Whiplash

Tracey Farren

Description

I'm gonna tell you all about it, Mom. I'm gonna tell it like I'm on the end of your bed, talking to you. I'm not gonna cover up, cause there's no need. You'll see how it's all a flippin miracle. The whole weird year. It's only one year in my life, Ma, but it's all the stuff you slept through when I was a kid. All the stuff you fished through when you got up. I'm warning you, Ma, this is the truth. Startling poetry in the grittiest of emotional word go ... raw, tender and laugh-out-loud Whiplash digs its nail into you from the funny - a kickarse gem of a book. Told with landscapes, Whiplash puts Farren on the map as a wordsmith of astonishing talent.

Sujets

• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Modjaji Books
• Date de parution: 29 décembre 2009
• Nombre de lectures: 3
• EAN13: 9781920590154
• Langue: English

Extrait

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the copyright holders.
Publication Modjaji Books 2008 Text Tracey Farren 2008
First published in 2008 by Modjaji Books, CC P O Box 385, Athlone, 7760 modjaji.books gmail.com
ISBN 978-0-9802729-2-5
This book of a work of fiction and all people, places and institutions are a product of the author s imagination. The setting of the story is loosely based on Muizenburg before its upgrade. All references to local services and businesses and their personnel (such as police stations, pharmacies and clinics) are creative constructions.
Book and cover design by Natascha Griessel Edited by Maire Fisher Cover Art and Lettering by Hannah Morris
Printed and bound by CTP Book Printers, Cape Town Set in Palatino 10.5/13.5 pt
For my mother, Sheena
I m gonna tell you all about it, Mom. I m gonna tell it like I m on the end of your bed, talking to you.
I m not gonna cover up, cause there s no need. You ll see how it s all a flippin miracle. The whole weird year.
It s only one year in my life, Ma, but it s all the stuff you slept through when I was a kid. All the stuff you fished through when you got up.
I m warning you, Ma, this is the truth.
Contents
Miracle Number One
Miracle Number Two
Miracle Number Three
Glossary
Acknowledgements
miracle number one
N ew Year s day, a gull whacks into my window.
They say birds bring messages from the dead. I dunno who sent it but I m ironing my socks when it smacks into the glass. I nearly wet my pants, I get such a fright. Shame, poor bird lies on its side, feathers floating. I hope like hell it s dead.
The South Easter blew it in. It hammers our building, chews on the paint. Spins off the South Pole and stays for days. It s turned the sea on its head, now it s blowing in birds.
The gull gets up, tries to walk a straight line. Bang! Into the glass. I clench my fanny. I can t help it, it s an old habit. You told me Mom, keep your fanny closed, else the birds can fly in. You said it to stop me peeing in my pants.
I m still scared of thrashing wings and sudden thuds. Birds, and flying insects, if they come too close. The gull shuffles to the corner of the balcony and watches itself in the glass, its eyes that pale blue, like paraffin.
I creep round inside the flat. Knock back five Syndol, eat a lump of cheese. Down some cold Coke. I check out the bird, scared he s gonna try again. He sits between the broken wheels of my swivel chair. The sun cranks up above the bottle store, lights the glass. He turns his back and waits, like he s waiting for an ambulance.
I put water in the mayonnaise lid. Find a piece of pie in the bin, cut it up tiny. I creep out on my knees. Slide the stuff towards the gull. Chuck myself back in the flat.
Annie s pissed off I didn t wanna party with her on New Year.
So what did you do, ou meid?
Ag, just chilled. Read the TV Times.
What, up your stairs?
Mmmm. Tassies and me.
Tassies is the cheapest red wine you can buy. But I m not hung over. I just had a couple of glasses to wash down my Syns. I don t like to overdo things.
I gave my TV away but I still get the mag in the post. Annie can t read so I bring her news of the stars.
Julia s pissed off with Danny. She bust him in his co-star s caravan. But Danny got into Julia while he was still married to his ex, so what does she expect?
Annie shakes her head, pissed off for Julia.
Poes.
A Porsche slows down, a banged up yellow Carrera. A man with black eyes and slicked back hair nearly strips the thread on his neck. Annie shoots in the air, twangs the tar like it s a trampoline. She waves, sends three Egyptian geese shouting up from a roof. The Porsche slows down, staggers a bit along the M5.
He looked famous! What do you think? He was famous, man!
She does tricks for his mirror, tryna pull him back.
Where from?
Annie shrugs, tryna think.
The geese, fat as butter, swear as they land on the wall of the housing estate.
Shit. New Year s for the birds.
We re trawling again.
I slide my hand up our lamp post. Annie points a toe, swivels her hip in its socket, like she s loosening up to dance.
Down the road, Natasha comes out the bush. Sluips to her yield sign, all limp. White smoke from the bushes, must be her tripping pimp.
