|
. THE FABULOUS LIFE OFF SCOTT FITZGERALD Copyright 2007-09-12
Hendrik Bruwer All Rights Reserved De Hoop P.O.B. 10 Riebeek-Kasteel 730 +27 (0) 7952701 THE FABULOUS LIFE OFF SCOTT FITZGERALD By
Hendrik Bruwer Copyright
@ 2007 NOTE: This
is a work of fiction and certain liberties have at times been taken regarding
locales and events. His talent was as natural as the pattern
that was made by the dust on a butterfly’s wings. At one time he understood it no more than
the butterfly did and he did not know when it was brushed or marred. Later he became conscious of his damaged
wings and of their construction and he learned to think and could not fly any
more because the love of flight was gone and could only remember when it had
been effortless. Ernest Hemingway on F. Scott Fitzgerald,
A Moveable Feast The
Fabulous Life of Scott Fitzgerald Copyright
© 2007 All
Rights Reserved CONTENTS: PART ONE: The
fabulous life of Scott Fitzgerald PART TWO: PAT
HOBBIE and the city fairies PART THREE: PAT
HOBBIE’s Christmas wish PART ONE: The fabulous
life of Scott Fitzgerald CHAPTER ONE It
was morning and Ernest felt terrible.
Still sleepy, he looked around for pants and he started to scream and curse
for not finding it while the birds were singing gloriously outside his
window. It was already a beautiful
day, and the mountain looked surprisingly peaceful behind a fairy city and
its stack of tall buildings. Ernest makes his bed, part of his fickle
morning ritual, and slowly walks to an enormous bedside mirror. There he carefully inspects a rugged face,
a face that hasn’t grown up one bit.
Ernest sighs unsatisfactorily and glances up and down the mirror of
his naked body to see whether he still got the charms. He realizes that he does. It was a responsive mirror that one. Meanwhile, a merry dove makes the most
tranquil of noises outside Ernest’s window.
The noises were so tranquil, Ernest cursed at it for being so tranquil
and then it stopped. Ernest was
feeling troubled… he was rather moody that morning. This was not surprising; consider a fruit
and then consider Ernest. Ernest is swiftly but carelessly dressed
in sleepy trousers with a good to go and everyday also shirt. He contemplates shaving, as well as
brushing his teeth, but… he doesn’t.
Instead he makes a cup of coffee that tastes like nothing and he feels
a little refreshed, although he thought that he would’ve felt even more refreshed
had he had a bit of sugar in his kitchen.
It was only a fleeting kind of thought that and it wasn’t in his
ritual repertoire for sure. Ernest quickly
slams the apartment door behind him and slowly descends the block of
apartment stairs in despair. There was
not a cloud in sight that morning and the sun was shining violently. This impacted the character of Ernest
greatly, who, was not feeling too well.
Nevertheless, the friendly janitor, in good spirits after a splendid
weekend, warmly greets Ernest. ‘Morning mister. How do mister feel?’ ‘Ah, terrible… terrible as always my
fellow communist. My life’s a curse I
swear. I swear I’m cursed to be like
this. Say, you don’t have a smoke for
me, do you?’ ‘Yeah I have old tobacco, but you English
people I figure don’t like it as much.’ ‘Just give me some. Tasteless tobacco might just cheer me
up.’ And it does cheer Ernest up, if
only for a little while. ‘Enjoy your day,’ the janitor said, but
Ernest didn’t reply to the janitor’s friendliness. He merely gave a woeful wave, confirming
his sorry status that morning. Yes, it was morning and the trees were
beautiful beyond any singing of it and the grass was green and splendid. Matted too.
Autumn leaves were being lofted to and fro gently by the westerly
breeze. Little squirrels were climbing
the singing trees in no hurry until a jumpy Ernest cursed at them for doing
so. It was a tranquil day except for
Ernest, who was storming the city streets for no good reason, causing mayhem
to its seemingly peaceful inhabitants.
One
of them was the happy seagull who unknowingly terrorized Ernest whilst Ernest
was walking the city streets.
Unfortunately, the happy seagull got too close to the big swaying
fists of big Ernest and took a sharp blow on its marred wing. The happy seagull fell down on the tar road
in all its splendour and it was a terrific sight, even for Ernest, who
couldn’t believe his luck, flooring a seagull with his bare hands. Boy, the now unhappy seagull lay panting in
the middle of the road like a little squealer. Its panting only stopped when a ten-ton
truck drove the consciousness out of its wing-marred existence. Yes, and along the way a lonesome beggar
begged and Ernest almost trampled the lonesome beggar to death in a rage of
fury when the beggar approached him. ‘Damn you!’ he screamed when the scoundrel
tried to get a hold of his leg. ‘Let
go of my leg… damn… damn all of you no-good-for-nothing beggars!’ Ernest released himself from the beggar
with one hefty roundhouse kick and he was off and away again and the beggar
was nowhere to be seen. Ernest was
moody for sure, despite the morning bliss of nature and its surrounding pleasantries. Along the way, just a few yards further
down ‘Good morning sir. Sir, if you don’t mind…’ ‘Do not touch me you AIDS infected rat!’
was the curse from Ernest and the poor boy almost got a smack in the face
when he nearly did. ‘Heh, you want a
piece of me, you stupid brat, eh?’ ‘But sir…’
‘Jesus Christ, you AIDS no-goods are all
the same. You’re better off in the gas
chambers for all I care. Damn you.’ ‘But sir…’ ‘If there’s a hell, take your swimsuit
along. You might need it. Ha.’ Ernest strolls away with a skip, laughs in
a fit of hysteria and didn’t see a young boy crying his socks off. That Ernest was a nutcase to the extremity. He was a complete nut that earthworm. He was taking anti-depressants for sure, I
mean, at one time it was his maple syrup, but clearly it helped very little
in the case of Ernest. ‘No AIDS would
trouble me today. I feel much better
to shit on charity anyway today.’ All
his life Ernest had a quick temper. Right then the strangest thing
happened. Sure, many strange things
happened with Ernest around. But hear,
with the young orphan far from his incestual mind, Ernest probably took a
leaf out some presidential booklet, for he started to sing the national
anthem as if it was some random Christmas carol. Ernest loved that national anthem song. Strange old Ernest wasn’t finished that
morning, for a peace loving nun walked patiently along a busy ‘Get out of the way quaker!’ screams an
offended Ernest and pushes the humming nun out into the dirty sidewalk. The frightened nun loses her balance and
was about to fall heavily, but… through an intervening miracle she regains
her footing and doesn’t fall down unto the dirty pavement road. ‘Excuse me sir. That was rude.’ ‘You’re welcome quaker,’ replies an
unconcerned Ernest, doing a hopscotch past the Jewish Community Church,
cursing at its Jewish nature in the process.
The gasping nun turns away. Ernest
arrives at his beloved Dingo bar. He
was smack on time as always, and, whilst making himself comfortable at the
far corner of his beloved bar, his quick eyes searched for the old Jew, and
he felt like cursing for not seeing him. When he did, the Jew was almost invisible
behind his own counter, who in his turn appeared to be looking for someone
else. ‘In the name of Christ!’ yells Ernest and
stares wicked eyed at the bewildering old Jew, who was also called
Hemingstein by his respected peers. ‘Yes… one breakfast coming up there. Eh… Rosemary?’ Hemingstein queried. Through the blink of an eye Hemingstein is
gone. Like that. Dingo bar was shaking inside and outside,
but a pretty woman named Rosemary, dressed with sufficient morning taste,
takes up the challenge to greet and serve Ernest. ‘Hmm… morning Ernest… shall I bring you
the newspaper while you wait…?’ ‘Please-please do, do that before I
strangle you this very second. Then
bring me some juice and eggs before I eat you for breakfast. Then, if you’d be so kind dear, lift up
that skirt of yours.’ ‘Uh… anything else?’ ‘Then you can leave me alone in peace you
worthless woman. Now go.’ ‘Uh…’ ‘Yes go.’ ‘One… one moment Ernest… eh here’s the
letter you forgo to take yesterday.
Here you go.’ Ernest silently grabs the letter and
demands solitude. A few seconds later,
he sees it being a handwritten letter from his most handsome Scott. Ernest frowns in earnest at the letter and
snorts. Why don’t you typewrite the
letter you incompetent fool? Ernest
think that thought before he starts reading the letter selfishly, expecting
some worthwhile information. Just
another Saturday DEAR
ERNEST, There
was a time when I was sick and mad and I wanted to die, but I met a girl who
made me happy for a while and I thought she could make me happy for
good. She was young and care-free and
made me feel better and I wanted to get married and spend the rest of my life
with her. But she was also mad and I
found out only after I fell in love with her and I felt guilty. So I kept on loving her despite and she
broke my heart but I didn’t care because I felt to have her. I don’t know why but I felt so lonely I
wanted to die so I took her back and we both were miserable and got drunk
often and we were fools. She was
miserable and tried to kill herself and I hated her for doing that but I kept
on loving her because I was lonely like hell and didn’t want anyone else that
I would make miserable too. I felt
worthless being miserable and I blamed her for everything, but she kept on
trying to kill herself and I tried too but I’m worthless and couldn’t do it
so I tried to kill Zelda instead for she was pretty and young and
carefree. I tried to kill you too and
I failed in that too. Forgive me. Congrats
on your book. We all here loved
it. Say hi to Pauline. Your
most handsome Scott XXXXXXX P.S. You’re
right, I’m a gloomy letter writer and shouldn’t make a career out of it. Will write no more of this. Watch out for the loins, uh, I mean lions. CHAPTER TWO When
Ernest had finished reading the handwritten letter from his most handsome
Scott, he looked very calm, surprisingly so.
Staring through the naked windows of his beloved bar, his blue eyes
becalming a buzzing Whilst eating in solitude, a calm but also
solemn Ernest reflected again back to Scott, and again, and of how much Scott
impressed him, especially here at Dingo bar where the two of them spent so
much time together chattering away and laughing, just being themselves for a
change. ‘You really gonna marry her? You really that stupid Scott? After all these years, after all the things
she did to you, you still gonna marry that cupcake?’ ‘I’m sorry Ernest,’ Scott said and looked
down at the table, playing with the sugar sachets. ‘I can’t look at anyone else. I really can’t. I love her.
She’s put a spell on me. I
really want to marry her. I mean…
there’s like ten guys after her. I need
to prove myself to her.’ ‘She’ll make you miserable,’ Ernest said. ‘I’m miserable either way Ernest. At least I’ll have a beautiful woman. I guess it will boost my self-esteem, with
Zelda around.’ ‘She’s a beautiful woman make no mistake
about it. But I don’t trust her. She’s never been faithful for a week to you
Scott. She’s gonna push you over the
edge that woman. I never trusted
her. I don’t like her eyes. And I don’t like her tone of voice. She’s a drunkard, a hawk, a leech, you’ll
never get any work done with her around.
Don’t marry her Scott. You need
a wife that respects you, loves you, take care of you. But no, you… you want this perfect glamour
woman Scott. You’re such a messed up
romantic you know that? Such a
charming worthless gent. Get an
ordinary woman. Don’t be so damn
picky.’ ‘My name is not Ernest. I don’t just point and say, ‘There… there
is my wife! You… yes you, be my wife!’ That’s not my style. I don’t beat them like you do. I don’t make them obedient. I want someone I can share my life with.’ ‘Damn Scott,’ Ernest said and scratched
his hairy chin and pointed to his empty glass. ‘You’re such a handsome and good-looking
guy. I know loads of girls that’ll
drop any guy for you. You’re just so
depressed with Zelda making you unhappy, you don’t see these girls. Boy Scott, look at you. You need a stiff drink. That deranged girl will drive you into a
nutter.’ ‘I love her. The unexpectedness in her ways is to be
expected. That’s what I love about
her.’ ‘Scott… Scott. You’re mad you know, always have, always
will be. You’re gonna end up with
nothing. Go back and live life like
you used to. Zelda is not worth it. Ah, stiff drink would help.’ Ernest and Scott frequented so many times
at Dingo bar, few found it surprising that the old Jew Hemingstein almost
went out of business when they didn’t frequent there. It was their regular spot for lively
conversation, and it consisted of all matters. They frequented there for many years,
supplemented by alcoholic beverages, beverages that made them cheerful and
inhospitable at the same time. Yet,
they were still rich and playful with their sayings, and usually expressed a
general concern for each other’s well being.
‘No Ernest,’ Scott said
displeasingly. ‘You can tell me about
your mistresses, your wives, and all those other people whom you fuck but you
don’t care for. I have that too, but
see, when they lie beside me at night, I only think about Zelda, for Zelda is
the only woman I care and love. You
won’t understand Ernest because you’ve never been in love. You don’t know that when a man who loves
truly he loves truly only one person.
He may love others too but not like her. For he remembers the days they went walking
on the beach, or when they play hopscotch together, or when they read poetry
into each other’s eyes, or how they sat on the benches at sea holding hands,
staring at Robben Island and all its desolation. They would look into each other’s eyes and
no words need to be spoken. They would
go the seaside and countryside and smell the fresh air together. They would go on trips and need not to make
violent love, yes need not to make violent love Ernest, for what they feel
and share transcend any violent lovemaking of that kind. That is the only love I feel for anyone,
and no woman ever came close to Zelda.
I don’t think any woman will.
I’ve tried to love other women, I tried hard to forget about Zelda I
really did, but only one woman captivates me Ernest. Those days when she’s happy and when she
makes me happy too, those days when we are sober, those are the best. Those days in the countryside and the
seaside, when we go away into our own dream, a dream of two star-crossed
lovers that are young and carefree, fighting the odds but still trying. Away from the nightmares of the city,
there… there in the open spaces we truly love because we don’t need to face
our fears. We don’t need to speak, or
to pretend, or to get drunk, because we are as we are. For those few moments we are truly free and
I pinch myself for it being real. But
then, and this is the tragedy of our existence Ernest; as we return home, back to the city and all
its splendour, our nightmares return too, and once home we pretend that
nothing ever happened. I regret then
that I ever pinched myself, for I begin to feel that it was indeed only a
dream. That… that is all I have to say
to you, but… but I don’t think you understand, do you? See Ernest…
Zelda and I is not only a love affair, but it’s also a love story, a
story that has twisted and turned for so many years. She’s worth it, because the story is so
beautiful, for I remember all of it like it was yesterday. Things like that stick for a lifetime. No Ernest, I’m not a madman like you think
I am. I’m just stuck, stuck because
Zelda and I will never find happiness together. For that we are too scared and
fearful. We fear happiness because we
never experienced it. And when the
impression arrives that we’re indeed experiencing happiness, it delights us
yes, but it also scares the hell out of us.
We don’t know what to do with those moments, and that’s why we always
come back to the rotten city, back to our nightmares. It’s only here where we feel safe, in our nightmares,
where we belong. That’s all I have to
say. Yes, you’re a success and all
that, but you’ll never experience love Ernest. For that,’ Scott said with a threatening
finger, ‘I say you are the madman and drunk.’ Scott slowly lowered his pointed
forefinger and for a change felt powerful, in control, superior to his self-proclaimed
hero. He knew he wounded his best
friend, he knew his friend’s swords (balding fists) meant little right now,
and, picking his nose in triumph, looked up into the clear blue Afican sky. ‘Uh… Jesus Christ Scott,’ Ernest said and
now took up scratching his crotch area. ‘That’s all I have to say Ernest,’ Scott
said. ‘Scott…’ ‘I have nothing to add.’ ‘That… that was an impressive speech. I mean… gosh Scott. You… you do have your moments Scott. You really do have your moments. Boy, some poet you are my friend. You are gifted. Christ, Jesus, your words, the way you
talk, I just like to beat you up now, eh?
You make me jealous Scott.
You’re good after all. Gee, I
need a drink. Let’s have a drink. You haven’t had a decent drink yet
Scott.’ Ernest
points to the empty glasses on the table in an inferior-like manner, and,
feeling depressed, collected them greedily.
