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The fourth man is fair, with freckles and ginger peppercorn hair. As usual, he wears a dirty blue tracksuit that is at least one size too large. He has an unusual nickname, which he hates. I was there the day he was given that name in the Mayville Hotel. The bar was very crowded, and a few friends and I chatted while waiting for a game of darts. The conversation became more interesting after I’d stated that peace of mind is the most important thing in the world. The response was typical of a group of intoxicated men:
“Work,” said Pat. “Work is the most important, because if you don’t graf, you won’t have the start to buy lots of dop — for your friends!”
“I reckon it’s probably sex! Sex makes the world go round.” We laughed at the way Jake’s licked his lips obscenely.
“Nah, money. Money is everything. Money and health. Without these you can do nothing.” The man who ventured this was embarrassed when he was shouted down for having two first choices. And then a very intoxicated man, who was standing nearby, gave his unsolicited opinion.
“Bread!”
“Bread? Don't you mean money? You some kind of hippie?” I asked. All except the stranger laughed.
“No, man. Bread. A loaf of bread! Bread is our staple diet! I say, a loaf of bread!” He was so drunk that he pronounced it loafer bread, and in no time that became his name.
It is hot today and it is a relief to be under the umbrella of the tree. Thirty minutes pass swiftly as I enjoy the company and the razor-sharp repartee. Some of the things we laugh at are quite stupid and I doubt if I would find them funny elsewhere. But there have been a few really sharp and hilarious exchanges, especially between Jake and Pat. I remind Mickey about the bet when it strikes me that he might have forgotten about it.
“Where’s the booby?” Mickey asks Pat, who points to the house.
“The creep passed out, hours ago.”
Very fast, Jake chips in, “He’s in, but he’s out!”
Mickey goes into the house and reappears with a thin Skid Row bum, who is dressed in a dirty sweater and even dirtier jeans. On seeing him, Pat announces in a loud, wavering, mocking voice,
“Enter Booby the booby!”
The man called Booby acknowledges the introduction with a bow and a flourish. His right arm sweeps upward in an arc. As it remains momentarily raised above his head, his fingers are spread and his palm faces us. He lurches about while finding a place to sit. A stupid grin displays his only tooth, which is yellow and rotten. I wonder what he has to do with the bet.
Booby's face bears evidence of many beatings. His nose has been smashed flat and pushed to the left, and one particular scar holds my attention. It starts on his upper lip and cuts a diagonal path through his stubble, from where his right canine tooth used to be, to almost the centre of his left nostril. A forward slash.
I turn away and look at a man who has entered the yard. He appears to be over fifty years old, and his bulging eyes are red and fierce. Quite a scary character, he is short and skinny. He limps, and his gnarled, tightly clenched hands seem deformed. This man could easily be a shorter, darker, haggard and very wrinkled David Niven playing the part of the devil or the devil himself.
A yard away now, he stops and sways drunkenly. His mouth hangs open as he loudly inhales and exhales a few times. Then he speaks slowly, taking care with his enunciation.
“He who believes in safety first, goes to hospital last!”
Mickey bursts out laughing.
“Ja, just check how wrecked you are, you old coot. Think about it, Holy Moses, you don’t live by your own words!”
I cannot take my eyes off the old man, Holy Moses. Undeterred, he summons all the dignity he can, and continues,
"The road to tomorrow ... leads ... to the land of never!”
His stare expects me to respond to this profound statement. I look at Pat, then say,
"Help me out here, man. What’s this old coot chooning about?"
"Who's your old coot? Huh? Huh?" Holy Moses sways, raises his fists, and poses in what he might take to be a threatening manner. Mickey tells him to shut up and sit down. Holy Moses mumbles, then sits down so quickly that it appears as if his legs have given in. All eyes are on him as he curses to himself.
