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kahztiy · 4 months

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Flash Memoir 8min Read Chapter YD6~05 Incidental, A Secretary's Little Girl

It would have been John Gregory, in Aticon’s fleet Volkswagen Golf, driving up in Fourways, peri-urban’s small holding’s greenhouses, and stepping out with a sloppy gait, rolled shoulders in a flimsy business jacket and pants heading toward a potential client’s invitation by a step back with the hinging door — I followed up on an inquiry, and prepared with a booklet I picked from the Mercedes’ leather passenger seat, swagger to a handshake. Followed the potential client’s hand, waving, closing the door behind. I crossed the hallway toward a woman across the room, lounging amidst cushions on the sofa. The latent tomato grower, far from a farmer and Germanic features, in dress suit pants and long sleeve open collar shirt, as he invites me to sit. with handing him a booklet, saying. “It’s four Rand fifty.” I pinched a nerve, and he turns away, pacing across the flat archway’s opening to sit in unison, triangulated, onto chatting and raised an industrial intonation. I couldn’t imagine foreign currency, and value in shipping tomatoes by airfreight, as he says. “… All my tomatoes go to the overseas market.” After a while, we rose from our chairs, and I daren’t insist, leaving the booklet with him, as the conversion leads me to the front door, to a warm, ‘_Goodbye._’ handshake.

I’m driving away, pursuant of the country roads — to our teen years with Igor, riding to bicycle race meetings. Far from an access road onto the western concrete bypass, but parallel, I pondered, sinking my ego’s learned spread mortar and embed brick, in admiration of John’s inmate Cancer, dealing with people. I reach the Old Pretoria Road, to Southway’s gateway into the suburb of Kelvin, to an immediate branching left into Fairway. Martin Knowles’ double story house, sprout after the cornered filling station, passing the adjacent church, behind a front row of villas. Since the court ordered, I vacate the house for Jean. The car rocks across through the gutter to the dirt street. At the first gateway, the heel of my hand spins the steering wheel past the gates, to the brick paving. counter spinning the porch, rotating by the car windows to a halt. I turn the ignition off, alight the car. By the trunk’s contours, I head toward the waffle panel door, pick the lock, turn the knob. With the door swings, Echo whispers a homecoming chill jilt emptiness - Thwock - closing the door behind.

I sidestepped through the wide opening, deviating from the hallway in the left wing toward the distant rear window’s glow, gleaming bulk plastic wraps. one elongating tread, I descend to a sunken conversation pit, an architectural fashion. From the pile of dormant booklets, I turn away, my business on crutches, past a vacant secretary’s desk, to the shiny filing cupboard. I kick a hip around my desk to sit, grabbing the White Page. Shift the keyboard back against the Central Processing Unit box, beneath the Personal Computer monitor. Paged the top corner index, repeating to myself, ‘_Rand Easter Show…_’ My finger trails the listed family names, until my index finger underscores the phone number. Pick the handset hook by my shoulder to my cheek, piano on the keypad, to hear the distant ringing. A woman’s voice answers, and to my surprise, accommodating. My heart warms with a sense of achievement. Eager to follow up, I’m asking. “… Where are you people?”

With a hand wrist, I flipped and flopped my wallet’s flaps, but the Rand Easter Show moved, since the Milner Park across the campus of the University of the Witwatersrand. I pull an abnormal small ball-point pen, slippery in my fingers, to note in my 7-Star pocket miniature agenda at a random date, while in mind churned her direction to a location on the outskirts of Johannesburg. She hung up the phone, reminding myself. ‘_Just in case_.’ I noted the number dialed and rose from my chair, tucking my wallet into my trouser’ back pocket. track my way across the black slate floor, to the hallway, my mind arises ruminating for a sales speech winning over the unbeknownst, apart grant to access a flood of people. I stepped into sunlight, my ripe orange Mercedes in sight car stationed on a purple-beige-brown solar brick paving - thwack - closing the door behind.

With long strides, keys jingle in my hand, with a hip swing I round the Mercedes’ trunk, pick the lock to for the awakening pneumatic wheeze - Pop -. I pull the handle, step in my door swing - smack - pick the ignition and tweak. Under the hood, the alternator whirs, moody fatigue pistons struggle with the compression to fire the aging engine to motion a purr. My fingers brush the soft steering wheel to fall on the gear knob, toggle into reverse, release for an elbow poke the backrest, my body twisting after an eye slew over my shoulder. Steer with a rear windshield view past the pair of garage doors to a halt, uncoils toggle the gearshift into drive, pulling away by the hinged back iron gates, into the dirt Roseway. I’m steering the car onto the asphalt, from the corner villa and amidst wild thin spread bark sloughing eucalyptus, into Fairway’s leafy prolongation, peered at the translucent red and white Esso fascia cantilevers --.