He glanced up at Scott and remembered that characteristic twinkle in
his friend’s eyes, the mark of a gifted man with words. Ernest admired Scott at times. Scott spoke as if he had just attained a
scholarship to ‘No Ernest, that’s not gonna work,’ Scott
said, still holding strong. ‘You see…
whenever I want to pick myself up, whenever you feel threatened by the
possibility of a sober Scott, you become frightened, for you know Scotty hear
is as every bit as good as you are.
No, I don’t want to drink. I’m
finished with drink. But thanks
anyhow.’ ‘Screw you Scott,’ Ernest said. ‘I just say good things about you and now
you turn sour. You always want to
compete with me. I don’t know why, but
you always want to compete. Let’s have
a drink and get this nonsense over with.
I get your point. You’re a
nutter. Now… what about that drink,
eh?’ ‘No, I’m finished with drinking. From now on I’m keeping it straight. In fact Ernest, I’d like to terminate our
friendship for good. A sober Scott and
a selfish Ernest can never be friends.
You don’t like a successful Scott see.
You like worthless people, people with no character, people whose
worthlessness you find amusing, people you can abuse and beat the crap out
of. People like me. Drunkards.
But I’ve had it with you Ernest.
You may have money and women and all that. But I have Zelda, and I plan to marry her.’ Ernest waved his hands in protest. ‘Don’t… don’t start with Zelda now
again. That woman is mad. The day I met her Scott. The day I met her I knew something wasn’t
right with her. Yes, she’s beautiful
and full of grace, but so is the average whore. I tell you Scott, the reason why you are
what you are is not because of you and your drinking, it’s because of that
Zelda bitch and her telling you have a larva penis. She’s jealous because you’re smart and
talented with words, that’s why she makes you feel like a damn castrated
character. You have a gift Scott. You can persuade people, tell stories, make
people laugh. She’s jealous because of
that, a half-lesbian on top of it, and now you want to marry her? See Scott, I may love no woman, but I have
my work and that’s more important. All
that love crap you’ve been telling means nothing if you don’t get satisfaction
from work. I’m not a Marxist Scott,
not by a long shot. But Marx had some
good points regarding work. It’s
irreplaceable… work that is. Your
Romeo & Juliet love story is merely ephemeral, but my work is life, my
mission. No relationship can replace
that. Look… look at me Scott. I’ve been your best friend for how long now? Two years?
Three years? That Zelda is
jealous of that brilliant Harvard mind of yours. That’s the honest truth. Listen to me Scott. I’m telling you this as a friend. Stay away from her.’ ‘No.
Damn you Ernest. You think I
shouldn’t marry Zelda, eh? You think
she’s the person that’s dragging me down?
You’re suppose to support me.
Damn you. You’re only saying
this because Zelda doesn’t like you.
You’re saying this because you cannot seduce her, that’s why.’ ‘Why would I want to seduce my best
friend’s woman? I don’t stab people in
the back Scott. That’s your
territory. I stab people in the front,
there where they can feel it most.’ ‘I… I love Zelda,’ Scott said.
‘I love Zelda.’ ‘I swear to you Scott, Zelda’s a sex
slave, and not even yours. She sold
her soul to the devil nymph a long time ago.
You, you on the other hand Scott, you should go back to the newspapers
and start writing crap again, that’s where you belong. You’re wasting your talent with her. Jesus Christ Scott. Gosh, this is very upsetting. I’ve been your friend. I’ve seen you at work. Don’t let Zelda destroy your life too.’ The wounded fell silent, both evaluating
this ailing friendship. Both felt
frustrated, unable to communicate any true feelings. Pity, these men. ‘Gee,’ Scott finally said, ‘didn’t know
you feel that way. I’m sorry you
know. I mean, Zelda and I haven’t seen
eye to eye for I long time. And that
affair she had with that stylish sailor wasn’t good for our relationship at
all. She’s a difficult woman, I
admit. But you’re crossing the line
here you know, Ernest? She’s my
woman.’ ‘Screw you again,’ Ernest said, banging
his ruffled his fists on the battle.
‘Enough. I don’t want to
discuss this anymore. I’ve said what I
wanted to say for a long time now. Now
it’s finally out, and you can hate me for that if you want to Scott, but
everything I say is the truth, including ‘and’ and ‘the’.’ If the fence-sitter had to choose between
Zelda and Ernest, the person who ruined Scott most, the fence-sitter would
probably choose both when threatened with a rusty old musket. Ernest may say what he likes about how he
helped Scott, but he messed him up too, just like Zelda did. See… Ernest was a drunk, but a good
drunk. In fact, Ernest could drink and
not get drunk. Scott well, the man had
many diseases. His heart, his lungs,
his liver, he… wasn’t a well conditioned man.
On top of that, Scott, he was a timid fellow. He drank to be in control, to get rid of
his shyness, to get rid of his problems with an extravagant Zelda. Ernest drank for other reasons, mostly to
feed his ego, an ego built on lies, lies and more lies on top of the old and
built lies. Ernest had so many lies he
didn’t know where to tie them all back together. He drank to get perspective like Scott, but
Ernest, he also knew when to stop.
Scott didn’t. Scott only
stopped when he passed out. He was ailing,
and Ernest, along with Zelda, was just pushing him merrily along, over the
edge, to a mere fool. ‘Gee,’ Scott said and felt a tear form in
his left eye. ‘Yes Scott. You hurt me real bad. You really do at times you know. Apologize or don’t, I don’t care. In fact, I’d like to terminate our
friendship now, for I’ve been so good to you, and now you tell me I’ve been
nothing but trouble. I don’t like this
Scott, I don’t like you treating me like dirt. Boy, you make me itchy Scott. Real itchy.’ ‘Gee, sorry,’ Scott said concerned and
reached out his hand to Ernest, suggesting comfort. ‘I didn’t know… I didn’t know I upset you
like that. Just don’t get angry with
me Ernest. Don’t.’ ‘I’m your friend Scott,’ Ernest said and
took Scott’s outstretched hand. ‘I
care for you.’ ‘Thanks Ernest. You’re a good friend. I care for you. I love…’ See… most of the time Ernest was just
another petrifying bull out of ‘And I do too…’ ‘Eh serious… Ernest?’ It all happened very quickly, but Ernest,
a former amateur champion, took the quaker to the cleaners with a classic
left hook, and then a couple more to put the guy out of his misery. See… Ernest was a southpaw and the quaker
never really got hold of Ernest at the early excursions of the fight. The quaker was a style-puncher, but Ernest
was still strong and fresh when he knocked the quaker out. Hey… I never saw that quaker since, but…
but I’ve also read a few obituaries after that, and it seems that he was a
much loved quaker. ‘Go to hell?’ Ernest said, letting go of
Scott’s hand with a girlish jerk.
‘We’re being silly again.’ ‘I suppose,’ Scott said and stare first at
Ernest, then at his Swiss watch, and then down to his empty glass. ‘Now-now…,’ Ernest said. ‘I’m gonna get myself a good and strong
whisky. Ah, I feel I deserve one. Sober up if you like, but I’m
drinking. After a long day of thinking
and fighting and talking crap I need a whisky.’ ‘Hmm… I guess one whisky will freshen me
up too, don’t you think Ernest? I
haven’t had a drink this whole day.
Gee, I’ve been pretty emotional.’ ‘I’m not pushing you Scott. I’m your friend. You said you’d stop drinking. I respect you for not drinking. I respect you Scott. Now… where’s that damn waiter, that no-good
Hemingstein or Rosemary. I need a good
old whisky.’ ‘Ernest wait…’ Scott’s voice now hailed despair. He locked Ernest’s strong blue eyes with
his own. ‘See… I have great recuperating powers you know. One drink will freshen me up too. I mean, we’ve just been talking and talking
and arguing and all. It’s not good for
our friendship. No good.’ ‘You sure Scott? You sure about that drink? You’re a good friend and I don’t want feel
like the guy who gets you back off the wagon again. I like you when you’re sober too you
know. You can be a great
conversationalist.’ ‘I know Ernest, I know, but gee, we’ve
been too chattering eh? We need a
drink you know… just to put it all into perspective.’ ‘You sure Scott. You sure about that drink?’ ‘Damn yes!
I’m sure about that drink. Go
get me that drink Ernest. And be
quick, just be quick will you. I need
a drink, a whisky will do fine.’ ‘Hey, that’s my Scott,’ Ernest said
triumphantly, restoring status quo. He gave Scott a pat on the back and said,
‘Like the good all days, eh?’ Scott didn’t say anything, but his eyes
twinkled. He laughed and smiled
handsomely. He looked young and
fabulous then Ernest thinks, staring across into a buzzing CHAPTER THREE ‘Anything else Ernest?’ Rosemary asked in
her usual tenderly fashion. ‘Uh?’ ‘You all right?’ ‘Heh… it’s just this damn Scott,’ Ernest
said, not looking at Rosemary. ‘Oi,
he’s not doing great.’ ‘The letter?’ ‘Yeah, it’s a real crack-up letter. Scott’s cracking up. I wish I could be there for him. Damn Scott.’ ‘We all liked Scott,’ Rosemary said and
took Ernest’s devoured breakfast plate.
‘Charming boy, tremendously good-looking.’ It’s no secret what spoiled the great
friendship Scott and Ernest had going.
Since the whole fairy thing came out in the open, Ernest more than
Scott made the decision to spend less time together. The fairies spoilt it and it was
interesting to see how negative it affected Scott, how it wrecked him was interesting
to observe, the wrecking part. The
crack-up people say. When Ernest’s
travel book became so successful you know, he discarded the credit Scott gave
in helping to polish his work. Scott
wasn’t mentioned once in the travel book, something that hurt Scott a great
deal. That just added the tension
between the two great fairies. ‘You heard Zelda talk about us, you
know…?’ ‘Heh?’ ‘The whole fairy…’ ‘Yeah, I heard that Scott and it makes me
itchy. Real itchy. I mean she’s jealous of our great
friendship. Everybody are. Now they think we have a damn homosexual
affair. I mean, two guys being good
friends and all. What happened to all
that great confederacy between friends, eh?
We’re getting stabbed in the back like always.’ ‘I don’t know Ernest,’ Scott said. ‘I love you, you know.’ ‘I love you too. I love you like I love my sister, but we’re
not a bunch of fairies, ok?’ ‘No… no I understand Ernest. We’re just friends who love each
other. Just… friends.’ ‘And that’s we’ll ever be Scott,’ Ernest
said and looked over his shoulder.
‘Best friends, best… Screw them
all Scott. Screw them all. You mean more to me than all these people
out here, even my stupid women whom I don’t care for. I just collect and stare at them. They mean nothing to me Scott. Honest.’ ‘Thanks Ernest. Appreciate it.’ ‘Now drink up that beer. They’ll think we’re a bunch of
fairies. Drink that beer or else I’ll
have to beat you. And I really don’t
feel like beating anyone today. I’ve
got a reputation to look after.’ ‘I’m trying Ernest.’ ‘Drink up Scott. They’ll think you’re a damn fairy drinking
so slow. Oh boy Scott, drink up. Eh… I still say Scott. You need a real wife.’ ‘I love Zelda to bits,’ Scott said and emptied
his glass. ‘Ah, damn whisky. Strong stuff this.’ ‘You need a w-i-f-e Scott.’ ‘You mean a servant, someone that can do
the dishes, keep the house tidy, that you like, eh Ernest?’ ‘And, what’s the problem? ‘That’s not marriage Ernest, not by a long
shot. I mean, look at that mute you
had.’ ‘Hey, I loved that mute. She was a good woman.’ ‘You don’t know
love. Ha-ha,’ cracked Scott
proud. He gulped down mouthful whisky
and said, ‘Before Zelda, I felt even more love you know. Yeah, real l-o-v-e. John Lennon love. That’s the one. What was her name again? Ah, Cherie.
She’s Frenchwoman. I find
Frenchwoman irresistible you know.
They have a splendid physique.
Anyway, she was happy. I was
miserable. I hated religion. She embraced it. I despised living. She embraced it. Did I say embrace? Anyway, long time ago. Frenchwoman. Now I have Zelda.’ ‘Was Cherie a whore?’ ‘On the contrary. She was a social worker.’ ‘Good God!’ ‘That’s what I said. The problem was you know… I had no
self-esteem, I’m pretty much a suicidal character in general. Didn’t know if you’ve noticed by now.’ ‘Go on.’ ‘Well, yeah, I’m just proving a point
about my affinity for love and how it improves character. You
have no clue about this Ernest. No
clue. Uh… damn whisky. You sure like whisky, eh?’ ‘Damn you Scott’ said Ernest. ‘Me?
No clue? Christ, I loved once. I was lying in hospital. There was this beautiful nurse. Gee, she nursed me back to health. She spent many a night on top of me. My legs were broken but she had a golden
touch that nurse. Nursed me back to
health all night long.’ ‘Oi, what happened to her?’ ‘Gosh Scott. Fell right in love with her. Can you believe that Scott? I fell in love with a woman. It’s a damn shame.’ ‘What’s wrong with that?’ ‘The… the emotion. It was too much. I couldn’t deal with it. I felt suffocated by all the love that was
flowing out her silky skin. I was
floating on air. I couldn’t think
straight. Ah, that tingly feeling
inside ones tummy. A real tingly
feeling, eh? That’s love they
say. One feels like dying. So… so I left the hospital a.s.a.p. and I
never saw her again. Never. I didn’t even leave her a note Scott. Yes-yes Scott. Now that’s what I call being a man, eh?’ Scott really thought Ernest would take to
him from the beginning because they were both talented with words and good at
it too. Ernest looks strong and
impressive Scott said and could beat the hell out of anyone on his day with
that strong arms and big shoulders of his.
Yes… he was a big and proud man that Ernest character, although he
hardly ever showed his true self. ‘But that was about the only time I ever
cried Scott. The only time. I felt so damn ashamed of myself, leaving
that nurse just like that. Ah, she was
most tender, strong-minded too. But
beautiful.’ ‘Tough break Ernest,’ Scott said and
started with another whisky.
‘Tough…’ ‘Later I went to some bar to get drunk and
there was this prettiesh girl sitting alone at a table drinking
martinis. I just sat there with this
girl looking like a train wreck and we didn’t say anything. She… the girl… she didn’t mind my train
wreck status you know, so… I took her home, just for the effort. When I found out her being a mute and all,
shoot, I married her through the internet.
It was a good marriage. She
knew when I wanted to be left alone.
The nurse, being in love and all, it was just a hassle.’ ‘You’re a brave man Ernest.’ ‘Please don’t
tell this to anyone Scott. You know
what will happen if you do.’ Ernest
again looked around his shoulder and saw Hemingstein staring away from the
counter. Ernest felt threatened by the
two shifty Jewish eyes and said, ‘Gosh, I actually despised that nurse, that…
that whore! She meant nothing to
me. Ha! Drink up Scott. These people will think you’re a damn
fairy, drinking so slow. You must
drink, like a man.’ CHAPTER FOUR Ernest
now sat in a reflecting mood at Dingo bar, arranging his thoughts
impressively. His face and mouth
looked somewhat bewildered, sheepishly smiling, but then solemnly
detracting. It was still early in the
morning and apart from Ernest, only a 90-year old man was present, wishing
his time away, staring with lonesome eyes at radiant Rosemary. Rosemary was getting more and more
beautiful as the morning progressed.
She was a lively woman at best, who had the capacity to cheer up even
remote people such as Ernest. ‘What does the letter say Ernest? Is Scott in trouble? Is he coming back?’ ‘Ah, I loved that boy,’ Ernest said and
looked at Rosemary as if she was an agreeable marriage counsellor. ‘He was a good boy at times Rosemary. He really had a thing for that Henry James
writer you know. It’s funny, for James
is such an old-fashioned kind of writer.
I mean… he never used swear words in his entire life. But that’s Scott. A damn romantic, always on about
Zelda.’ Ernest was right. Scott was always on about Zelda
for some reason, despite everything she did to him. Of course, Scott took her back. He always did. He was a kind man above all else and had a
good sense of humour when sober.
That’s why he couldn’t leave Zelda.
