The Ravings of Eddie Norval - #1

”Eddie”, my mother used to say, “You’re better off being quiet than speaking this piffle. Just now people will recognise you for the monkey you are.”

I wanted to point out to her that “just now” was kinda, sorta, a literal translation from the language she tried so hard to distance herself from, and that things didn’t always work quite like that. For added snottiness, I toyed with pointing out to her how even more absurd it made her use of the word “piffle”. I decided against it, ‘cause what does a monkey know anyway.

So I spoke to my dad instead. And it worked, for a while – for five whole minutes I had his undivided attention. He closed his paper, sucked his pipe, and said “Seun. Go play outside with your boeties. Jy praat nou net kak.”

And so, I just shut up. For twelve years I was quiet. And suddenly there was this thing called the Internet. Now I can finally talk...

It was a beautiful dream. I had my feet in the river, my head on her lap, and she was reading my palm. She was practicing her art; and at that moment I would have drowned myself if she said that was what my future held - just so she’d be right. That’s how much I loved her, right then. The birds were making Vonnegut’s poo-tee-weet sound a little too perfectly, and that should have been warning enough. But I was downright dumb, and I dozed off.

The one fat fuck had me by my t-shirt. The collar choked me and sawed at my throat skin as he carried me, face down, to the living room. The other fat fuck had me by the ankles. I felt his flubber on the inside of my calves, and his iron hands bruising my legs. I remember mentally trying to determine if I could feel my pants around my waist. That was not a position you want to be naked in, not in that situation, at any rate. Finally we reached the non-existent machine in the absolutely familiar living room. It said “Speed Queen Industrial” in shiny stick-on script just above the door. It wasn’t the kind of door you’d expect on a front loader, either. No friendly round window where you’d see the foam happily cleansing your trackmarks. Just a square, cream-coloured door with a latch that was clearly built to last until its twenty year warranty expires.

Fat fuck number three grunted as he opened the latch. He was meaty in the same way that Pavarotti could just about hold a tune. It was a strong fucking latch. And now it was open. Fucks number one through three proceded to force me into the machine. At one stage my arm nearly escaped, only to be kicked back in by a decidedly German looking boot. So I stayed. The Fucks added the rest of the ingredients: Four half-bricks, about 35 coins, a razor blade, and a bag of salt. “What’s the salt for”, I asked them, “I’m pretty seasoned in most areas...” The Fucks chuckled. At least they has a sense of humour, if not of humanity.

A wash and two spin cycles later, there was a grunt and light poured into my steel drum. I spilled out onto the floor in a sticky liquid, and she scooped me up in patiently cupped hands, and poured me over her lap. This wasn't such a bad dream, after all.