I’m recollecting calculating the amount of fuel for the day and a single journey in the morning, to drop off at Westbank’s warehouse their recalled leased Audi. pulled onto the driveway to the high plinth, to a halt alongside the far gas pump. Search alongside the gas station storefront, two figures dressed in mousy colored suites, with purple streaks, until one rises from the bench to step out the cabin approaching. I stepped out of the Red Audi to stand by the driver’s window. Across the Audi’s roof, I nod at the attendants crossing the driveway, and by the rear fender to the fuel tank’s cap, I’m saying. “Today, only Ten Rand!”

The Black man’s reach clang the gas pump nozzle to retrieve, when a motion in the corner of my eye calls to glance. He trails the black hose swag to a handhold to fuel tank neck. I repeated glimpses with nothing to see from the shaded forest of eucalyptus flank. niggled, I stared across the station’s concrete driveway, to a lawn girdling a flowerbed with bushy cycads. the converging and evanescent asphalt streets, to a yield road sign, judicious rose a silver radiator grill, to extreme headlights sneak from the shadows. While across the red Audi’s roof, the attendant's cautious eyes rolling a mounting rand display. From the shadows waxes and heighten orange ripe, the Mercedes muzzle coasting, besides the fuel pump attendant’s nozzle - clang - as the hose retracts and he besides the pump hangs up the nozzle.

The orange Mercedes cuts through the splitting streets, for the cornered driveway to halt short of the cast shade lining up to the driveway median’s paired gas pumps. The driver’s figure behind the windshield in the shadows remains. until the figure wiggles, the orange door swings out, with Brian rising tall, with a hunter’s eyes up the driveway, after his staff or property. He paces around easing door closing, approaching the front fender, a car pulls into the driveway, coming around the Mercedes, passing the fuel pump to a halt on the exit way. Brian, In his strides, pauses. Against the brown rustic brick backdrop. I recollected a car on a lift, with the workshop entry door in Southway, around the corner. I hailed. “Hi Brian — You wouldn’t have, or know of, a car for sale. Would you?”

Brian’s eyesight sweeps, rolling his head, fixing the Mercedes behind him, insinuating. ‘_I have this_.’ I’m surprised, without an instant for reflection, to doubt and never decide. Telling Brian without speaking. ‘_ Yuck! That’s a diarrhea-ish color!_’ Back to myself. ‘_You’ll be driving a rich old man’s car? — Good! You’ll break your impatient driving style._’

“Brian, how much?”

“It’s got a new engine!” Brian answers, to which I’m thinking. ‘_The car will come with a good neighbor’s guarantee. Holds a resale value, but I have no choice besides been within twenty-four hours without means of transportation._’

“OK! I’ll take it.” I’m saying. “Brian! I’ll bring you the cash over right now.”

We parted ways. I stepped to the pump attendant with a hand in my back pocket. In a wrist roll flip and flop wallet doors, bring a 10.00 Rand from the purse, handing to the attendant. Climbed into the red Audi, pulled off draining my stress, the incidental luck, U-turn on my way to keeping my part of the deal. I drove home to Sunnyway, to jump out of the red Audi. climbed the stairs into my office. Turned the dial, entered the safe room, and piano the shaved safe, within which I counted 7,000 Rand. I returned to the filling station, stepped up to Brian, handing him the wade of 100 Rand bills.

The attendant filling my Mercedes’ fuel tank, to a greater capacity than my series of Audis’ subsisting on my impatience, sportive and need to be revving the engines. With a bird's-eye view, but destined to circumvent Johannesburg’s inner-city network of streets attaining the Rand Easter Show, I’m creeping along the driveway to Fairway’s Yield sign. Foot feathered the throttle engaged in Southway. Break into the cast shade’s flocculent barrel vault a property deep, remainder’s bicentenary eucalyptus’ spread. I coasted by the hydraulic gears drive up to the sunlight clearing highway’s silver security screen, to the yield sign, changed by indecisive road security engineers to a Stop sign back-and-forth.

Reminded earlier sunlight crept under the Mercedes’ tail ousted night, shine tires tracks wearing smooth. With that in mind, I approached the sun flooded apron, panned the slope to the service road, and way finder on the historic Old Pretoria Road, to Voortrekkers’ trail planted saplings to shade from the scorching sun. I glanced right, and left for upcoming traffic, couldn’t help but slam the throttle, the gear kickdown, the engine roar, storming the steep engage of the Old Pretoria Road, to an appeasing purr along the highway’s glitter trickling traffic. The breeze’s hands waving golden grasslands, scythed, heavy scarifiers ripped open the belly to the ground, bulldozers leveled with aggregates until asphalt’s bands steamrolled. Kelvin’s cornered and from my upper floor office desk, the distant whooshing sunk into quicksands. On Tuesday nights’ South African Broadcast Corporation diffused Dallas to the households in front of their television screen, and on weekdays, after midnight, the skies opened starry nights. vacuumed the day’s residual sunlight dusted across my arboresque brain, open to the upcoming day, my mind piggyback the dancing spectrum of light, to rush downstairs to catch a needed sleep.