Because of the drink. That
Zelda of his was crazy, Ernest said that from the first moment. Ernest was right all along. But she was pretty to look at. Hah, more than pretty to look at. She was the most beautiful and sought after
woman in Sea Point at the time. No
question. And there was money coming
in from the parent’s side, so Scott was in a way lucky like hell to have her
in the end, despite her quirks at suicide and trying to kill Scott and all
that. Scott hit her back too. He was damn lucky with having that girl all
to himself, if only for a while. ‘Some people you met you forget. But Zelda, and… and she reminds of that
book eh… Daisy Miller. Henry
James wrote that book you know.’ ‘Uh-uh,’ Ernest said. ‘Your sure like that stinking fairy
writer. He’s hateful.’ ‘Listen… some people you met you forget,
but Zelda like that Daisy Miller, you met but don’t forget. They only come once in a lifetime
Ernest. You either let them go, or you
hold on for dear life and face the music.
She’s a whirlwind, but worth it.’ ‘She’s a hawk that will destroy you. This ballet dancing of hers. What’s that?’ ‘Gee, she’s an artistic girl Ernest. I told her she’s losing her creative edge
in her singing, so I encouraged her to go into the ballet industry. It’s a flourishing industry Ernest. Ballet dancing.’ ‘Oi…’ ‘I really love her. It just… it just seems that we have been
drifting apart lately. I haven’t
touched her for a while. I don’t even
smell her anymore. It’s my fault.’ ‘Eh…’ ‘So I hit her.’ ‘You did?’
‘Yeah, just like you told me Ernest. I hit her, gave her a good smack on the
cheek. And now she doesn’t want to see
me. What’s up with that Ernest? You said she’ll come round, get all
obedient and stuff. Well, she’s not
obedient. On the contrary…’ ‘Christ, you sure you gave her a good
smack? You sure she felt it Scott?’ ‘Felt it?
My fingerprints are a damn feature of her glamour face. She felt it all right.’ ‘Hmm… that’s strange, very strange
Scott. It always work for me. You just beat them. Maybe Scott… maybe you should beat her
harder next time. Beat the crap out of
her next time.’ ‘Gee, I’m not a wife-beater Ernest, I
don’t get myself involved in messy politics.
Zelda and I are soul mates, till death to us part. Even if we break up, we’ll still be together
in our hearts and minds. She’s so
beautiful Ernest, oh so beautiful.
Whenever I see her I… I get scared.
I think I’m scared of women Ernest, especially the pretty women. I haven’t seen a piece of woman flesh for
months. Zelda is very overwhelming,
her presence is like that of a butterfly that’s taking flying lessons. She doesn’t even drink or do chemicals. Christ, she’s so happy without me. I’m just miserable altogether. I… I have to find a way to get her down
again. This is not good. My self-esteem is shot.’ ‘Yes, Zelda is a strong woman it may seem,
but crazy like hell. I mean, Scott…
she’s on something that fruitess.
Trust me she’s not a fruitess.
She’s born to suffer that whore.
She’s just trying to impress you that she can live without you. But she’ll come back.’ ‘You sure, Zelda will come back to
me? But when?’ ‘I figure when her private parts turn
sour. About then will be a good
time. She’ll need you then I figure,
you ‘saving’ her and all that. It’s a
long shot, but I figure Zelda will come back to you, despite you beating
her. After all, she’s only a woman.’ ‘But Zelda…’ Scott protested. ‘Only a woman,’ Ernest repeated and
stretched out his chest. ‘A
female. An extension.’ ‘But about Zelda. You think she still…’ ‘Forget about Zelda.’ Scott was different than Ernest. In many ways he was sincere. He loved Zelda and stood by her even though
she slept with the whole of the southern seaboard’s syphilisyptic population
during her prime. Boy, she got tested
so many times for HIV, she was appointed chairwoman of the HIV blood doning
society for all her efforts. Scott was
convinced she got the virus. Always
has. Yet, she came out clean… every
time she was tested. There… there was
an abnormality about her was told. Her
vagina was so complex and sophisticated, it produced its own vaccines and
serums. Doctors all over the country
were impressed by her vagina. Zelda
became most famous for what she had between her legs than anything else. That’s the honest truth. ‘Just be strong Scott. Be strong.
You said it’s over. Let it be
over then.’ ‘I will Ernest, thanks,’ Scott said and
pumped his two literary fists in the air to show strength and character. ‘From now on I’ll just ignore her
completely. If she phones, I won’t
pick up. If I walk past her on the
street, I… I…’ ‘You run like hell Scott. Run like hell, the other way around.’ ‘Yeah, right. I mean… that’s it. I run like hell. Good.
It’s good. She’s not even worth
ten Daisy Miller’s that girl.’ ‘You’ll be all right,’ Ernest said. He winked at Hemingstein who nodded and
made himself useful behind the counter. ‘Yeah,
I’ve just had it with her you know.
She’s pushed me around too much.
I mean I’ve lost all manhood with that woman. I feel I shouldn’t be a man. I feel so worthless and pathetic.’ ‘Make no mistake, you are worthless and
pathetic, make no mistake about it,’ Ernest said and nodded his head in
conviction. ‘Well put Scott.’ ‘Thanks,’ Scott said and buried his head
in shame. ‘We’ll fix it soon enough. You just need some quality time with
Tania. That’s a good start.’ ‘Whom?’ ‘Tania the Greek. Now that’s what I call a real woman.’ ‘No,’ Scott said, waving his hands in
protest. ‘I fear that Tania. I mean… last time didn’t go as planned. I wasn’t in the mood that day, but she… gee
you know Tania old Ernest friend.
She’s always in the mood.
Apparently she’s in the mood when she’s asleep. Her legs opens up like a sunflower that
woman and then she’s asleep, like that.
Tania’s like a vending machine.
She’s quicker than a sufficient takeaway store that girl.’ ‘I still think you need to see Tania. She has helped many a man with their
problems. Just promise me you’ll leave
that wretched Zelda for good.’ ‘Oh dear.
What if… what if she’s fallen ill Ernest? I mean… she’s practically ill every
day. We think she got tuberculosis Ernest. It’s a damn death sentence. Zelda needs help.’ ‘No, you need help. She’s playing tricks with your mind like
always. Get her out of your
system. There are literally hundreds
of pretty girls waiting for you Scott.
Why do you always go back to that abusive woman? You must break the spell she has on
you. You must fight this Scott. You must fight this.’ ‘Gee, I don’t know. I need a drink Ernest. A real stiff one too. I don’t like standing up to Zelda you
know. I’m afraid she might kill
me. Or her parents. You seen her parents? They’re like the mafia Ernest, rich,
dangerous and outright nasty. If I
leave her you might never see me again.
Gee Ernest.’ ‘Not if we kill Zelda first,’ Ernest said
in earnest. ‘Listen Scott. I’ve never killed a man, nor a woman for
that matter. But you see Scott… I
always do the best for my fellow human being.
And… and what I see Scott, what I see is that you and Zelda in the
same town is no good. You should run
away, or we should get rid of her.’ ‘I
can’t go away Ernest. I mean… what
about my friends, you and Pat and Jerome.
And Stump. I’ll miss you guys like hell.’ ‘That’s why I say Scott. I know some people, some whatdoyoucallthem?
eh… mercenaries.’ ‘I… I don’t like you talking like this
Ernest. You’re a good friend, but
Zelda, she doesn’t deserve to die.’ ‘But she will Scott, sooner or later. We all die, sooner or later.’ ‘No Ernest. You’re nuts. I’ll talk to Zelda now and straighten this
out like a man. I’ve done it before. I’ll… I’ll show her the rough and tough
side of Scott. If she objects I’ll
slap her. Ha! You hear what I just said Ernest? I’ll slap that woman around like a
toddler. I mean… I’ve done it before
haven’t I? Just you wait and see Ernest. She’ll be amazed, she’ll fall right back in
love with me. I’ll make her jealous
with my new found self. Hopefully
she’ll leave that transsexual and come to a real man. What do you think about that Ernest? Zelda wants a real man, I’ll give her one.’ ‘Hmm… I don’t know Scott. You’re a weak character. You’re so smart, but when it comes to your
personal life, you’re a wreck. You’re
like Jerome. I feel so sorry for
you. And gee… Jerome had an
excuse. He was damn autistic, high
functioning but still autistic. That
guy had no skills Scott. But you…
you’re just an embarrassment. You
should see a psychiatrist and get a diagnosis for mental illness. That way you have an excuse for you
craziness.’ CHAPTER FIVE Ernest
reluctantly excused himself from Dingo bar with dignity, and gave a pleasant
wave to Hemingstein, who was now reading the morning newspaper with relative
ease. The 90-year old man was still
sitting there, and kept a close eye on Rosemary in her seductive black
skirt. Ernest waved her goodbye
too. Ernest left Dingo bar and strolled along
the end of a busy During his stroll, Ernest felt
simultaneously depressed and happy.
Sure, he felt depressed because he probably will never see Scott ever
again, but he also felt happy because Dingo bar brings back so many memorable
memories of his best friend. But
listen… it’s those fond memories that Ernest tries to freshen up in his head. It’s those fond memories of Scott that
Ernest would try to remember for good, especially when times are slow. PART TWO: PAT
HOBBIE and the city fairies CHAPTER SIX When
you think about it, there’s only two things a man really care about – that of
his own and that of his women. All
other things seem trivial, so much that when a man almost dies he still cares
for nothing than to live and see his women. Thus, comrades, it is here that PAT HOBBIE
tries to explain the case of two great and wonderful friends that challenged
all of this, friends whom Pat both loathed and cherished at the same time and
whom he pondered long nights over with.
Friends that made Pat jealous, friends that if Pat could choose to be
someone else, he’ll choose to be like one of them. Gosh, Pat loved both of them, but as far as
love affairs went, it wore out pretty quickly, even for a slicker such as
Pat. But… let’s also be honest, for
Scott and Ernest… they were the only men who made this impression on Pat, the
only whom he cared for if only for a little while. And when they parted, like people do, Pat
cared again only for his own welfare, and yes… the company of his June. Let’s
see… they officially met at Dingo bar and I remember Ernest telling me that
he didn’t think much of Scott then as he and a couple of worthless characters
ridiculed this attractive man and his low capacity for drink. Scott said that he thought he didn’t
impress Ernest much, for he was boastful and got drunk pretty quickly and
Ernest dismissed him for that.
‘Hemingway I presume?’ Scott asked, whereby Ernest looked up and
answered, ‘Sit down you disturbing little runt,’ and that’s how they
met. Ernest laughed and ridiculed
Scott in front of his worthless friends who Scott said knew nothing about
literature. And so Scott took upon
drinking and later he dragged himself home and Zelda he said was missing but
he was drunk and he didn’t care about her when drunk. He had a low capacity for alcohol overall
that Scott, and Ernest reminded him of that every single day of their time
together. So see… eh, it wasn’t an instant
friendship, nor a clear cut Kodak moment, but it gradually grew to an
intellectual partnership of substance.
Few friends can ever dream of generating such common ground intellectual
stimulation, but Scott and Ernest… they did it in their sleep. Like I said, Scott was very boastful that
first day, and when they started drinking Scott passed out almost
immediately. It was only a few days
after Ernest said, when he and Scott were alone in private, that Scott
started to impress him. Not only
physically, for Scott was an attractive fellow with the most charming
face. But Ernest… he… he valued
intellect more than anything. Scott’s
cerebral attitude impressed Ernest most.
And I guess Scott’s cerebral insides impressed PAT HOBBIE too. And listen, it was also when the cerebral
train got moving when that Ernest and Scott fell in love with each other and
their way with words. Nice one Pat. Yes, that’s… that’s when the literary
friendship started, and a high-flying Scott helped Ernest to become a big
shot in the travel book industry. He
even revised Ernest’s articles and periodicals for a decent amount of money,
whilst… whilst Ernest would further spread the word around about Scott, that
his value as a columnist is indeed beyond any singing of it. It was a working relationship, and both
benefited enormously, especially Ernest, whose travel book became better and
better with Scott around. Scott was submitting articles to newspapers,
and he was still widely sought after around the country. But it’s funny the way PAT HOBBIE thinks
and he’s got some truth there that… that ever since Ernest met Scott it’s sad
but true that Scott’s career took a turn for the worst. His work became more and more an irregular
thing, as his newspapers were gradually incorporating more and more photos
into their dailies, for reading columns took too much public energy. Scott was determined though not to sacrifice
writing for another 9-5 job, so he relied upon Ernest and Stump and sometimes
even PAT HOBBIE for free extra income.
Yeah, and Ernest promised to put in a good word to his literary
reputation, which he did to an extent.
Ernest also loaned Scott money, and as I hear, Scott did the same to his
best friend when he and Zelda were high-flyers in the newspaper
merchandise. Say Pat, was it the whole
fairy thing or was it because of Zelda?
Or was there something else?
Who wrecked him? And what’s up
with Zelda anyhow? Well-eh, Zelda was by far the most
impressive woman of all. There’s no
question about it, and even Ernest felt threatened by her presence. See toots… Ernest didn’t fancy Zelda
because he didn’t want to. I figured
he was intimidated by her strong personality.
Look, Zelda was a wonderful socialite and
I hate to say that she wrecked Scott all on her own. She was courted by up to a dozen men in her
prime that girl. One could even regard
her as some post-feminist at times you know, for even though she had the most
seductive of ways, she was strong-minded and no man ever walked over
her. But see… her eyes, especially her
eyes, she could obliterate the heart and minds of almost any eligible
bachelor or married man with those eyes.
Hawk eyes. Notwithstanding her
physical beauty, which still to my mind, simply incomparable. Oh, and she had the most glamorous voice,
unlike any other South African voice, distinctly unique. I tell you, her words fell to waxed ears
like poetry. Zelda was like that, and
made fools of many men, including Scott.
Eh… I always felt that Zelda was after all
in love with Scott, and that he… with his charming homophobic ways and
enormous intellect, captured her imagination more than any other human specie
she managed to seduce. I tell you,
that Zelda was very much in love with Scott, just like Scott was with
her. That is a fact, and I don’t
contradict myself convict, although… if I do, read Walt Whitman. He has a few pointers on contradiction
trust me. Good work Pat. Thanks.
Hmm… you know… know what? You know what Scott also told, eh? Enlighten me Pat. Well, you know what Scott told eh, he… he
doesn’t drink because he wants to. He
drinks because he has no one to talks to.
Give me a heroine Pat and I’ll drink you a tragedy. Poor thing that Scott. Say
Pat, how did the two of you meet, eh?
Who? Me and Ernest? Sure. Oh, well, I… I remember how I met
Ernest at a no-nonsense Islamic bookshop, and how we frequented there until
we too started facing the old Jew at Dingo bar with Scott and everyone. It was all during that 9/11 fiasco where we
really became sort of good friends and all.
Yeah, your spoof remembers he just met Ernest when the two planes
crashed into the World Trade Centre. A
vivid memory, and it was a terrific day that day. The sun was almost shining, my female
parrot was singing her hourly quaker song –almost perfect I dare say. So yes, it was all in good spirits when the
planes came down. I mean, we strolled
into this second hand Islamic bookshop, right? And Ernest and I were still trying to come
to terms with each other’s likes and dislikes and all and I remember how
Ernest shoved Dostoevsky’s collected works down my hack throat, for he was
astonished by my big-mouth and its revelation that it never finished with Brothers
Karamazov. Boy, the guy went on a
cursing spree, cursing a God he never even believed in. In fact, Ernest claimed God, and after that
he usually screamed bolderdash, like I always did, and then di immortales, like my mother and
father always did. And then the
Islamic bookshop owner had a holy fright.
I guess Ernest ran out of swear words.
