kagablog

Everything’s been happening so fast after I heard her scream my name and I rushed out of bed and into the toilet where she’s sitting with her head buried in her hands and I ask what’s the matter and she hands me the plastic THING and there in the middle of it is a thin red stripe and I’ve seen these things before but the stripe was always blue and then we’re hugging each other and kissing and my body understands what’s happened but my mind is still catching up.

Her gynaecologist seems a bit perplexed to see me, I suppose he’s wondering whether I’m her lover or her father. The bushy beard makes me look even older than I am but I refuse to shave until Spring. These damn Joburg winters seem to get colder each year.

Now I have to be ruthlessly honest with you, I have never been in a gynaecologist’s office before and my eyes are popping out of my head with curiosity. But no, there aren’t any Pirelli calendars on the walls. Instead the office is tastefully dressed with a couple of subdued oil paintings from the sixties, South African abstract expressionism. On the good gynae’s desk, opened, the file that contains all the facts about my darling’s hidden parts. Hidden that is, from all of you, not hidden from me, and certainly not hidden from Dr. Hymie Herschkovitz who has written a great mass of notes in his relentlessly messy handwriting, notes that are all relevant to that part of her that we’re here today to check up on. The doc’s kindly eyes flit from her to me while he asks the routine questions, then he stops, surprised, when it comes to contraception.

“You don’t use condoms?”

“Never!”

There’s a slightly uncomfortable pause and then my voice booms out in defiance of the conspiracy against erotic sensation otherwise known as the “rubber.”

“We use the withdrawal method.”

Doc Hymie purses his lips and his eyebrows take off but it’s clear that he knows what I’m taking about when he smiles and mutters “Aha! Reverse gear.”

He asks her to go into the room next door, take off her clothes and then give a shout when she’s ready. She gives my shoulder a small squeeze and then the Doc and I are alone. Instead of bleak silence I opt for a bit of small talk and ask the Doc about business.

“Business is always good,” he shrugs, “babies always have to get born.”

A few minutes later I am standing behind Dr Hymie Herschkovitz staring at a black and white computer screen whilst the good gynae probes into my Sweetness’ sweetness with a long plastic THING that sends images back to the computer console and I tell you people it is without doubt the single most arresting moment of my life to date when that blurry image coalesces into a tiny little blob the shape of a … well, of a BLOB and then that blob starts BLEEPING. That must be the heart beat. I can hear my own heart beating very loudly and when our eyes meet over Dr HH’s hunched up body I imagine she’s thinking what I’m thinking – that this is the most perfect baby that ever got created and we will do nothing wrong and be the most model parents ever and I’m going to stop drinking and I’m going to be faithful and in order to feed this little blob that’s beating I’m even going to get a job and try working for a living. Well I know it sounds like sacrilege, but all of these thoughts pound through my head at high tempo and to date it’s been four weeks since I touched a drop of alcohol and I haven’t had four weeks sober since I was eleven years old and the truth is I’m terrified that nobody will employ me (I mean what can I DO?) but here’s the crazy part: I feel HAPPY.

The best description of what’s happened to me comes from a Bill Hicks routine live at Igby’s Comedy Club, California on September 17 1993. This is how Bill puts it: “I don’t give Satan a snowball’s chance in hell against a woman’s ego. No fucking way. He’ll rule the planet for about a day, a week later we’ll see him out cutting the lawn, you know? (makes lawnmower sound).

“Hey aren’t you Satan?”

“Shut up.” (lawnmower sound)

“You forgot to trim the edge Mr. Prince of Darkness.”

“Shut up.” (lawnmower sound)

He’ll be at the supermarket.

“Tampons. Price check. Tampons. Satan’s here buying Tampons for his girlfriend.”

“Shut up. I’m the Prince of Darkness.”

“Yeah, you dropped your Cotex, Mr. Prince.”

“Shut up. I’ll rule this planet…next weekend when she’s outta town. Grrr.”