My way cast in doubt, short of the Buccleuch interchange’s shadows to monstrous, shining concrete pillars. I’m engaging the old branching Kyalami road to a spaghetti of roadways across the Pretoria highway, and converging to a trickle of traffic along the Western Bypass, and cruising. The Mercedes’ tires wheezing along the white concrete highway. Refrained from my adolescent’s home backyard playground, I’m eager for a peek at how fared, the Richter Architect’s designed flat roof laminated beams, to rough-hewn face brick, modernism glass, among bright pitched roofed wayside development. But the white circulation bands sag across the valley, overpass the gateway to Rivonia, and to a farmer’s supply town. I’m hanging onto the parallel country roads, Igor, and I cycled.

In my face, bright overpass parapets approach and multiplying shortened distances, plowing the car on a stipplechase in a blink break through the cast shade. After the Northern Wheelers’ road race circuit, from the Randburg’s outskirts’ Start and Finish line, past the Velskoen drive-in, to Fourways, a countryside loop. I’m cruising past Randburg’s Afrikaner leafy green suburbs to Igor’s parents-in-law. landmarks of construction sites, to John Gregor, his brother’s thatched roof house, an intermediate to Igor’s Richter designed house. The last overpass blinked at Randburg’s straggling houses, to shaggy grassland. As I’m cruising alongside wasteland sloping away between shallow hills, the shallow valleys regurgitate blurry and dusty, a matchbox housing grid herding behind a billboard exponential over-sizing.

A Nordic naïve white couple heading the wasteland up-slope, trail half a dozen black street young male zombies, with eyes to their enlightenment approaching the billboard’s three flicked cigarette from a Lexington’s red and white pack. To a cheerful golfer’s smoke puffs, fingers clipped a smoke trailing cigarette, cheek-to-cheek with a woman companion. The man shouldering a long lens camera on a tripod, in pursuance of a woman, clear of the billboard’s stilts framework, and wind struts to the overhead advert underscoring. “After action — Satisfaction.” the billboard masks dusty farmed houses, where locals daren’t venture. I cruised by, broke away from the media activists, and lured a mobster agitation for a lucrative anti-apartheid propaganda.

The woman I had earlier on the phone, her instruction, lay open on the passenger seat. I’m pondering over a strategy to focus on meeting responsible people, as along the highway’s inner periphery resembles her instructions. forthcoming clustered bright and shaded industrial sheds. The road shoulder sprouts the Rand Show on a road sign, and again superseded by a pointer. I eased the throttle to ride the diverging ramp from the highway’s dark underpass. I ramped to the yield sign. I steered to crawl the corner onto the deserted thoroughfare from Soweto, looking for signs, and led to a jagged street grid spiraling by industrial sheds inland. I counter steered the car right turn, by hinged back security gates into a glowing delusion, to a courtyard complex’s squatted office facades. Shaded under the corrugated iron guttered eaves. With the heel of my hand, spin the steering wheel coasting, I’m pursuing the flank facade’s row of small administration windows without access. In the corner’s depth, turn to the street facing fenestrated facades, while off sight I’m picking my open diary off the passenger seat, with wallet’s flip the flaps close to my scribbled notes, to step gazing at a milky glass door in the shade, to a shining plaque alongside affixed the wall, saying to myself. ‘_That must be it?_’

Scouting, I step out of the car - Smack - the door closes, approach a Rotary Club’s resemblance copper engraved shield, since I met members by the donated to building the Alexandra Montessori school. I lay fingers crank the door handle, slow-pacing with the hinging back door, to clearing a burly man. With a gay man’s gaze fixing on me, standing in a gray suit, flimsy lapels, white shirt, and open collar bathing in the luminescent interior, I overlook crossing the doorstep. Latching the door behind, sweeping an eyesight behind the figure glued to a carousel’s skirted mannequin quilt’s expansive glossy leaflets, the man’s fingers pick from the stacked without lending an eye.

I’m passing the stranger’s lizard eyes, stalker’s eyesight heat piggyback, I presume, fearing losing to me, his place in the queue. To the petite woman in a loose long dress draping from the stretch counter, stretched on raised heels from slippers to the ball of her feet. I lend sight, scrutinizing the life-size poster sticking out from behind the eerie burly man on standby. depicting frisky staff members serving and jumping the flank wall’s blank column onto the cheerful faces with pearly smiles. I short slow-pace from the deep angle circling from reaching the facing wall, while gazing at trade booths plastering the rear wall, kitchen crowd amid dressed tables for the restaurant opening, I end a discretion space away from the woman.