In fact, Ernest was the closest to the real anti-christ, and many a
quaker fell victim to his petrifying voice from hell. I mean, that guy had much in common with
Ghandi when it came to diplomatic speech therapy, but I guess the anti-christ
was diplomatic there too. That’s why I
also compare him with the anti-christ you see. Anyway, it was hot like hell when the
planes came crashing down. The
godddamn bookstore owner even closed the shop first thing. Yeah… he was an Islamic. I know, nobody even suspected terrorism and
all. The Islamic guy just ran out and
we heard bells ringing all night long as if something terrific had happened
in Muslim culture. I mean gee… we’re
living in Gosh, Ernest and I didn’t know a thing
about what happened there at the World Trade Centre. No sir, we still had a few debts to cover
at our sex shop. And… and while there,
we browsed and joked for about a hour, and then only at money-making Dingo
bar when the old Jew Hemingstein blurted it out with a Jewish fart. Gee, Ernest felt like a gutted whore at
first, but when the possibility of war came up, he lightened up. ‘Ha, it’s about time we have another war
you guys. I mean, the Cold War was
just ass kissing to my mind. ‘It’s still a tragedy.’ ‘Yeah Pattie boy, whatever you say you
think is true, but listen… this is also a great damn tragedy. Those Americans must be shitting all over
themselves right now, eh? Jesus-Jesus
boys, just look at us. Look at these
South African city people, what the hell are we fearing for anyway? I say we must drink to this and
celebrate. Christ, we need Scott for
this. Hmm… it wouldn’t surprise me if
it was a fairy job. They had it rough
the last few weeks. They wanted to get
married, now they’re getting their due.
Terrorism my ass. I wouldn’t
even suspect a Jew for this. I tell
you Pat, a classic fairy case gone wrong.
Yeah, those fairies. Lunatics,
all of them. Eh Pat… gee, some fairy
man wanted to give me the HIV. There’s
a HIV night club, you know that? Only
HIV’s allowed, members only. Christ,
you need to get the HIV to get access.
They’re damning this world, Pat!
These damn fairies, they invite people to get the HIV to get a sense
of belonging.’ ‘Gee…’ ‘I’m wretched because of them. Let’s drink to all them no-goods and
celebrate.’ ‘I drink to thee.’ CHAPTER
SEVEN Anyway,
it is the phoniest thing ever to begin start telling of PAT HOBBIE and the
city fairies. So he starts telling
where he remembers it all very well the day everybody were there and where
everybody were still optimists. Even Scott the drunk made it Pat said. Said he wouldn’t miss it for the world I
tell you, not even for a bottle of prime whisky. Boy, he arrived like a flashbang that man,
sober as a bloomin dober, up and arms over a book from a certain D.H.
Lawrence writer. Scott reads like a
maniac at best. Even for a drunk he
knows more than most about books. That
man is a literate I swear but hasn’t put a sentence to paper for months. In fact, he’s pretty much down and out from
that point of view altogether. Ah, the
rummy’s life… eh? PAT HOBBIE straightened his hack suit and
the spoof went on to take a designated mint, saying, yeah… I listened to Scott and Ernest arguing and
it was curious. Jerome sat there too,
not saying anything clever or stupid, just… just being his autistic
self. He… Jerome I mean… he just
preyed on Scott’s inconsistent logic, which you know is an engraving sight on
foolish memories. Damn academic that
Jerome. Yup, Jerome was that
university man and we all… we all respected him for being that university
man. None of us cowards made it far
there at the university, although everyone, except for Ernest of course, made
a mark there. Yes, about right till
there. But let’s give time for PAT HOBBIE to
think and swallow that mint. There you
go Pat, my spoof. Tell now… tell about
who made their mark there where and when, eh? Yes-yes, Scott… Scott got into the
student newspaper I remember, and was chief and editor for more than a
year. He loved that university
newspaper student job, but he never received a cent for doing it. Stump, oh he was a terrific writer of
essays, one of the best, and could beat anyone at that exercise on a shiny
day. Like… like I said, Ernest never
went, said it was a bunch of intellectual rubbish, and got into newspaper
reporting real quickly and real good too.
Ernest speak with the authority of success, I always said that you
know, with… with the determination of a young and robust middleweight
boxer. Gee, he even looked like that
Rocky at times. Oi, didn’t he had a
good physique for a literary man, eh?
Strong as an ox that Ernest I tell you. Strong as a damn ox. Eh see fellow hacks… he was leaving for At that time I was still kind a seeing
Tania, although Rosemary didn’t like her first thing. Said the whore had first degree gonorrhea,
but how the hell was I to know, and… and Rosemary supposedly wanted my
children real bad you see. Stump, he
got into Tania too, but he threw a lot of money at her you know. I remember Tania telling me she’s very selective
regarding genital contact, but I guess the whole money thing blew her over
with Stump. Not good. Jerome, eh… he was pretty much asexual
during that time. He prized fidelity,
but couldn’t find a girl he could trust.
For an high functional autistic I’ve always figured him to be quite
out there, and not in a good way. The…
the thing about him was that he was too big on trust. So much so, his trusting expertise you
know… psychologists are taking it up in their spiritual counselling. In the end, poor Jerome couldn’t trust
anyone. Nah, he just couldn’t. Instead, he took a jump off Anyway… your PAT HOBBIE and star of the
show got a bit of a lump in the throat and a straightened suit isn’t helping
Pat introducing all of his city fairies.
Still… Pat is ready about how it was supposed to be a damn picnic on
that mountain, with that yahoo Jerome upsetting everyone by taking the
plunge. True hack? Eh yes.
Scott got lost when we started drinking, near base camp I
suppose. And… and when we came down
from the top Scott was lying naked under a tree, mugged by a couple of
Russian immigrants, who earlier assaulted a lesbian couple, surely for a
Russian drunken reason. It was hot
like hell that day and those Russians had it bad. Poor things. Ernest and Stump were nuts as usual,
chasing after a family of baboons with sharpened sticks and whisky, looking
like a bunch of worthless no-goods/mountaineers. They came back with blood on their hands,
smiling and cursing at the same time, holding a dead rabbit. Gosh, your Pat hero tried his very best to
keep up with Jerome eh that’s… that’s for the record, but Jerome was up there
in record time. I figured he’d done
enough living by then you know. That
nut left me stranded. What else could
I do? See, I could only wait for Stump
and Ernest and maybe Scott and get that damn picnic started. In the end, when that boy Jerome came
flying down like a sack of potatoes, right about then the picnic or brunch or
whatever you call that suicide meal of ours was taking shape. It was a nice picnic, and you know that
family of baboons Mr. Scissorhands?
Well, that same family of baboons who terrorized Ernest and Stump made
themselves comfortable right alongside Pat here, demanding their share of
sticky rabbit. What silliness. Still… the view was great up there… for
one could see a good deal of Hmm… it was there on the mountain amongst
the baboons and chilly air and sight-seeing Pat said. Right there he said
Ernest unveiled his plans for Gee comrade Pat said. We were so stuffed after that picnic we
went straight back home. Only the next
day, around noon I guess, we picked up old Jerome. Uh… it was a messy thing altogether. His body was still rather warm, despite a
chilly night on the freaking mountain.
Even the rescue workers went tear-faced. Well, good thing was he got buried the next day, and there was a memorable ceremony
with good quotes that I dotted down to make sure my obituary would’ve had
Jerome’s stamp of approval. And… and
it was emotional there at the funeral too as far as I can remember. PAT HOBBIE said he never saw it
coming. Never in a millions years. It was the day before Jerome’s
birthday. PAT HOBBIE can shed a bucket
of tears over this if he wants to you know, but instead… instead he blows up
a fart. Gee, we never saw it coming you know. Never in a million years. Arggh, death and all. It was the day before his birthday. Jerome loved the outdoors and I bought him
some camping gear the day before he never even saw, the same kind of camping
gear I bought Ernest when he left. But
hey… eh see now… with Ernest maybe doing some more travelling in the future,
I figured I can do with camping gear and go with Ernest on his trips. So I stole back dead Jerome’s camping gear
the day after his funeral, but only after writing the most scrumptious
obituary of a deceased friend with decent camping gear. I mean… I have morals you know… and I know
what being corrupt is. Ernest loved the camping gear first thing,
and promised to put in a good word to his travel magazine about his new
literary spy who writes poetic obituaries.
In case you’re wondering, that’s me, PAT HOBBIE. Who was that fairy Scott seeing besides
Zelda and Zelda alone? Oh, that
horrendous singer (Zelda) turned alcoholic who despite her beauty had few
admirers, except of course for what she disclosed between her legs. In there she was on the Guinness World
Records waiting list, for what she disclosed between her legs was
apparently an artwork rivalled only by some computer programme that could
distort pornographic pictures. She
would’ve shattered a number of private part records that Zelda, if only the Guinness
World Records judges weren’t so picky about wild Africans and their
pathological lying abilities. It’s
tough being a Guinness judge, for only last month they got an urgent call deep
inside the African jungle about a guy struggling with a ten ton
testicle. A real live one they
say. Zelda was a fully fledged nymphomaniac
despite the Guinness headache, and could go hours on end. I remember this one time - we went to the
beach and Nevertheless…
PAT HOBBIE is convinced that Scott fell in love with Zelda first thing. Instant love, or something like that. Yup… they conversed when drunk, and through
default almost got married. And you’re
right, it was instant, a match made in heaven. Both were tremendously attractive and both
had a splendid affinity for alcoholic beverages. And that’s the only time to converse with
Scott and Zelda anyhow, when they’re drunk you see. Scott… when the guy’s sober, he’s an utter…
a muttering gifted man with words you know.
What I mean is, the guy reads Homer’s Odyssey in Greek for fun,
considering it light Sunday reading, along with his beloved Anna Karenina. Eh, I remember he brought that cursed book
up the mountain in great splendour.
Gee hack, those darn Russians didn’t know the first thing about Anna
Karenina. No, they just stuffed it
inside Scott’s rectum when they found no use for it. Poor Scott.
I felt sorrier for him than Jerome. That… that Scott bastard doesn’t belong here
at all I tell you. He should be at
Harvard or CHAPTER EIGHT But wait,
dear PAT HOBBIE maintains it was the phoniest thing, for all the city fairies
were there to bid Ernest farewell and good-luck on his phoney-like-hell trip
to Hmm…
yes, that Ernest, he went over his list of travelling goods I say,
smouldering its names meticulously over his delightful tongue. We all… we all watched him perform. Just perfect. The PAT HOBBIE word was that Ernest had it
all covered weeks ago, but none of us minded the elaborate scene Ernest was
projecting. Just… oh just being in his
presence was already enough to satisfy our sickly thirst, that of someone
else hacking it in another country, an act none of us ever performed. So the setting was Dingo bar, right? And Ernest was still awaiting his rifle
during the goodbye ceremony and yes… Ernest couldn’t wait the arrival of his
rifle. This made the party nervous,
not too mention the nervous old Jew Hemingstein at the back, who was bellowing
and spitting gas chambers at his frightened staff. Eh… Rosemary looked radiant as always,
reading a daily newspaper, and I gathered she was telling about a military
coup in But hear… with military coup and war
being the subject, Ernest turned touchy. ‘What?
Coup? ‘That’s darn unnecessary Ernest. You need no more you can carry. Take the one that do both. You think you’ll summit Kilimanjaro with
two rifles let alone one?’ That’s
Rosemary again speaking, a very well informed and educated girl, no question. Honest.
When she spoke, everybody listened.
For… for her lips me says, her lips sensually molested the English
language better than any whore, even when discussing war. ‘Hey Hemingstein,’ Ernest screamed
across. ‘Tell your wife she’s a stupid
lesbian.’ ‘I don’t talk to Jew haters.’ ‘That was a long time ago stinkpot.’ ‘She’s right Ernest. I mean… gee, with all the camping gear I’ve
given you…’ ‘I thanked you a thousand times for that
worthless camping gear you’ve given me PAT HOBBIE. If you don’t mind Pattie boy, this is
goddamn Africa and if you haven’t checked our status yet, well, ‘ ‘Uh… heard that too,’ muttered Stump. ‘Shut your trap Stump.’ Stump.
The name Stump originates from a family of sophistication and high
culture, but Stump wasted it all away quickly, for he’s worthless. Stump nevertheless obtained a Masters
degree in English, whereupon his fascination grew on James Joyce, and ever
since he has managed to grow, specializing in writing unpublished novels. But like I’ve mentioned, the man had little
talent and absolutely no genius. I
mean, boy, from such a family of sophistication and all, he sophisticated
mainly in whores. Very sophisticating. Oh, and he’s done them all, conquering all
continents, except maybe for Antartica, but I hear Stump’s taking flying
lessons. Don’t ask. ‘Shut your trap Stump. Listen Pat, that’s for me and my musket to
decide when I get there. Who’s going,
you or me, eh Pat? Your job is to feed
my precious pigeons when I’m gone.’ ‘What I was trying…’ It was very difficult to talk sensibly
with Ernest, for his dominating presence also supplemented his quick
intelligence. He was a real handful
that Ernest, even for a hack like PAT HOBBIE.
It was very difficult to talk to him.
See… Ernest was always the superior type of man in the company of men,
and we were basically forced to act as the inferior company of men. It wasn’t something to really discuss or
argue over. The imperative
mathematical formula being with Ernest was this: admiration =
friendship. Listen, PAT HOBBIE had a
point there. That formula was a truth
universally acknowledged when dealing with Ernest. ‘And I’m also considering maybe to report
on that eh… what do you call it eh… Rosemary girl?’ ‘Military coup in ‘Yeah, that thing.’ ‘But rifles Ernest, who needs them? You’ll only be a reporter. You think you’ll do some fighting, eh
Ernest? You think so?’ ‘What, you think Winston Churchill never
used his gun? I’m telling you, that
serial killer killed more Boers than the whole English army combined back
then. Listen Pat, I need two rifles.’ ‘Eh…’
‘Christ, I don’t want to waste my time
here talking to worthless no-goods like PAT HOBBIE. What’s the time Jerome?’ ‘It’s time.’ Of course, Ernest didn’t get his two
rifles and to tell you the truth, there’s nothing more he enjoyed than to
talk worthless crap to worthless people like PAT HOBBIE. That’s why he loved Pat so much and that’s
why he also came to see Pat almost every day, lying and cheating his precious
time away with me Pat, a no-good-for-nothing piece of shit. I never felt anything towards Ernest to
tell you the truth. I knew he was a liar
and cheat and all he cared for was his stupid ego which made fun of others. I’ll never forget this… some poor and
battered cross-eyed guy in ‘What?
Where?’ ‘Buying cigarettes on the counter. Talking to Jew. Talking to stinkpot Hemingstein. Gee, he was castrated during the war in ‘Let me speak to him Pat,’ Ernest said and
made his way towards the castrated character.
‘I want to speak this man.’ ‘Hey… yes you with no balls, I hear you
fought in ‘All of it,’ the man said. ‘I fought in…’ ‘And I hear you got castrated there,
eh? Is that true?’ ‘Uh…?’ ‘Who took your manhood, what happened?’ ‘Eh… grenade, who told you?’ ‘Live one you say?’ ‘Ditto, blew me bits and pieces to
smithereens.’ ‘Goddamn tragedy, eh Pat?’ Ernest said and
looked at the castrated character from head to toe, and smiled proudly. ‘Yup.’ ‘Damn wars,’ Ernest said and pointed to
the sky outside. ‘Screw them all. I never had a good thing to say about wars
Pat. Wars are terrible, eh… look at
his poor guy, except… except for maybe World War II. That was a good war. But say old man, yes you… how do you still
bother living? I mean… look at you and
your… what’s your mission?’ ‘No-no, I live here around the corner, on
the street I live. Like you said… damn
wars. Damn straight.’ ‘You live on the streets soldier?’ Ernest
asked. ‘Sure.
I mean… it’s cosy sometimes.’ ‘Jesus Christ, no wonder. Pat, let’s go. He’s a no-good with no balls. A worthless damn fool living on the
streets. Yes, you, you with no
balls. Arrgh.’ PAT HOBBIE never cared for Ernest to live
or to die and if Pat wasn’t such a sissy he would’ve killed him for
sure. Just as long as Pat kept on
feeding the precious pigeons of this egomaniac, that was about all Ernest
cared for you know, Pat thinks. He was
just there, a presence, killing time, Pat’s and his. Like Stump.
Gee, that Ernest. It was all show anyway that day with
him. Damn show I say. Ernest was going away. And we all sat there, salivating our butts
off, listening to his crazy stories, imagining all those adventures he
probably never even once did whilst in Still Pat, the guy was a castrated
character. Ernest was right. He had no mission, right? They should send him back to the trenches
and let him find his manhood. What’s
you say, slicker? Oh boy, eh… phew, let’s just say we
admired Ernest for being everything one could wish to be, despite ones view
on castration and its pleasantries.
