Blind Date at a Funeral (11 page)

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.

(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.

(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 carefully 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.

Alas, the song ended and suddenly all the lights came on. We both stood looking at each other, blinking, not knowing what to do.

My group of friends – huddled together like evil conspirators – mouthed and gesticulated, urging me to kiss the girl.

Her cluster of friends was all a titter.

The girl leaned across and brushed my cheek with her lips.

‘Thanks,' she whispered.

No voice would come out of my mouth. All I could manage was a highpitched squeak.

Sister Patricia Anne announced that the soiree was over. And there was to be no loitering in the car park.

The girl smiled, spun around towards her friends and flicked her gorgeous, fine, silken hair. Wisps of her locks touched my cheek as she turned.

The sensation lingered.

I raised my fingers and felt the spot where her hair had touched my skin.

She looked over her shoulder as she walked away. I still have a clear photograph of her face in my mind.

Then I felt it.

Love.

I was in love. My mind was a mess.

I stood in the centre of the dance floor, dumbfounded.

At the door, she gave a little wave and disappeared. Forever.

All the way through high school, I got dressed up and went to the Maryvale social, hoping to see her again. But I never did.

The smell of apple shampoo brings her back sometimes, but just for a second.

I still don't know her name.

(Soundtrack: ‘I'd Like to Teach the World to Sing' by the Hillside Singers)

I wanted to be a rock star when I was a kid in the early 1970s, but a lot of things stood in my way, including haircut inspection at school.

‘Romain.'

‘Yes, Mr Corbett.'

‘Your hair is touching your collar.'

‘Yes, I know, Mr Corbett.'

‘Why?'

‘Errrr.'

‘Go home and have a haircut and don't come back until your hair stops touching your collar.'

I didn't know how to tell the headmaster that my hair was touching my collar because I wanted rock-star hair to meet my rock-star dreams. I mean, in those days, how could you be a rock star with short hair?

Never mind short hair, but pudding-bowl haircuts to boot. The reason so many of us guys had pudding-bowl haircuts is because we often had to have our hair cut on a Sunday night to get ready for Monday morning haircut inspection at school. And my folks didn't want to spend money at the barber.

‘If a pudding-bowl haircut is good enough for The Beatles then it is damn well good enough for you.'

So, come Sunday night, your mom popped an enamel bowl on your head and chopped your hair.

My first real rock-star hankering came from watching the garage band across the road from my house. And they actually did play in a garage. They played songs like ‘Red Rubber Ball', ‘I'm a Believer' and, kill me now, a song called ‘There's a Kind of Hush'. Those guys were not great but I saw how the neighbourhood chicks swooned at them, no matter how ‘not great' they were.

And, shame man, my little ten-year-old heart wanted groupies too!

A few years later, I started to play the guitar. And, like every guitarist in the world, the first song I learned to play was ‘Smoke on the Water' by Deep Purple.

I played and played for years and years, and finally got a little better than awful, but not a whole lot better.

I did get a lot of pleasure out of playing my guitar though. And I must say, when it comes to playing the guitar, even in a mediocre fashion, chicks dig it. Unless the guy down the road is a much better player than you are and you feel like an idiot when the girls ask you to play songs like ‘Stairway to Heaven' and you can only play ‘Kumbaya' or Mungo Jerry's ‘In the Summertime'.

Jokes aside though, I really enjoyed writing songs and, even though they were pretty bad, I thought they were great. And then, after seeing the
Woodstock
movie, I decided to be a rock 'n' roll star.