Patient, and surveying atop the facing plain wall, the calling sunlight’s glow waking in a strip across the room. Windows dropped a yellowish streak along the stretched countertop. Eager to relieve my lower back pinch, I advanced as the woman behind the counter rushed away, leaving her customer in attendance, planting my elbows on the counter, to do a discreet spine stretching exercise to relieve an itching pain. I let my eyesight wander the void to the aisle behind the counter from the corner of my eye, beyond the petite woman’s head. The customer attendant at the end wall seems to traverse the wall’s changing door shade, with a glimpse of a peeking office desk’s corner, further back a photocopying machine, vanishing behind the wall shading an embossed doorjamb. My eyesight wandered in retrieve, discrete in the corner of my eyes, to the petite woman’s mane, flowing over her shoulders, hard-pressed neck deep propped on her elbows, slink in her flimsy floral garment butting and leaning far over the impeding counter.

My temple’s glow, I trail across the enchanting petite woman, neon plasmatic staffs to the burly man’s calling lizard eyes sneaky overs his unfolded trifold leaflet masking his face, and shouldering a spin hold of the carousel’s pamphlets. I’m rolling back my eyes from the weird burlesque man, my eyes brush off the woman’s dark-blonde hair, locks shielding her facial profile, falling on the counter.

The earlier customer attendant frozen in front of the wall, to the secret door’s glitch, her eyes raising from the sheet of paper to glue in space, dancing away in strides at hand fluttering the leading sheet of paper, which glides as she slew, landing on the countertop. While she squares up herself, the customer attendant lie her palm onto the volatile paper still, and onto shifting closer to her customer’s eyes. I repeated, glimpsing over my shoulder, wondering. ‘_What’s the matter with that creep_?’

The petite woman myopic lowers her eyes to the printed form, to black printed tick boxes, and paragraph of text, her confusion to fingers crawling. The customer attendant frowns. ‘_What don’t you understand_?’ lowers her eyes to a serious gaze on the form. Both women’s head low, manes shielding their profiles, as the customer attendant realized something amiss, her fingers spider crawl the sheet of paper swiveling around.

In the angle behind the petite woman, the burly man dithers in his suit, bugged eyes, fingertips smothering the rifled racked leaflet, exposed to his obsession, feign picking another leaflet, his eyesight extended a fixation shackled the petite woman’s ankles, while the corner of his eyes on the translucent door, an overdue exit. I withdrew from the man who hadn’t seen me, wondering. ‘_What a creep!_’ My eyes retrieved to the shade of the women’s arched manes. clear glossy fingernails edge the sheet of paper, their questioning eyes whispering at each other, to a pen appearing in the customer assistant trust the ballpoint - click - onto an exchange amid long fingers. The petite woman pointing the pen at the far bottom corner onto scribbling a full signature. She withdraws her hands, leaving the pen alongside the document. Turning her head away toward the translucent door, I exclaimed. “Ann!” But she rushed after, leaving me a glimpse, trailing her words. “I have a daughter.”

To my regret, Ann left me with a mere soft silky skin profile her face, accelerating her pace toward the exit door, awakes the burly man sheds his right hand from the carousel, to sprint, outreaching Ann dismissive shrugs in her flight, his left hand slipping in the hollow of her back, to a chilly grab. A jitterbug wrapping his arm around her waist. She begs the swinging door stile for a surgical laceration. But against the brighten translucent door pane silhouettes a couple. In unison slipping out, the petite woman swallowed by the burlesque figure’s evanescent shadow in the fasts closing door’s translucent pane. I speculating the burlesque man’s firing jealousy to ask myself. ‘_What happened to her husband — Is this man another husband, or…?_’ When a distant muffled voice, dawn on me, the customer assistant woman calling on me. “May I help you?”

The customer attendant’s candy voice repeats. “May I be of service?” square up to me across the counter, I’m explaining my predicament. To my surprise, in a few words, she opened to me the gateway to the fairgrounds. For free. I thank her, breakaway toward the bright translucent door, with a heartfelt step into sunlight, the blatant sun bathing orange ripe Mercedes in the courtyard. Crossing Ann triggers in mind her.

Succumbed by Ann’s few words, standing beside me in silence, but with pride in her voice. I step into the driver’s seat, pondering. ‘_Why did she, off all things, greeted me with a daughter_?’ I tweak the ignition key, the engine to a purr, toggle through the gears, reversing, onto driving off. Out the gateway into the industrial street, set course for home, baffled. ‘_The coincidence? How did she get to know I stood alongside you? It can’t be her seeing the Mercedes? I drove my Audi fastback back then_?’

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needlebreath7 · 2 years

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