Right on toots. But Ernest, he
has dark side for sure, make no mistake about it. If… if Ernest wish to beat the crap out of
someone, castrated or not, he’ll take out ten guys at once. If Ernest wants to beat his women, he’ll
make them beg for mercy, giving them a educating moral lesson in the process. For what he did to his wives, beating the
cerebrum out of them, I have my own sources.
No question Ernest liked beating. ‘My wife was naughty Pat,’ I remember
Ernest telling me. ‘Very naughty. She’ll never see my sausage again that’s
for sure. But I learned her a good
lesson. Hmm… I learned her a good
lesson you hear me Pat?’ ‘What did she do?’ I asked. ‘I found her in bed with another man’s
sausage that’s what she did. Right on
top of him and his Mr.Goodbar. It was
some vivid picture. Remember it so
well. But yes… gave her a good beating. I slapped her good. You should see her. Hmm… not good.’ ‘Hadley?
You’re wife? Cheating?’ ‘Whatever.’ ‘You beat her?’ ‘Eh… I gave her a lesson,’ Ernest said and
took upon himself to show his beating technique. Slap-slap. ‘And the man?’ ‘Shaped his face, he looks different now,
but that’s about it. Stump said he
came of light. Where’s Stump? He’ll tell you all about it.’ ‘Gee Ernest. Wife-beating. That’s like… illegal. You know that?’ ‘Not in my culture Pat,’ Ernest said and
scratched his crotch area. ‘It keeps
them obedient. Damn bitches.’ ‘What culture are you from Ernest?’ ‘The wife-beating culture. It’s a high-class society Pat boy. You won’t fit in. I tell you, we’re also listed on the stock
exchange, some corrupt gold mining company.
It’s all for a good cause they say.’ Well, only Ernest did that, but it doesn’t
mean we had clean relationships. Stump
and Zelda were terrific together, but it also wore out pretty quickly. She couldn’t last a week being faithful
with one person. That was the common
perception and truth. That despite
that her parents being married for over fifty years. Life’s a strange art. Of course, Scott didn’t like Stump’s
advances towards Zelda one bit. No
that it mattered though. That wretched
Zelda. She really messed with Scott in
a big way, including the messy bits inside his pants, which she in fact
ridiculed. Now imagine that for a
second. But… but things… things started off great
in the fairytale Zelda/Scott relationship it really did. I mean… there were even talk of little
toddlers and all that, there really were.
Things were great, terrific in fact, until Zelda… ‘I have ambitions too you know.’ ‘Ambition between your legs. So I’ve heard.’ ‘Don’t be so naïve Scott. I have talent, just like you have. Just because I’m a woman doesn’t mean I
can’t amount to something.’ ‘You’re sounding too much like a feminist
today, Zelda dear. What happened to
you, eh? You were such a good
housewife the first two weeks. Who’s
gonna do the dishes when you’re out all dancing and committed? I’m very upset. What happened to the idea of getting
married and… and that toddler we planned for, eh? What happened to a little squealer of our
own?’ Things started off great Pat
said, until Zelda started planning for herself and her future and all that
future stuff. She wanted to become a ballet dancer of
all things. Previously wanted to be a
world famous painter. Things didn’t
work out with the painting, but she was a very artistic girl make no mistake
about it. Still, Scott wanted stability, something
Zelda agreed upon at first. Instead
Scott took on a whirlwind for a woman.
With that PAT HOBBIE shakes his head, grabbing another mint. He looks at his mint as if inspecting a
rough diamond, and snapping his fingers in unrest, gulping the mint, he
continues… yeah, I was around at that time.
Remember it well. I only
recently met Scott at a dinner party of a boastful literary friend who dearly
wished to get published. Some
no-good. ‘So what do you do?’ Scott asked me. ‘I write,’ I told him. ‘Oh, your write, eh? Of what kind?’ ‘Mostly obituaries,’ I told him. ‘I like writing obituaries. There’s a lot money to be made you know. Obituaries I mean. I saw a gap in the obituary market and I
took it.’ ‘My god, you write obituaries? You hear that Ernest?’ ‘Yes,’ Ernest said. ‘This Pat man here is the best damn
obituary writer in the country, aren’t you Pat? I mean, he’s the obituary master for all I
know. He’s knows how to put people to
peace with words trust me. I remember
that one guy you put to rest Pat, boy, I almost fainted when I read that
obituary. He’s a poet when it comes to
obituaries. Don’t make fun of him Scott. Don’t you dare.’ ‘Just, gee relax. Hey, I thought you were like a comedian or
something. My, you have such clever
eyes and face. I thought you were
like… it must be a very suicidal profession.
Obituaries.’ ‘Eh… no… Ernest say it’s good.’ ‘Yes Scott. I say it’s good and now listen here before
I beat you.’ ‘I was just…’ ‘And he paints like hell too. Tell him Pat. Tell him how you paint.’ ‘Eh… I paint a little too.’ ‘Oh, so you paint as well. That’s interesting. You’re a very artistic boy it seems. Like my butterfly Zelda.’ ‘Interesting this PAT HOBBIE guy, eh
Scotty?’ Ernest said, jerking his own chain.
‘Yup, this Pat is the best damn painter on the African continent at
present. Remember that apple you
painted… that apple you showed me?
That red apple, eh Pat?’ ‘Ah…’
‘Christ, that was the best apple I’ve seen
anyone paint.’ ‘You painted an apple? But that’s like… I mean… my Zelda says
apple painting are for fairies only.’ ‘Heh?
That apple painting made more than R10 000 you fool. Pat here painted a great apple. Everybody wanted that apple painting. You see Scott… people like fruit. They like eating it, looking at it,
admiring it, fruit is damn healthy on top of it. And now you have Pat the painter here, who…
who gives them the most scrumptious best-looking apple ever seen, an
incorporation of all the apple qualities I’ve just given it. So… when people get hungry they don’t
necessarily buy the real apple, they just go and have a look at what a real
apple looks like, namely Pat’s darn apple.
Right Pat? It’s so seductive
that apple. He’s using psychology
Scott.’ ‘Ah, so you using psychology in your
paintings, eh Pat? Then you probably
like that Freud guy.’ ‘I read a few of his works,’ I stammered
‘,but… but he didn’t influence me much.’ ‘But you said psychology Pat. You’re a contradicting character you know
that, a real contradiction.’ ‘Well, Ernest said that, but I… I just
like painting fruit. It’s nice to
paint, easy to construct, and for some reason, people like looking at
it. I saw a gap in the painting market
and I took it.’ That’s
correct. We met at a dinner party of a
boastful literary friend who dearly wished to get published. Some no-good we called Stump. He was a decent writer and all, but had
little talent and no genius. For that
he was too happy and had many friends who admired only his happiness and
wealth. As for Scott and I, it was
more wealth than happiness that made us like Stump the boastful literary friend. Stump had money to spend, and as both Scott
and I had very little, Stump bought our friendship. We read his work and he gave us money for
doing so. That was the so-called
agreement. True.
That was the agreement, and to this day PAT HOBBIE says he has no idea
what happened to Stump and the precious novel he used to shove in peoples
faces. Everybody just praised that
book like they do in hell, just to get away from Stump, because Stump had
frequent skin rashes. Stump didn’t
look like a man for words either. And
Pat never believed that looks played a role, honestly, until he met Scott and
Ernest. You really think so Pat? You’re really so shallow, judging people on
how they look and all? Sure thing
sling. Most definitely. And that’s what made the friendship even
more strange. Stump was a short and ugly man with a
drooping left eye. He had frequent
skin rashes, some that would last for weeks on end. It was a messy sight and Ernest and I
avoided Stump for weeks, just so not to witness that messy face of his. We never confronted him about it. Not even Ernest mentioned it to Stump. Only behind the cockroach’s back of course,
where we joked around. When Stump’s
face would come around and the rashes disappear, we embraced him like an
old-timer, and I think Stump probably figured why he was ostracized like
that. Ernest especially had a low
esteem for people’s appearance. I
remember when his wife became heavily pregnant; Ernest just couldn’t bear the
sight of her. Boy, she looked so ill
and uncared for then with the pregnancy; poor Ernest even filed for
divorce. It was too much for him – the
ugliness of it all. It was only when
she came round with the baby and got back her figure that Ernest fell back in
love with her and threw away the divorce papers. It was a difficult time for Ernest, the
pregnancy. I felt sorry for the
inconvenience he had to go through with his second wife going pregnant. Very inconvenient. But regarding Stump… for some reason that cockroach
was always around. He admired Ernest a
great deal, and showed a lot of interest when Ernest was being his boastful
self. That I think cemented their
friendship. CHAPTER NINE PAT HOBBIE
is a hack and a spoof, a low-life who prey on the genius of others. So to speak about Scott and Ernest is also
to speak about PAT HOBBIE and his preying qualities on others. His wife June knows all about it. And his son, eh Scotty, he got the PAT
HOBBIE look I swear. Don’t trust PAT
HOBBIE on your life. Just don’t. Eh, my fellow cyclop, PAT HOBBIE
recollects. Scott was always very
excited with Ernest around and I figured those two would miss each other’s
company when Ernest left for Anyway, it was usually an energetic and
excited Ernest before departures, and so, when the Dingo bar farewell
committee faded faking their disappointment at
the-invincible-Ernest-and-his-rifle-leaving-for-Africa-performance, the
three… the three of us walked aimlessly along the Sea Point beach with our
sandals and bare feet and Scott started chasing the seagulls and Ernest and I
laughed at his foolishness. It was a
beautiful day. The sea was calm and
the sun was merry. So too was Scott,
who with all his seagull chasing left Ernest and I to our own devices. I was walking steadily alongside Ernest
and we discussed various things, things that cemented our friendship over the
years, ranging from sports to woman to literature, back to woman and so
forth. You know… I couldn’t help but
be impressed by this worldly Ernest, despite the love-hate feeling I felt and
still feel towards him from time to time.
Just so impressive that Ernest. ‘Eh… but still… the wedding Ernest. You made any arrangements for the wedding
yet?’ ‘That’s Pauline’s worries,’ Ernest said
and filled his nose with fresh sea air.
‘That bitch likes weddings.
It’s her fifth marriage. She
can do whatever she feels like with this marriage rubbish.’ Looking at Ernest, he had the most
impressive appearance, despite being a bit rough on the edges. Like Scott, he had the most brilliant and
beautiful of blue eyes, it shun with utter wit and intelligence, and many
well-thought ladies succumbed to its subsequent charm - including the dark
lady. He was so commanding and
self-confident that Ernest, I found it ponderous to why he had to depend so much
on alcoholic beverages to calm his system.
‘I see...’ ‘I have too much on my mind right now Pat,
too much to think about this Ernest was a much better husband than
Scott to my mind. He never engaged in
adultery, although none of those two fancied whores much. Tania excluded, Ernest was faithful and
financially supportive to all his wives and mistresses and his work… ‘…you see Pat, when you marry it works
well if you want to keep your women a while longer. They’ll leave you eventually, but that’s
not why people marry. See, you just
need to keep the ideal of marriage going, that things will get better, that
your Ernest here isn’t such a selfish bastard that he makes himself out to
be. Ha! Of course, it takes them a couple of years
or so to realize I won’t change one bit.
They’ll leave me, like that Hadley whoremonger, but hopefully by then
I’d get someone to fill her shoes.
This divorce worked out wonderfully in the end you know. Hadley left me and in stepped Pauline,
fresh and naïve. I have a good and sufficient
system going at the moment. Marriage
is nothing but a carrot, a green one.
And gee, I don’t have time to run after whores all day long Pat. What I do is that I take one of them
captive, get the whore to be your wife or mistress, throw money at her, pay
her attention, screw her till she’s sore.
Then… then I’d go back to my old ways.’ Saying that Ernest blew up a rare
cigarette. I looked flabbergasted at
first, took off my sandals, and walked in the sand with my bare feet. ‘Which is?’ ‘Getting drunk.’ ‘Ah…’ ‘Woman is just too much of a hassle
see. I’d rather be a miserable drunk
than a miserable lover. No woman could
ever satisfy me. It’s just the lonely
bits that kills me. Pauline, she’s a
good housemaid and terrific copywriter, she sees the mistakes in my
work. She reads everything I write,
except the story that I’m working on now.
Christ, I based it on her, but it’s true. If she happens to read it she’ll sue the
hell out of me Pat. It’s still true
though.’ …and he developed a strong base of readers
over the years. Sure his travel books
didn’t sell much, but it was nevertheless a stamp of approval… Ernest had a
reputation. It’s a tough job, grinding
out real-life adventures for ones ill-struck readers. Ernest contributed to a number of magazines
too, and made a living almost entirely through that word processor of
his. ‘Change it then,’ I said and felt how the
soft sea sand below my feet protruded through my toenails. ‘Good travel stories are the offensive
real and damning true stories Pat. I
don’t change. I don’t even change the
names. I speak the truth. But hey… I’ll figure something out. Maybe I’ll throw Pauline into the Spanish
bullring or something one day, or feed her to the crocodiles in ‘Good remark. Love fades.
It’s true.’ ‘But I still enjoy that tingly feeling my
tummy generates every morning when I think about Pauline. It’s so overwhelming, that tingly feeling
Pat, I just want to kill myself because of it. Especially when waking up.’ ‘That’s a bit drastic, don’t you think?’ ‘Hardly,’ Ernest said and hurled a piece
of bamboos into the sea. ‘Depression
is the general rotten state of being.
Sex alleviates it. Love… love I
guess complicates it.’ ‘Hmm… interesting observation.’ ‘Appreciated Pat. King Kong felt it too.’ ‘Eh sure.
But… what about this new woman, the other one, eh? Is she coming with?’ ‘Christ Pat,’ Ernest said and took a
breath of fresh salty air, stifling his cigarette. ‘Can’t take both of them along you
know. I’ve got morals and stuff. Christ, I’m getting married.’ ‘Yeah, silly me.’ ‘But she’s a damn distraction Pat. A damn distraction this mistress. Especially in sunlight. See Pat, in the dark she’s pretty like
hell.’ ‘The new one you’re entertaining?’ ‘Sure, pretty like hell in the dark. But you don’t want to see her during the
day you know, eh… when she’s exposed to hazy sunlight and all that. Boy… boy it’s a damn mess then. A real damn mess. But in the dark she’s quite extravagant, a
beautiful female specimen undoubtedly.
A thoroughbred for sure. Ask
Scott.’ ‘Terrific,’ I said and looked at Scott a
hundred yards ahead of us chasing the white seagulls. Scott looked drunk, although it was hard to
tell sometimes. He had his ways that
Scott, coping and all. Scott hardly
spoke on Jerome’s death, as he feared for his own life too much. Jerome’s death brought even more anxiety
and fear to Scott’s drunken well being.
Scott was a sickly man, with illnesses coming out of his waxed ears on
the worst of days. He made everyone
aware of it, although his plight on tuberculosis was a bit too touchy. We all knew that there was only one cure
for Scott and that was too stop drinking for good. Gosh, his drinking got so out of hand, it
was almost impossible to distinguish a sober Scott from the drinking
one. Probably because the sober Scott
gave up. Gee, I don’t even recall a
sober Scott to you. That’s a scary
though thinking about it. It would
have been interesting to see a sober Scott. ‘Of course Pat, I didn’t know about her
sunlight issues when I met her. So… so
it was arranged, after one forgetful sunlight morning, that we could only
converse at night you know, and only… only when the lights are dim or
shattered. Other than that I refuse to
see or speak or make love to her.’ ‘Pity.’ ‘She needs a pretty strong radiation suite
during the day I figure. Her skin…
it’s oh so fragile Pat, she’ll get the skin cancer first thing. I feel sorry for her, but that’s… but like
my grandfather used to say eh… that’s how the cookie crumbles.’ ‘Ditto.’ ‘She’s nevertheless a good woman,’ Ernest
said and put his hand in his pocket and started scratching his crotch area. ‘And?
