his fields but the tractor starts singing and the more the farmer tries to get the tractor going, the louder the tractor sings, and nothing happens.
And the whole time I’m horny.
The Glove
The one Tuesday night we were practising for the end-of-year thing, Miss Wilna took out all these pencils and white paper and said we must trace our right hands before we leave.
Stephnie Landman said she’s not tracing anything and Miss Wilna mustn’t think we think only black people and Greeks are perverts.
Miss Wilna went all pink in the neck and put the papers in a file.
Next week we all got gloves. White gloves for the finale. We sing “Minstrel from Heaven”, then we raise our hands for the chorus.
Stephnie Landman said she’s not waving no white glove like a lesbian speed cop, can she go stand at the back.
Miss Wilna just changed colour and said we must take the gloves home.
At the flat I didn’t take off the glove, I watched TV with the glove.
I kept looking down at the glove, it didn’t look like my hand anymore, it was like it was somebody else’s hand and it was on my leg. I was getting all hot inside and I loved Miss Wilna for making the glove.
The glove moved up my leg.
I said, Don’t do that.
Up went the glove.
I said, If you do that, it’s not right. We just sit here, then it’s nice.
The glove squeezed my hand. My hand was sweating but it did nothing. It just went with the glove.
Just pretend you have a visitor, said the glove.
Visitors are not like this, I said to the glove.
How the hell would you know? said the glove, You don’t go for tea with the others after practice. You don’t sit with anybody at work.
I don’t have to, I said.
But you want to, said the glove, Miss Wilna doesn’t look at your tits, you look at hers. And tonight you couldn’t take your eyes off Blignault’s ass, he wasn’t looking at yours. And what’s this?
The glove took my hand to that place.
I didn’t know what was happening. The glove was saying all these terrible things and doing the most wonderful things. But it felt wrong, in the flat like that, with the TV on and everything.
Don’t! I said to the glove.
You like it, said the glove.
Still, I said, We should go to the bedroom.
The Ad
I quit singing in the choir just before the end-of-the-year thing. I didn’t think it was appropriate anymore and I didn’t want to give the glove back.
The Tuesday night I watched Mr Fazakas till four minutes to seven. Then I walked to the corner and turned right. I walked three blocks till the sign said Accommodation and Ladies’ Bar.
By the time I realised I was trembling and I’ve never been so scared in my life and are you off your head, what the hell are you doing here, it was too late. I was standing inside a new world, four blocks from choir practice.
I sat down at the first empty table. But my left knee doesn’t bend when I’m nervous, so I kicked the table and the ashtray fell on the floor and ev’rybody looked. I knew people don’t usually blush in bars, but I did, full face, till I was glowing like a bulb and then a black man with a tray said, Ev’ning, Sir.
I knew I couldn’t run because my knee was still locked. So I said softly, Can I see the menu, please.
The man looked at me like a blind person who’d just been healed. No menu, he said.
I suddenly remembered a TV program. Scotch, I said.
On the rocks, he said, Or with soda?
I thought, If this man brings a rock, everybody’s gonna look again.
Soda, I said.
Then he left and I picked up the ashtray. I looked at the people.
There were three men at the bar and men with women at the tables. They were talking to each other but their eyes went all over the place like they were looking for somebody.
In the corner a man and a woman both sat at the same side of the table. The man had a red face and red hands and he was putting it all over the woman. The woman had a straw in her mouth and everytime he squeezed her boob, she blew bubbles in the wine.
Suddenly the man looked at me.
Hey, papgesig, skree hy bo-oor almal, Wat kyk jy?
Ek bloos bloedrooi en my knie skop weer styf.
Die vrou wikkel teen die tafel. Tieties! giggel sy en blaas nog bubbles.
Ek vra wat kyk jy? skree die man, Ek betaal vir my pop en my dop.
Los hom, sê die barman, Hy’s ’n customer.
Maar kyk hoe lyk die ding, skree die man, Is jy ’n fokken spook?
Ek sit net daar met die asbak. Voel my ek gaan dood en kom weer by. Die drie by die bar het nou omgedraai.
Het Boetie verdwaal? sê die een.
Ek sit net.
Ons laaik jou wangetjies, sê die ander een.
Ek voel hoe gaan my gesig. My wange swel tot ek opstyg en om die vertrek sweef en weer kom land.
Die man in die hoek squeeze weer die hele vrou. Hey, blakertjie! skree hy vir my, Het jy al pruim gepluk? Is ’n lekker ding, jy skop suur tot in jou enjin!
Ja, sê die een by die bar, Hy ploeg jou propellertjie tot jy man raak.
Ek kyk hoe ver is die deur.
Six-fifty, sê die man met my Scotch.
Die geld sit vas in my sak. Ek verrinneweer my hele baadjie en gee hom tien rand.
Toe’s ek uit by die deur, verloor my rigting om die eerste hoek, hol zig-zag deur die dorp, bo-oor die maan, deur die hel, verby my geboorte, laerskool, hoërskool, katkisasie, twee jaar op Tech, drie jaar by die werk, ’n leeftyd in die woestyn, trapop tot in my flat.
Ek sit met my lelike gesig, my dooie hande, my dik gat, alles op die bankie.
Op die tafel lê die koerant, bo-op lê die handskoen.
Jou
