldn’t make it and I guess that it’s better this way cos breaking up really was so damn hard to do. Now it’s done. Now it’s over. Burnout. Nothing works like real fire.

What really happened? The sex derailed me.

Now I’m back on track. Building my building.

I walk out of the Bohemian into the crisp Joburg early morning air.
It’s been another night in a bar. But not any bar. My local.