How does she feel about the arrangement?’ ‘Asked me what nights would be best, what
clothing she should wear, what perfume I prefer, all that horsecrap you
know. She was very approachable
thinking about it. I like that about a
woman. She’s not Pauline. I won’t marry her. But… but with Pauline doing the groceries,
I need her at times.’ ‘She’s a devoted woman it seems,’ I said
and called after Scott. ‘Yes,’ Ernest said and pointed to Scott
tripping over himself and being a toddler, eating the sand for a drunken
reason. ‘Although I don’t like her
religious attitudes much. She’s a
Catholic. I mean, she’s not allowed to
use any protective gear you know.
Hmm… I’m a bit concerned,
dipping my sausage into her child-making-apparatus you know. Oi, don’t like hunting with bare hands all
the time. Sure don’t.’ ‘You do that all the time? ‘Uh… see my biceps son? See how my veins protrude, eh? I killed a lion with these biceps. In ‘Incredible how you hunt.’ ‘This woman Pat, it’s a hassle. Yesterday, it was a bit uncomfortable. Not with the sausage, but, I was walking
the streets with a good friend of mine you know, untimely unaware of having a
darn mistress. And it was daytime, sun
was shining you know. And… and then,
there she was, out of the hazy blue, exposed to sunlight and all, embracing
me. Arrgh Pat.’ ‘Bolderdash.’ ‘She tried to embrace me even. Gee, I could see the friend alongside me,
he was repulsed. I mean, he’s a high
class guy, with… with many beautiful and distinguished woman. Who the hell is this woman? he asked
me. Eh Ernest? You know this despicable looking
woman? Christ no! I told him. I don’t know who this is! Who are you ugly woman? Where’s your radiation suit? It’s me chubby she said. I’m doing groceries for tonight. Am I seeing you tonight my chubby bear
Ernest? Heh? Chubby bear? Me?
You must be mistaken ugly woman.
Never seen you in my entire life.
I have a brother eh… Ernesto.
Probably him. Gee old Pat, we
scurried away and she called after me but we just scurried away, resuming our
chat about eh… condoms or something.
Phew, now that was tough Pat.’ ‘Oi,’ I said. We saw Scott and we walked up to him lying
in the sand with his mouth covered with the stuff and he was in a dream. He passed out right there on the
beach. Gee, I remember the early Scott
when he was still in good shape. His
drinking weren’t nearly as corrupt as it went on to become. If beauty leads to jealousy, then so too
does that of the unmistakable sign of giftedness and its compound
effect. Thanks a lot to alcoholic
beverages. ‘Wake up Scott!’ Ernest screamed and gave
Scott a couple of kicks in the ribs with his black pointers. ‘Get up you worthless drunk.’ Scott didn’t move and we watched Scott’s
handsome boyish face and we both commented on its attractiveness. ‘You ever beat Scott?’ I asked Ernest
whilst looking at Scott in the sand. ‘A couple of times.’ ‘How does it feel, beating this guy?’ ‘It
feels good. I never go for his face
though. Scott has a beautiful face, I
don’t want to take that away from him.
Once I hit him on the jaw, but I apologized for that. It’s all in good spirits anyhow. A beating is good sometimes. Listen… I beat Scott only because of him
being drunk. Then, he cleans up his
act. Until… when he goes all merry
again, I beat him.’ ‘But you drink too. You go merry too. I’ve seen you.’ ‘Then beat me Pat. You think I care, eh? Beat me.
See… all you bunch of fairies.
Christ.’ Later we took Scott home and Ernest said
goodbye to Scott but Scott didn’t hear and Zelda was absent as usual. Ernest and I had one last drink at some
lousy bar and Pauline was also present and I felt privileged that Ernest
chose to spend his last moments in the city with his favourite spoof. We said our goodbyes and I told Ernest to
have a great marriage and honeymoon with Pauline. Ernest reminded me of his pigeons and to
take care of Scott and to stay away from that Rosemary girl, whom I was half
in love with. I thought then, with the
taxi taking Ernest and Pauline to the airport and away into the jungle, I
thought then that I’ve surely made a considerate friend. It made PAT HOBBIE feel competent. CHAPTER TEN Of
course, Ernest going to Ernest was a punctual person though, and
getting on time at Dingo bar was a necessity.
Ernest didn’t like waiting, and never allowed for anything to get in
his way for a designated meal. Not
even his horny wife in her silver white robe detracted Ernest from a timely
meal. PAT HOBBIE had a sharp eye for
this, and among other things, a careful observer. ‘I figure Ernest, with this country going
at it now, it won’t be long before we proclaim five-star status. Eh Ernest?’ ‘Not with the blacks around Pat,’ he said
and stuffed a Dingo burger in his mouth.
‘Hmm… not with them around.’ ‘Why is that?’ I asked and started with
the salad first. ‘You think blacks are
trouble? You think blacks are like
women, eh Ernest? You don’t like their
leadership style or what, eh?’ ‘Let me tell you about blacks Pat,’ Ernest
said and chewed and pointed to a careless black man crossing the street. ‘I tell you Pat… I tell you… there’s only
one good thing black in this country and that’s a black whore. Everybody else should burn in hell for all
I care. Don’t look at me like that,
Pat. There was this one guy who was
delivering a fascinating lecture on D.H. Lawrence. I mean… you know how much I like D.H.
Lawrence, eh? And the guy had a good
grip of ‘Why is that?’ I asked.
‘Why couldn’t you take it?’ I
remember Ernest looking at me schmuck-faced.
He gave a loud snort and said, ‘With all due respect my worthless comrade,
and I know you’re diplomatic and all Pat so don’t get me wrong. I’m… I’m a man of principles and I’ve got
to obey them. See now… I’ve never seen
a guy as black as that guy. I mean… he
was covered from tip to toe in pitch black darkness. He was goddamn too black. Yeah Pat, call me a racist of whatever you
like to but… but that guy was too black for me. He ruined the whole lecture by just being
too black.’ ‘Strong statement there Ernest.’ ‘Strong statement? Screw you Pat. It’s a perfectly agreeable statement. Arrgh… eh the blacks, they’re just like the
Dutch and their tractors. So damn
ridiculous, damn so, connected to their tractors like a damn naval-string or
something. I’m repulsed by these Dutch
I really am. They’re a disgrace to us,
to me especially. Bloomin Dutch, ugly
race that. Eh see Pat, I’m not a racist. I just hate all of them, and the
blacks. Shoot, we English are the
worst of the bunch I tell you.’ ‘Eh?’ ‘These Dutch farmers Pat. I mean, I never believed these things lived
above ground. I really didn’t. Weren’t they some form of sub-specie eh…
earthworms speaking some tractor language, eh Pattie? I mean look at me, look at me Pat. I’ve never said anything about anyone here
that is remotely good. And don’t look
at me you stupid brat, you little fairy Pat.
I’m not a racist.’ ‘Gee Ernest. Sorry but…’ ‘Let me tell you about blacks Pat. You know the Kenyan blacks, eh? You should go on an air balloon with them
Pat. A pity a black Kenyan man
couldn’t steer the damn air balloon properly.
Gosh, we crashed into damn 10 feet trees upon lift of. It’s due to that black man Pat. That damn black man. See… he was just too black I figure, too
black to steer that air balloon. I
swear he choked the fire right out of the balloon with that charcoal body of
his.’ ‘Gee Ernest.’ ‘I mean, just because I don’t like black
people doesn’t mean I’m a racist. I
just don’t like the bastards, especially these Nigerian blacks who sell
filthy chemicals and needles. But I’m
not a racist. Ask Stump. He doesn’t like blacks, he just likes black
whores. And not just screwing them
Pat. No-no, black whores make for
excellent scrabble players. I mean…
I’ve seen them in action, and not to mention their talent at making you feel
special. Ask Stump and his
strap-on.’ Scott’s stories always had a tinkle of
irony or moral lesson. Ernest hardly
ever thought about that. He was just
being himself I guess. Ernest was more
in the mode of bullfighting, bullwhacking and bullshitting around when
telling stories. Pat had no problem
with such stories, but it was also nice to listen to Scott’s stories from
time to time. It had a goodness of its
own. ‘Well,’ I said and felt sweat pouring down
my forehead and then down unto my burger plate. ‘I’m an open-minded character Ernest. I mean we’re all here anyhow, for better or
for worse. It seems natural to give
each one his due.’ ‘Christ Pat, you remind of airy fairy
liberalism. I guess you’ll say you have a big problem with the Holocaust
then, that it was a mistake burning those sneaky Jewish farts, eh?’ ‘Absolutely. The Holocaust was a travesty.’ ‘Damn liberals. All the same. You included Pat. Take a hike.’ Boy, how Ernest managed to stay oh so
healthy and strong all these years is a mystery, for that man buried the
whole spectrum of ethics altogether, making the misery of living a set way of
life. One cannot escape that feeling
upon being with Ernest. Every second
he reminded Pat of the so-called futile existence of present living, and to
this day PAT HOBBIE remembers the gospel of Ernest by heart. Today Pat carries this tragic gospel with
him, in the hope of educating his curious child on the subject, hopefully
advising the little squealer not to embrace its wonders. A man can be destroyed, but not
defeated. Good line, eh Pat? What do you think of that line spoof? Any good?
Eh? Well, I… I don’t know whether Ernest
adhered to any such principles my fellow earthworm, but boy, it surely sounds
good. Hell, one could say that behind
the Ernest heroism crap was a man low on self-esteem, destroyed by a
horrendous childhood filled with abuse and old-fashioned molestation. That’s what I think. Sure, he had confidence in himself as a
literary man, but when it came to ordinary life he was all an old man at sea
you know. I remember his various
disastrous women. It was a sight for
soaring eyes. Ex-whores, drug-addicts,
suicidal singers, all whom he tried to fit back into society, making them up
to fail eventually; which I think he wanted in any case. That’s my hack theory on this. He was a complete narcissist in need for
sucking space. He sucked loving things
from loving, compelling them to stand there like statues, whilst he the
narcissist congratulated himself on a terrific work of craft. See… he usually recruited them for his
discreet business hours, setting them about 10 minutes or so walking distance
from his apartment, keeping them alive through various errands and broken
promises which nobody knew well and nobody kept either. Just so he that he could be angry at them I
guess. To this day all of us wonder
how many times he actually slept with those woman, or how much they were just
another of his fronts to install that glaring image of Ernest the rugged
rhino. Some of these women were never
sighted (except a few loyal disciples), women whose existence are even today
shrouded in lies of mystery. It’s
irrelevant I guess, for all Ernest’s women were weak and submissive. If they fell of the wagon, if they turned
naughty, or if the master became depressed, master Ernest won’t come for his
designated two or three hours a week visit.
That’s what the lunatic and master said. That was the time each mistress was granted
in gaining his precious company, depending on the number of mistresses Ernest
kept. Until growing tired of them, he
punished them. Their defects he
loathed and cherished simultaneously.
I tell you, all his money were spent on women and friends but none on
himself. He wore the same ragged clothes
day in and day out, not shaving, not cleaning, just being the heroic tragedy
of Ernest the raging rhino. I’m thinking Pauline is the perfect woman
for Ernest right. I really think
so. She’s just what that Ernest needs. She really is someone that PAT HOBBIE here
believes challenges him, especially intellectually. Yes, she can be weak and submissive, but
she’s also facilitator for growth, something the personality of Ernest
urgently requires. And yet… yet I’m
seeing trouble brewing in Tanzania, and… and from what Ernest told me a few
weeks before marrying Pauline, Ernest I don’t think feels strongly for that
woman, nor any other woman for that matter.
Women are like marijuana he once said.
It clouds the brain. Regardless, it was still wonderful to see
Ernest in love. His inherent shyness
and boyishness would show its true colours during courting, and at the best
of times, Ernest is very much like Scott I believe, an old-fashioned
romantic. Pauline’s a beautiful woman,
but very submissive, and Scott I think didn’t like that about her. Ernest likes to be in charge, and although
faithful to an extent, his own devotion is always in doubt. Sure, Ernest can fall in love very quickly,
but when that pass, he’d go absent into his self-obsessed work, making the
wife nothing but an extra commodity and burden. Ernest would never discuss serious matters
with women, only domestic affairs, whilst Scott and Zelda consummated in
almost everything they did, sharing their whole tragedy of two ruined lives
glamorously to each other. Ernest
couldn’t accept the intoxicating intimacy between his best friend and Zelda,
something Ernest deeply resented, and advised PAT HOBBIE to conduct his
affairs according to his sufficient manner, and be happy with those principles
in tact. ‘Keep them at a distance Pat,
Ernest warned me with a pointed finger, ‘And go seize the fucking day.’ In many ways that makes Ernest functional. He keeps his social life simple, and
doesn’t get into messy politics with those close to him. Never for long periods I’d rather say. And he never had a Zelda. Those he avoided, and, will continue to do
so. Most of all, Ernest will choose his woman
as if he is picking a champion racehorse.
Love is never the dominant issue for Ernest. All he wants is submission, a submissive
thoroughbred, someone who excels under inferiority, despite the inferior’s
own wishful strengths. For… when
mating season arrives, the thoroughbred must comply unto the firm regulations
set down by master and jockey and god.
It was beautiful to watch this metamorphosis in real life and see how
clinically detached Ernest could operate with the dynamic thoroughbreds he
has assembled over the years. It was
purely based on sufficiency. I was
much impressed by that trait, as your favourite spoof wears many scars, scars
suffered from wild and untamed thoroughbreds. Oh, all suffering I may conclude is
largely due to the agonies of failed or dysfunctional relationships. My, I must be the unhappiest person alive. Ah,
when I think back to Rosemary, she was a wonderful wicked woman whom
manipulated me in falling in love with her.
Yet, there wasn’t a day or second or timeframe I kept reminding myself
to stay away from Rosemary and her jealous Jewish husband, an angst ridden
fellow who carried a Nazi pistol under his pillow - the same pillow Rosemary
molested when making violent love to me.
I knew Rosemary was a troublemaking girl, yet I kept on coming back
for more, for she had the most deceiving and delicious body. Ernest commented on this too once. ‘How’s Rosemary?’ ‘Left her.
Again.’ ‘About time. You finally left that Rosemary
nymphomaniac?’ ‘Yup, June is my wife. We’re married.’ ‘Married?
Christ, where was I?’ ‘You… you were on that trip of yours. You were away almost three months I
think. Enough time for a quickie.’ ‘Know what you mean there. Especially when it’s those darn
nymphomaniac who got the syph kind of girls.
They’re not keepers.’ ‘True.’ ‘So
how’s June? Any good?’ ‘She’s simple. I just don’t like her that much. In fact, I dislike her.’ ‘Is ‘There’s not a lot of passion see
Ernest. Gosh, she doesn’t even make me
jealous. She’s the perfect wife if
that’s want you want. She’s never
cheated on me. I hate that about her.’
Of course, none of us city fairies had a
perfect love life and all of us messed around now and then. Even the great Ernest. Pat, you’re no exception, for there was
Rosemary, the girl who you loved and cared for like no other. You two met as toddlers in the countryside,
then she came to the city where she discovered her private parts, and you
shared. Yes, we were inseparable. She cared for literature like I did and we
planned on writing obituaries together.
She was the perfect match except for what happened between her
legs. I never left her because of
that. I left her because she couldn’t
stay away from that filthy old Jew and his money. I left her because of that. ‘Oi, you’re too damn picky Pat,’ Ernest
said. ‘You know… my problem is a
couple of squealers with my first and second wives. Now that’s problematic. That I don’t like.’ ‘How’s the squealers?’ ‘I… I couldn’t handle the first squealer,
so I gave her to Hadley, my first disaster.