What d you do?
Smoked a hubbly bubbly with Alice.
Who ?
My dad s new girlfriend.
What s she like?
She shrugs. Twenty.
Annie s dad s a Rasta dope dealer. Only dope though, not tik or mandrax. Annie s beautiful. She s got blow up lips and when she looks down, her lashes are like butterfly wings on her cheeks. Her skin s smooth as wind on the dunes. She s got a cute body, too. Curvy calves, high boobs. She s short, and she s got rubber joints. Now she hop, hop, hops on the tar, hooking men s eyes as they swipe past in their cars.
I stick my foot up against the vibracrete. There s no need to show the whole number. A short skirt and shadow hit just as hard. There s a bird at my flat with bad whiplash. Geez, I hope it buggers off, cause if I touch it, that s the end.
Huh?
If they smell human hands, the other birds attack it.
Annie s not interested. You got a Triple X?
I give her a peppermint, go close. Your eyes look a bit yellow from the dope.
She disses me with a thick cluck of her tongue. Your eyes look like you need a good klap.
As I duck, Johan, the skraal policeman from Pretoria, pulls up in his off duty Corolla. We try look away, stare down the M5.
There s no way I m gonna waste myself on a freebee.
He wants you, Annie.
Uh-uh. You, Tess.
But Annie usually gets him, cause I m Hanif s favourite.
The Pretoria policeman came here green, but he got wise quickly on the flats. When he started at Muizenberg, Hanif showed him round. First time they picked us up, I heard Pretoria ask, Is this the free punda?
I tuned him from the back of the van. Fillet steak please, when you talk about me.
What? Annie climbed in with me.
Punda means meat in Zulu.
I remember from home, those boys on 500 XTs. Popping wheelies, screaming, Punda! Fresh broken voices, strap on an engine and be a man.
Funny enough, Pretoria doesn t scream, Punda! when he comes. His voice unbreaks, goes high. Squeaks, Wee-wee-wee-wee, all the way home. Pity not back to Pretoria.
A boy in a dark blue Beetle slows down. I run like mad to catch him, damn glad of my takkies. Annie s in funny, chunky clogs. She gets to clomp over to Pretoria. She gets to jump him for nothing and hear him cry when he comes. That way she gets out of five hundred bucks for loitering. They can t bust us for sex unless they get proper proof. Photos of us stuck together or something. So they bust us for hanging on the pavement, instead.
Don t worry, the cops round here know their rights. Spread your legs or they chuck you in jail.
The boy s got Metal playing low. Shaved sides, a pile of curls left on top, like a monk. I tell him one hundred bucks. He sucks air, nods. Not in the car, he says, all nervous, Everyone knows my Beetle. His voice is wobbly, but deep. He s older than his baby skin says. My mom s working overtime. She s a nurse. Like I m interested.
Tells me he works at Musica. What music are you into? he asks.
Ag everything.
I haven t got any music, but I keep it in my head. Must be from my dad. My real dad, I mean.
Rock, I say.
What artists?
I shrug. Females.
Musica cuts the clack-clack engine and we freewheel into his drive.
It s a witch s house. A double storey, the top floor put on skew, creepers tryna climb in the windows. A black cat, looks like its nose s been dipped in white PVA. Another ginger one with popout eyes. They jump off the stove, leave a nest of hairs. There s a trail of golden syrup going from a tin, over the edge onto the floor. A troop of ants stuck there, in their line. Photos on the fridge. A black haired woman in a nurse s uniform, her hands held out like she s gonna catch. The same woman drinking beer with friends. A monster pink fish on a fire, looks like a grunter. A close up photo of Musica with her. Black hair hangs long, over her breasts. Her eyes are pinker than the fish, from the flash. The same shaggy fern from their kitchen. Her hand on his neck riddled with rings. Musica s laughing. The black haired woman balances a smile. They both have brown eyes.
There are swirling things in the lounge. A hanging number like a mad queen s hat. I speed up, sheez, it could land anytime. I try touch the ginger cat, but it shrinks. The black cat makes a game of stalking me. Musica rushes up some squeezed stairs, bangs on some loud music. The words all mashed, the sound of smashing steel. The black cat streaks past me, disappears. I go slowly up the stairs, try figure out a painting on the wall. I m thinking it s a mountain fire, spitting sparks, bursting pods, when I feel this burning on my shin. The black cat s wrapped around my leg, cutting me with razor blades. Shit! Shit! Shit! I kick hard. The cat flies off, hits the wall. Sheez, I m dripping blood into my takkie by the time I get up the stairs.
His shirt s already off. A bunch of poodle curls on his chest. His skin s like weak coffee inside his t-shirt tan. Shoeshine! he shouts when he sees the blood. He stumbles out.
Metal teeth sawing on the CD. Aloes in pots hang from the ceiling. They thrust up stiff, shoot out needles. On the wall a poster of a skr