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True
Story
I’m
sitting at the bar when
In walks this guy with a slit throat
Bleeding like you can’t believe
He pulls up the
stool next to mine
Orders a double Jameson
Barman says
to him
“Why aren’t you dead yet?”
He
grins
“I’m not the dying type.”
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Tombstone
Dues
I
woke up at nine but stayed in bed
until after eleven
on
the morning of
The Beginning Of The End.
I did not know
it then
I was thinking about my baby,
how far away she
was.
Then the phone rang, Big Al on the line
With a
stolen car he wanted to sell me.
Thanks Al but I’m not
buying.
Then the phone rang again,
Eugene on the line
with a stolen computer he
wanted to sell me.
Thanks
Gene, but I’m not buying.
All I really wanted to buy
was a
Tombstone for my dead dad’s grave.
Nobody in
Joburg had a stolen
Tombstone to sell me.
Mannie The
Kishke did some calls,
got me the cheapest deal on a brand
new Tombstone.
I didn’t bother showering, walked
slowly
down to Four Ways Mall in socks and sandals.
Deposited R4261,44 into Mannie’s account
Filled in
the depositor’s name and/or reference
With the
Tombstone Dues.
By now it was after twelve, Yahoo was
down
so I walked along Granite Road up to the Spa,
turned
right into Uranium. Stopped in at Exit
Redemption where
Bonnie Prince Billy gave me a Coke
for free. Then I footed
it back through to
Fourways Crossing, caught Boxcar Willie’s
eye at the escalator. He was looking for work
but I
hadn’t any. Gave him two rand.
Continued walking.
There was the smell of veld fire in the air,
the sound
of sirens. I carried on walking.
Round the corner at the
Pine Slopes Spa
there’s Blind Willie Johnson again.
This time
he’s got a number to call for work
doing
abstract
depressionist painting. No phone to call on.
His buddies in a throng, milling around.
I said, c’mon,
let’s go phone at the BP.
When we got to the BP I
broke a twenty,
phoned Anne Boleyn with my best voice on;
told her Willie Wonka was reliable.
She said she’d
give him R60 a day for diverse
painting and odd jobsing.
Then the five of us
went for a celebration at Colonel
Saunders’
Drive-Thru Funeral parlour.
It was
Willie Bobo and Harrison Ford
and Frank Harris and S’Busiso
the Zulu and me.
I took their names down in my little black
book
where I keep all the information for the Big Guy.
Then
I heard a laugh from the table adjacent.
Sweet voice from
heaven said
“take my name too.”
Her name was
Emma.
She hadn’t read Jane Austen yet,
but she’d
seen the movie.
It must have been 2:30pm when we met.
Her
mother came to fetch her at three.
I left Kentucky,
waved goodbye to Willie,
Harris, Frank and S’Busiso
the Zulu.
Walked home.
Got a call from Mannie The
Knuckle
“Thanks for the money.”
Then
he said,
“My
God,
a plane
just
crashed
into
one
of the
twin
towers.”
I looked at my clock.
It was three fifteen, Joburg
local time.
I was glad I didn’t have a tv.
I
slept for a while.
Got up at five.
Walked back to the
Spa
bought a bottle of Simonsvlei Shiraz,
drank it until
it was empty.
Started a fire with scraps of furniture.
Listened to the radio.
Got a call from my baby in
Boston.
She was crying.
“Whole world is busy
killing and dying.”
Called her back,
told her
she had a man she could rely on.
It’s funny how
everything banal takes on
symbolic meanings
when the
world’s about to end.
I sat down and typed this
story.
Hey Big Guy,
don’t forget I’ve
paid my Tombstone Dues.
Got the slip to prove it.
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