I see that little girl whenever I feel like it. Boy, that girl of mine is not real I
think. I don’t love her that much
anyhow. Not like my precious boy. She’s too much of a fairy that little
girl. Hadley can have her. I don’t care.’ ‘You’re right. Children’s a hassle.’ ‘But I have no real problem with my
son. I don’t see him, he doesn’t see
me. We respect each other’s private
spaces. It’s good.’ ‘Yes, but you gave your son up for
adoption during conception. That’s…’ ‘He still my damn son,’ Ernest said and
banged his fists on the table. ‘I love
that boy.’ ‘What happened to the mother?’ ‘Haven’t heard a thing. Shame, she was a good woman. A mute, but a good woman. I never had one fight with her. I respected her because of that. I think you need a woman like that
Pat. A mute. Someone that doesn’t speak.’ ‘Nah, I like a woman that connects my
mind, a woman that I can confront and argue with, a woman that challenges
me. All that modern woman stuff. A kind of a mind-mate.’ ‘You’re looking for a lesbian?’ ‘No, I want a mind-mate.’ ‘Christ Pat, give June to me then. I need a mistress anyhow. I’ve always said it. You’re mental. You and Jerome. Give me June. When I come back I take June.’ ‘Only for a while…’ ‘Eh, you must work on your relationships
Pat. It takes too much of your time
when writing good obituaries and painting good crap. You must work on your women. You need a system.’ ‘I’m not the systems type.’ ‘That’s because you’re a loser, Pat. I remember ever since we were kids. You’re a loser, like that Jerome fairy, picked on at schools, bullied
till the two of you were blue. Look at
you now, two miserable sods, one dead and another soon off to deadness. Damn no-goods that’s what you are. Guys like you cannot marry well. Bolderdash.
Look at me Pat. I’ve had two
wonderful marriages. And this one with
Pauline… I’m feeling good things I
really do Pat. The moment I saw her
you know… the day she walked into that smoky bar half-naked, right there…
right there I knew. This Pauline,
she’s a striking woman. I don’t want
to mess things up with her. She’ll leave
me first thing. I need to be careful
when unfaithful.’ There’s no substitute for a thoroughbred I
guess. Ernest is right, although his
own character is impenetrable, even for a magical thoroughbred. The will of Ernest is as strong as an ox,
and with that will he rules with fear.
Even beauty succumbs to that kind of charm. Some lunatics even find it attractive.
‘What happened between you and Hadley? You two made a terrifyingly good couple.’ ‘She was a complaining woman Pat. Always complaining that Hadley. The last straw was when she complained over
this bloomin penis of mine. Too large
for her she said. That’s right
Pat. My ex-wife said that. I divorced her.’ ‘Because of your penis?’ I asked. ‘Hell no.
My penis should be paraded. I’m
proud of this darn thing. It was
actually a compliment her saying that.
I felt so good when she said.
So good.’ ‘Why did you divorce her then?’ ‘Because it was still a complaint. I’m a man of principles Pat. I don’t like complaining women, even if
it’s really compliments they’re giving.’ ‘I don’t understand…’ ‘Listen Pattie boy, I don’t mind people
telling I’m a painful lover. It makes
feel more of a man to tell you the truth.
It makes me happy. But she
complained too much. It hurt too much
she said.’ ‘I understand now.’ ‘Good.
I’m glad you take my side on this.
It’s one thing putting her back on the street with no money and no
future and all, but another to complain about sexual organs. She crossed the line Pat. Yeah, sure, I know her demented parents are
threatening me over me robbing Hadley of everything and throwing her away
just like that. But Christ Pat… she
was nothing before she met me. I made
that Hadley. I gave her love, dignity,
respect, things she’ll never have again.
She’s a naughty woman Pat.’ ‘Eh…’ ‘And now?
Now she’s doing her darn social work again. Yup, community social work. What a disgrace Pat. What a disgrace.’ CHAPTER ELEVEN After
I waved goodbye to Ernest and his wife, and after I saw them being escorted
away on their distant trip to I then felt sorry for Jerome, for he was
such a child in a man’s world, he didn’t live a good or happy life. He reminds me sometimes of that home alone
kid in that Home Alone movie. I
mean, talk philosophy and he’d go nuts.
He’d tell you about that Wittgenstein nutcase, himself an autistic
nutter, and he’d go on about that damn Tractatus all day. He’d tell you the book from the beginning
to end in thirty seconds. He’s
brilliant on that and will end up saying, ‘Uh-uh, what we cannot speak of,
therefore we must remain silent.’ And
that’s when I tell him to shut his trap.
Damn Wittgensteinian. And look,
Ernest agreed on this. He hated
Wittgenstein as much as I did. ‘I hate that Wittgenstein guy Pat. Arrgh, I just feel like puking when I hear
his stinking name. I really don’t know
why Russell bothered with that fruit.
I mean, he was a nutter, he rubbed that whole ‘That’s true.’ ‘See Pat… I don’t like Wittgenstein just
like I don’t like salt and pepper. I’m
serious Pat. I just don’t get it. It’s a real fairy thing, like Wittgenstein,
salt and pepper you know. I mean, who
cares about salt and pepper?’ ‘They say it makes food tastier,’ I said. ‘They say crap I tell you. Food is food. You eat and get on with work. Who cares about a little salt and pepper,
eh? It’s a fairy thing.’ ‘You think I’m a fairy Ernest?’ ‘I think you’re the biggest fairy of them
all Pat, except for Scott. Look, that
Scott will start a fairy movement one day that’s for sure. Especially with Zelda leaving. And Jerome, he’s a fairy too I
believe. Christ, I remember asking
about the last time when he was inside a woman, Jerome I mean. It’s… it’s a regular kind of question,
right Pat?’ ‘Like the weather.’ ‘Yes-yes.
Jesus-fuck-me-Christ, Jerome, he scratched his chin, took out his
itinerary, frowned like a child and asked about the last time it snowed on
Table Mountain. Hell, don’t know I
said to the poor guy, how the hell should I know when the last time was? So I phoned the weather community Pat,
asking them about the last time it snowed on ‘That’s something.’ ‘I confronted the guy Pat, told him he
should go and see someone, like that sex therapist Stump had. This is not good for your health I told
him. This whole sexual repression
thing is very dangerous. I mean… look
at that Isaac Newton guy. Look what happened
to him. No eh… look at that
Wittgenstein. Yes Wittgenstein. That man lost his marbles Pat. He lost it good. He even checked into a damn monastery, just
so he didn’t have to do it. I told
Jerome he’s too much a Wittgensteinian.
Yeah, that’s right. And I told
him about fabulous Tania and asked whether he fancied Tania. No, I… I in fact dragged the bugger to
Tania, and Pat, didn’t she look ravishing that night at Madonnas, eh? Ah, she had that beautiful red underwear
that makes one lubricate all over.
Those eh… glittering underwear you know. Boy.
But Jerome… Jerome, he shook Tania’s hand like some child savant and I
was disgusted by his behaviour. Not a
real man that Jerome. Anyway, Tania
took Jerome inside her little dormitory and, hell, I was quite stiff myself,
seeing those two going dormitory wandering and surely getting it off. Surely I said. And gee, he came back smiling. Can you believe that Pat?’ ‘He did?’ ‘Positive Pat. And so… so I asked, how do you feel, eh
Jerome? After five years you must feel
rejuvenated. Was… was the long wait
worth it, eh? Tell me, what
happened? Oh, he said. We talked.
It was eh… nice. We talked and
talked. Boy, she’s a swift talker. She likes talking that’s for sure. Mighty fine talker she. What, talked? You just talked? But Jerome I said, didn’t she take of your
clothes by ripping it to shreds with those naughty little red claws of
her? Didn’t she molest your tits with
those sharp stainless teeth of her?
Didn’t she come down on your trousers like Winnie the Pooh used to
do? Isn’t she the real thing, eh? Nah, nah the nutter said. We just talked about our lives, our future
hopes and all that stuff. It was
nice. She’s very clever. She said I should go back there again
tomorrow. It’s nice. Uh-uh… I really like this lady. She’s very agreeable, very agreeable
indeed. Hmm… what’s her name again
Ernest? Uh… Jesus Christ, I felt like
screaming hack, I really felt like strangling him. Agreeable?
What the hell does agreeable mean Pat?
Hmm… we should go out to watch a movie. I wonder what movies she fancies, hey
Ernest? Hmm… I wonder. See Pat, I have a quick temper, you know
that. So I took Jerome by his throat,
eh… like this…’ ‘Arrgh.’
‘Yeah, and I said… listen Jerome, it’s
been five years my friend. You need
someone to get you back in shape.
Tomorrow you just go in, you sit on that customer chair, very close to
her, and… and whilst you talk about your future and your careers and all that
crap, start opening your legs like a sunflower, so that she can see your
crotch. She wouldn’t resist I tell
you. It works every time.’ ‘I concede.’ ‘Well, as you know Pat, Tania never misses
a trick, but Jerome was as set as can be.
They just talked and talked and then Jerome went to his bed and slept
there on his own, like he did for the past five years, dreaming about
women. It’s the damn autism. It’s like cancer Pat. It gets worse and worse by the day. He needs help that guy. This sexual repression technique is a very
bad idea. I mean… look at what
happened to Henry James. He became all
confused over boys and girls. Oh boy
Pat. It may work for the Pope or the
next Ghandi, this repression technique, but hell, this is Sea Point Pat. Screwing has become a big fucking
franchise. There’s nothing you can do
to escape it. I mean… they’re even
selling sex protection gear in the community church. Everyone is cashing in you know. I mean… yeah HIV, that’s a big thing they
say. But… but with all the sex
protection gear nowadays, you need to be pretty damn stupid to contract the
damn disease, although some whores I hear complain about the durability of
sex equipment gear, but its because they don’t read the instruction
manuals. They can’t even read those
poor devilish no-goods. Hmm… where was
I? Yes, you, you Pat. You remind me of Jerome sometimes. You’re too decent at times. You… you find this beautiful woman, you’ll
fall in love with her and bring her to us, you’ll make sweet tender love to
her in true romantic fashion. And
then… few months later… like that - she’s gone. It becomes a myth, a spook story parents
tell their kids at night when they’re ready to fall asleep. Keyzer Soze Keyser Soze! PAT HOBBIE!
PAT HOBBIE! That’s who you are
PAT HOBBIE. You’re just as much a
solitary type as that Jerome nutter. I
don’t like mysteries Pat. I don’t like
people who hide things. It tells me
they’re good liars, and I hate good liars, because then I’ve got
competition. Stay away from my itchy
rifle then. Don’t let me start
smelling seething little rats Pat.’ Ernest
was right, Jerome had a tough time with his women, although the story went he
had a penis to that of a German U-boat.
Anyhoo, like I said, the man was pretty much asexual, and had the
morals of a dumbass Kierkegaard, and I think that even the Pope would’ve been
proud of him during his chastity periods.
Jerome had a distinct autistic way about him no question. He just wasn’t there if you know what I
mean. He had these strange habits and
rituals, collecting thousands upon thousands of comic books, or talking to
himself in a decorative fashion, checking his watch every second, counting
the tiles on the floor meticulously, arranging its patterns in his head. He had quirks like hell. When… when he found out his girlfriend was
unfaithful, he left her first thing.
Jesus, she was in the middle of her explanation when he threw her out
just like that, saying stupidly, ‘Uh, its over.’ She was pretty and considerate girlfriend
that, not just a regular whore we see every day, but someone I guess with
morals and all that, but like I said, when Jerome loses trust its all over. She tried again to come back to
Jerome. Again and again she
tried. But Jerome stuck with his
Kierkegaard morals saying, ‘Uh, its over.’
Phew. At
the university Jerome was very vibrant though, and mention the word
philosophy, gee, he’d lighten up first thing.
But in the end, he was the ultimate loner, and I never once had a
single idea what he was thinking of when we were spending time together. Sure, he talked about books and philosophy
and all that, but when it came to his character, and his inner thoughts you
know, he was a recluse. He lived in
his own world, and it’s only when we interrupted him, eh… yanked at his
chain, that he got out of it. Jerome
was depressed, but he never sought help.
Once I saw a glimmer in his distant eyes the cries of help me help me,
but Jerome’s brain was wired up incorrectly I guess. It’s a shame, for he had wonderful
abilities. He was a workaholic most of
his life, he never understood people one bit, and when he tried to he failed
time and time again. Thus he went back
to his own world. I think things got a
bit too much for him in the end. He
was a lonely guy with few friends.
Gee, I don’t think he had any friends.
That girl loved him, but I guess she was frustrated by him and his
social ineptness. Jerome never called
that girl I remember. She just came to
him. I guess she felt needy at the
time. I always thought that Jerome
liked that girl and that they make a good couple. For a few months she did wonders with him,
and he got out of his shell for the first time. He was very talkative when she was
around. But like I said, it was very
difficult to get through to Jerome, and that girl cheating on him, not
because she didn’t love him, but probably because she couldn’t communicate
with Jerome, in bed mostly but also in other stuff. Gosh, it’s not fair. Jerome was a sweet guy and never harmed
anyone in his entire life. Hmm… I don’t think he liked us that much
anyhow, Jerome that is. But… but he
was there, and we respected the fact that Jerome was there looking like a
friend. To tell you the truth, all of
us needed friends badly. I mean, our
relationships were so meaningless that it was hard to keep a straight face
about it thinking about it. Well,
the tragedy about it all was that, when Ernest came back and when we went on
that memorable picnic up the mountain, Jerome chose to end it. That’s the tragedy and really silly to my
mind. Really silly from my toward
Jerome’s point of view. Yeah, there
were a couple of glum faces in the beginning I remember, but Scott and Ernest
cared too much about their own rivalry as to why Jerome decided to jump off
Table Mountain in all its splendour.
It never occurred to me at first that they actually cared, until I
read Ernest’s chapter on what happened that day. Gosh, his account was so honest and real, I
had a new sense of this Ernest guy.
And while he refrained from proclaiming that Jerome was an altogether
worthless character, the story ended as such, that it was just another death,
another death for yours truly to insert in his beloved obituary section. I wrote the finest obituary on Jerome one
could have on someone taking the plunge.
The obituary staff I remember congratulated me on an outstanding
obituary. Jerome’s death drove me to
poetry I remember, and even though my English high school teacher ridiculed
my childhood poetry, I wrote some good poetry on Jerome. It was a good obituary, with a bit of
rhyming poetry to turn it into a classic obituary. It was a classic, but no new
perspectives. Oi, Jerome. I
didn’t thought this so meticulously through at home that evening and day when
Ernest left to feed his wife to the crocodiles in CHAPTER
TWELVE Sure,
I was still in reflective mode that evening.
I couldn’t get out of it, for besides Jerome, I felt a great burden
with Ernest leaving town. I remembered
Ernest’s last insightful comment just before entering the yellow taxi, upon
seeing a decent-looking man pissing on a billboard that read Be wise,
condomize. ‘Look there Pat,’ he shouted and
pointed. ‘Look at that pisspot
pissing. See that?’ ‘Gee, I see.’ Ernest laughed and said, ‘Now don’t you
just love this country, eh Pat? Just
the pure decadence of it all. It’s so
sweet Pat. Thanks to that pisspot I’ll
never fully embrace ‘Speaking like a true African,’ I
jested. ‘Yeah, well, I was born here. Might as well die and rot here too. ‘True enough. ‘Goodbye Pat. Take care.
And tell Scott to sober up. Oi,
fucking pisspots.’ I couldn’t quite
understand why I came about remembering that specific insightful comment
Ernest gave, but that night I nevertheless instantly acknowledged just how
much I relied on his presence in this alienated city we dare call
community. I felt that the Ernest I’d
come to know was more than just a self-proclaimed hero, but holy cow, also a
self-proclaimed father figure. What,
is it good? I asked myself. More and
more I began to figure that Ernest, despite my negativity toward the guy,
added a distinct value to our enterprise in the city. Frankly, the more I rolled the madman
around in my head, the more I realized that with Ernest gone, our lives would
crumble altogether. Ernest was right
when he remarked on the worthlessness aspect.