After a protracted struggle to stand up again, he sways for perhaps five seconds before losing balance. He is too drunk to break his fall, and there is a soft thud as he lands on his back. His eyes remain open for a short while, then slowly close as he passes out. His jaw is slack, and a small bubble of whitish saliva is just visible at one corner of his mouth. A thick, crooked worm pulses under the skin of his forehead, while a light sheen of perspiration glosses the wrinkled brown leather.
Booby asks for a drink, so Pat reaches for the bottle and pours him one that measures a quarter of an inch in the glass. The disappointment on Booby’s face is pitiable.
“Hell, what must I do with a razor blade?”
Buzz checks him. “Hey, you want to pass out again? Shut your trap, dammit! You always moaning about the size of your dop.”
"That's right, shut your booby trap!" Jake is as sharp as ever.
Booby tilts his head backwards. His eyes are almost closed and his rotten tooth is visible as he grins stupidly. He raises the glass to his lips, and, by moving his Adam’s apple up and down a few times and making loud slurping noises, pretends to be drinking from a glass that is full.
Loafer Bread gets up and walks unsteadily to a pile of rubble that lies against the rear boundary wall of the property. He returns and places a brick at Booby’s feet.
Mickey is impatient. “Come on, Booby, doenit!”
Almost immediately, Grace says,
“Oh Mickey, let the poor thing finish his skyf.” She has been quietly absorbing the conversation as well as the drinks handed to her. Booby seems grateful for her kindness, and he takes no notice of her having called him a poor thing.
I am getting a fuller picture of this pathetic man. It seems that people treat him with a mixture of affection, pity and contempt. Bitter experience has probably taught him that it is more prudent to ignore an insult than to make an issue of it.
Finally, Booby pushes his cigarette butt into the ground. He bends forward and removes his right shoe. He smiles as he wiggles his toes and flexes his foot, which has a pronounced instep. After clearing his throat, he slowly falls back until his head touches the ground.
He lies like that for a few seconds. His legs are bent and his eyes are closed. I wonder if he has passed out again. Then he opens his eyes and props himself up with his elbows. He looks at the brick before wriggling backwards until his right foot rests on it.
Booby grasps the brick with his bare foot, then slowly lifts it. His foot has become a hand, or a claw. Once the brick is above his head, he moves it forward and backward, then from left to right, as he shows total control. He is beaming as he shouts,
“Man, I’m good ekse! I’m really, really good!"
As we applaud Booby’s feat, we cannot help laughing when Buzz goes on all fours, barks like a small dog and pretends to attack Grace's ankles.
I’ve lost the bet, so turn to address Mickey.
“Damn, this is truly amazing!”
“See, what did I choon you?”
His eyes are triumphant, and his smile is broad, as he holds out his hand. I give him ten rand, all I have on me.
“Come on, come on, you big mouth! The bet was for twenty!”
I turn my pockets inside out. “You’ll get the rest soon. Don’t worry, Mick. My word is my bond!”
He shrugs as he shakes his head, feigning disgust. I grin, and so does he. He does not know, yet, that he will not smell another cent from me.
Booby lowers his leg and gently deposits the brick on the ground. He has kept it in the air for at least two minutes.
Pat pours Booby a large drink, upending the bottle before tossing it aside. In seconds the drink and the booby are one. He is in his element, and calls for another brick while removing his other shoe. This time it is Pat who staggers to the pile of rubble.
Ever the opportunist, Buzz eagerly ventures, “Let’s check Grace trying to pick up both bricks!” Jake grins as he smacks Buzz lightly on the back of his head.
On Pat’s return, Booby places a brick under each foot, lies back and lifts his legs. Each foot grips a brick, and again the applause is loud and enthusiastic.
I begin to wonder what is going on here. And when Mickey hands the ten rand note — my ten rand note — to Loafer Bread, and sends him to buy another bottle, I realize that Booby is not the only booby here today.
Gerald Stephen Green - 1996 [Revised April 2009]©All rights reserved
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