It felt true. Ernest kept us
together in many ways. One
way was his drinking prowess. Ernest
was a strong drinker who commanded respect everywhere he went by just
drinking. I tried my best to show a
capacity for drink too. Some days
though, when Ernest ordered round after round, PAT HOBBIE knew when to stop
drinking. Pat the hack knew when to
stop or pass out, and take his drink to the restroom and spill it empty
there. Ernest never knew that spoof of
mine, and he was very impressed with the high tolerance for the substance
alcohol his counterpart PAT HOBBIE was capable of, unlike his darn best
friend Scott, whom he resented for being a fairy drinker. I say it… it was a familiar routine at
Dingo bar, and Ernest at that paid for it all, receiving paid attention, and
introducing his Pattie boy to the old Jew’s menus and customs. Ernest was probably the best customer of
that old Jew Hemingstein, not that it mattered relationship wise though. Those two couldn’t stand each other, and I
don’t recall a compliment from either side once. In fact, I don’t recall Ernest giving a
compliment to anyone except his mother, who slapped him around like a
toddler. She was mad, and Ernest
looked to her for inspiration, probably to get even with society. After the punishment, Ernest would come
down on society in a big way I say, crushing each and every little thing in
his bullish path. It was on such days
when he’ll put that Jew on a train to Auswitch, cursing at his worthlessness,
and finally, crapping wholesomely on what was the best damn café bar in
town. Subsequently a whole scene would
follow, climaxing at a broken chair or jaw, with the old Jew closing the
whole place down altogether - in tears.
Next day he’d open up again, and Ernest would walk in like always,
cursing at everybody and everything, including himself of course. The old Jew would crack up with a nervous
smile and pretend like nothing ever happened and will give Ernest the morning
newspaper. Ernest would eat, scratch
his crotch, and think up some crap for his travel magazine. Yeah, I guess those two couldn’t get enough
of each other, but I tell you; those two never saw eye to eye for one
second. Maybe then Pat… it was because of
Rosemary, who for some reason had something against the whole Ernest heroism
crap. She figured him a fairy despite
the macho thing Ernest was all about.
Zelda thought that too. But you
know… it was all a mess anyhow, and we all knew Scott was attracted like hell
to Ernest. I mean Pat, you’ve got the
insides on what happened in that restroom and Scott’s larva. You care to enlighten, eh Pat? Yes, but it’s a kept secret sinners. And… and if your PAT HOBBIE here cared
enough he should really keep his mouth shut.
What’s for sure is this: We
were sitting at some lousy restaurant, arguing over an essay, hmm… Why I am not a Christian by that Anyway, logician Jerome wasn’t there to
keep them honest, unfortunately you’d say, for you could only imagine the
atrocious fallacies that were committed on that table, most of them appealing
to some immortalized authority. But
after a while you know… geniuses such as Sartre and Nietzsche were tossed
away for more appropriate Ernest logic such as, ‘It’s because I say so that’s
why!’ I tell you, their arguments were
fierce, but still rather useless.
Anyway, those two were at each other throats and it was getting rather
dull and sweaty in their presence, so I turned the discussion, asking Ernest
why the hell he keeps on scratching his crotch area. Ernest cursed at me for introducing him to
Tania, who at that time was invited to display her sick private parts at a
medical research institution. Again. And… and that’s when, with Ernest cursing,
your Pat and fellow communist here quickly had to pop out for a smoke, for
he’s addicted to cigarettes, and a valid excuse to get away from the rotten
conversation. I was standing and attempting to smoke
outside the creepy restaurant, looking out on a vibrant Well,
I became petrified and grew pale and I turned around mechanically, and went
out for the mentioned smoke. I didn’t
know what to make of it, until Rosemary brought the subject up a few weeks
later after I handsomely seduced her in a moment of lust. I just couldn’t keep quiet with radiant
Rosemary around, so I told her about what I saw and all hell broke loose I
remember. Ernest had a hefty stroke
when Rosemary let it slip and he almost broke out in tears right there at the
hospital. He cleansed the air only
once after he beat the crap out of Scott, claiming back his manliness in the
process. It was over Zelda he said. ‘Scott came to me over that wretched Zelda
bitch. The damn bastard had a penis of
a microscopic larva she said. Christ,
you know Scott and me. He came to me
telling about it, like he always does.
See Pat, Zelda wouldn’t sleep with him cause his penis gone all
crumbling. I said to him that’s
impossible… I mean… how the hell does a penis go all crunchy? So I had to see it to believe it. I took him to the restroom Pat, pulled down
his trousers and had a sophisticated look.
We heard a flush at the far end and we kept silent until some
wall-eyed no-good son of a bitch at that far end left. Hmm… I had a good inspection of Scott’s
penis and couldn’t find anything wrong with it. Christ, it was in perfect shape! So I zipped it back up, telling him his
wife’s a jealous lesbian that doesn’t know a damn thing about penis
culture. Scott gave me a hug crying
and I told him his wife is deranged with syph and he cried even more and I
said to him don’t worry about it. And
then he kissed my ass.’ ‘For real?’ ‘Yeah.
Why the hell not? I’m Ernest
for Christ sake. Scott kisses my ass
all the time Pat, so go fuck yourself.’ ‘Sorry Ern…’ ‘Where was I? Oh, and so he kissed my ass and we went
back into that creepy burger restaurant place. You said you went for a smoke outside. When you came back we were still on that
Russell essay. I mean, I’m defending
Russell like hell when he started with his Kierkegaard irrelevance. For an agnostic the man’s a psycho. He just wants to get my hormones flowing
and beat him up. That’s it you
know. He’s a darn masochist. I mean… you were there. But I tell you Pat… that bastard who knew
about this you know, about Scott and me, that guy at that far end in the
restroom, eh? He knew Rosemary
probably as well. Jesus, the day I
find that bastard Pat I’ll break his skull.
You hear me good old faithful friend PAT HOBBIE, eh?’ CHAPTER THIRTEEN Swallowing
his final mint, Pat, sweaty palmed and everything, continued… Tania was there and she was the one who
made Pat happy. Of all she understood
me best. She cared nothing for
literature and for four years I saw her once or twice a week wherever and
whenever we felt cosy. She met my
parents once and they liked her very much.
She got acquainted to Scott and he was dazzled by her charm. Pity about the thing she had between her
legs. I left her because of that
inconvenience. Stump fancied Tania and
he threw a lot of money at her. He won
her over just by that. He was ugly
like hell, but for Stump sex = happiness and he threw a lot of money at her
and she fell for that first thing, together with the equation. Well, Stump admitted saying that Tania fell
for almost anything. No question. Yes, Pat was still able to make good use
of Rosemary from time to time, whom he thought he was in love with, but then
again, Pat took second-guessing to a new level. Rosemary did Pat in good though, and he
ended up paying like hell. She was
worse than any whore he had ever encountered.
He’s still paying for his times with Rosemary. At least he managed to get out while still
relatively in the clear. PART THREE: PAT
HOBBIE’s Christmas wish CHAPTER
FOURTEEN Ah… this
no-good-for-nothing hellhole. What an
altogether worthless place. What are
you doing here, Pat? Gee, he doesn’t
don’t know. I guess Pat still loves
this place. After all these years I
guess Pat still loves this place you know.
Isn’t ‘Tell me Pat. What exactly are we doing here?’ ‘Like I said… like I said a thousand times
just now, I’d like to show you where I spent all my time in this fairy
city. Gee, can’t you see I’m finally
opening up, eh? Of… of who I really am
and all that significance?’ ‘No, I only see it’s late Pat. And this Scotty of yours is sleepy. I’m sleepy.
And this street… well, it doesn’t look friendly at all. I mean… so many young girls late at night,
uh… this one of your jealousy schemes again Pat? You paying them to stand there and make me
jealous?’ ‘Perhaps these girls are making a decent
if not ancient living you know.
Christ, this is not the countryside Mrs June. They don’t have cows to milk or pigs to
slaughter for a living. Different kind
of jungle this baby. Altogether
different.’ ‘Then let’s just go back to the
country. Let’s just go.’ Oh, this is Pat’s wife June. She’s beautiful and shiny and all that, but
it doesn’t mean she also not a pain in Pat’s ass. Especially with all her environmentalist
discussions. Like Pat’s grandfather
always used to say, ‘Marry well, son.
Marry well.’ And he never
listened. Bolderdash. ‘And remember son: If you marry for beauty and grace and all
sophistication, marry a damn misanthropist.’
But Pat never listened. Grandpa
married a misanthropist. And Pat never
listened. ‘Look!
Isn’t that Dingo bar over
there, eh? Gosh, it looks like they’ve
been expanding.’ ‘Let’s go home this minute Pat!’ ‘In a minute. Watch the car. And the kids. See Dingo bar over there?’ ‘What?’ ‘Well, I met some wonderful people at that
place. They were like family to me for
so long. I just want to have a sneak
peak if I may.’ ‘Eh…’ ‘See… Madonnas is just next to it.’ ‘What’s that Madonnas place?’ ‘Uh, it’s a women’s bar. Lesbians I think.’ ‘Now hear what I said Pat…’ ‘Watch Scotty.’ And
Pat is outside and for the first time in months he can smell the smoky sea
air he has grown so used to over the hack years. ‘Arrgh,’ Pat says. ‘Phew-phew,’ he says. Pat looks down and see a dose of seagull
shit on the pavement. Oh, and do you
hear that sweet lurid sounds above, eh Pat?
Nah, what limbo got into Seapoint anyway? Pat squints at Dingo bar. The place is closed but he knew that long
before. He stares through the window
pane instead, pointing to the counter, showing his imaginary friend the
yellowy chairs, old stylish Frank Sinatra on the wall, rat pack wrenching his
ass, wrecking his suit. Pat thinks
back now, he’s visualizing that old man who came here every morning,
consuming his morning burgers in bliss.
He got beaten to death by a couple of teens he remembers. Age: 90.
Pat left a couple of days after, distraught by the event in the
head. Pat turns around, fighting
through bright neon lights of a beloved street he tended to for so long. He hears a familiar horn and sees his new
car, he sees June cursing at him.
Christ, that complaining woman Pat thinks. Should never have brought her here. Hmm… Dingo bar. What fond memories of this place my fellow
spoof, a place of a Jew and his friends.
Pat wonders what happened to that old Jew. He walks over to Madonnas, seeking
familiar faces and chatter. He stops
at the entrance and looks up, he sees the conditioned purple sign flashing
and he smiles heartily of the pure joy his tummy generates because of this
flashing. Inside he gets the chokes
and stops in front of an old smoking fart of a lady. She takes her eyes of a
lesbian magazine and stares. ‘Gee, what choking perfume you using
here?’ Pat asks. ‘None of you business. Who’re you?’ ‘My name is Pat, PAT HOBBIE. I… I know you’re name is Gertrude Stein,
right? I’ve been here a long time
ago. Lived here too. I was good friends with Scott and
Ernest. You know those, don’t you?’ ‘Yes I know you Pat,’ said the lesbian
fart. ‘I remember you and Scott and
Ernest and that tireless Stump very well.
You were all fools… all of you.’ ‘Yup.’
‘See business is rather slow you
know. We’re waiting for the
tourists.’ ‘I see…’ ‘Hmm… haven’t seen you in ages young Pat
man,’ the lesbian continued. ‘Damn
ages I say. But let’s see eh… Pat
boy. I know your type of woman –
small, weak, pathetic, suicidal…’ ‘No…’
‘I also have a fresh and open-minded girl
here… for new tranquil adventures that is.
She’s quite an intellectual at times too. Some find just talking to her is worth
it. Quite a philosopher she. You like that, don’t you?’ ‘Thanks,’ Pat said, ‘but I’m actually here
to hear if Tania’s still around?’ ‘Who?’ ‘You know… the Tania, eh… the dark lady?’ ‘Oh that cheap whore…’ ‘I’d say she was top of the pile.’ ‘Perhaps, but… but we had to let her go
some while back. Unfortunately. She got some little infection, a rare one,
but deadly. We have check-ups every
month you know. New regulations and
all.’ ‘What she got?’ ‘Don’t know,’ the lady said and choked on
her cigarette. ‘I liked that girl,’ Pat said. ‘Like I said… we had to let her go.’ ‘Bolderdash.’ ‘Eh, what Pat?’ ‘I mean…
I should’ve taken her with to the country. Like I said I would’ve. Listen, she was a good woman. Hmm…
I should’ve done the right thing you know. Definitely should’ve.’ ‘That was…’ ‘But anyway, I… I just wanted to show my
wife Dingo bar and all. Is the old Jew
still working here? Hemingstein?’ ‘That old stinkpot? Christ, he’s got a whole franchise
going. It’s Jew here, Jew there, Jews
everywhere nowadays my fellow Zionist.’ ‘That’s terrible. What… what about his wife?’ ‘Rosemary’s still here.’ ‘How’s she?’ ‘Radiant.
Hmm… Stump too.’ ‘Oh, old Stump. We were good friends. Gosh, is he settled now or something? I remember he really wanted to get
married. He promised when I left.’ ‘Well, he was here… earlier. He’s taking care of that cheap whore he
says, and we might do business together.
He’s has a good head for business that boy.’ ‘He was a good friend. Scott and Ernest too.’ ‘You mean those literary fools.’ ‘Thanks,’ Pat said and waved the old lady
goodbye. Outside it was frosty and
eerie, the city claimed anonymity. The
visitor’s cold city memories were now locked away again, buried it
seems. And so he scurried away,
seeking his new car and June and the baby. CHAPTER FIFTEEN Fairy
cities do everything wrong you know, for there in the countryside the people
are friendly and warm. There in the
countryside the red roses in nature remain true, and reflect no falsities. I never took Tania out of the city, and I
know I should’ve for she deserved a sprinkle of something different. In the dark streets of the city one gets
lost almost through default. You fall
asleep, only to awake as if just experiencing a nightmare. But then, then you realize the nightmare is
real. A real live one they say. It is only in the city where one can fully
comprehend this nightmare, this cry for help.
Because there where I was born I feel so safe and secure, almost too
safe, as if it wasn’t supposed to be that way. An omniscient God surely made the countryside. If he didn’t, well, I don’t know what’s all
great and powerful I really don’t. Anyway,
it was rather an anti-climax to tell you the truth of how it all ended. Those were good times nevertheless, but the
ending was an anti-climax to be proud of. All of us were past our roaring twenties and
thirties, but we still kept on going strong despite the warnings signs of
addiction and suicide and little money in the bank. Our dreams and aspirations were still the
same as when we were youngsters and we were childish most of the time. I’ll never forget the time when all five of
us, Ernest, Scott, Jerome, Stump and PAT HOBBIE – I’ll never forget the time
when we were enjoying the beach for a change, sitting on the seven steps of
cement overlooking the sea, looking and pointing at the breaking waves as the
tide were slowly coming in. Yeah,
and I remember looking at Jerome smiling whilst doing his silly logic
tricks. Jerome didn’t say much but
when he did it was always something quirky and lovable, and that in itself
cracked the whole gang up. I loved
that Jerome at times. If only he was a
little younger then, I would’ve adopted him for sure. Not so Stump, whose rashes that day were on
full display. Poor boy. It’s
hard to put Stump into perspective, for he was a sad figure that Stump and
his intent was always to fit in, and in that he never really did. I mean… all of us were sad figures, you
know what I’ve told about all of us anyhow.
There’s isn’t a good thing to say about any of my friends. But Stump… Stump’s sadness was not sadness,
mere imitations to fit the profile of sadness. After all, he never had his foot up in any
of our asses for long periods, and that tells you something. I never cared for Stump to be miserable or
to be happy you know. I really didn’t
care for Stump. Maybe… maybe he was a
good guy, maybe his novel wasn’t as bad as we all thought. Maybe he was a friend after all. But again, I never felt real friendship
toward him. No, he was just there to
remind me of my loneliness. In that,
I’d say Stump was very much like a lover too me, until I started to settle
with June a couple of months ago.
(Yeah, we have a kid that squeals so I decided to give the whole
parenting thing a go.) Stump was like
a lover to me. I didn’t really care
about him. Gosh, I hardly spent
significant time with him. Just like
Tania and Rosemary, with whom I spent very little time with too. Most of the times we did spend we spent in
bed. We conversed very little in
bed. I conversed little with Stump too
and it’s hard to put him into any decent form of perspective. Scott
Fitzgerald’s work stalled due to his drinking. He really was highly thought of at the
newspapers when young, but he couldn’t keep up with the demands that were
being put on him. Furthermore, the
dailies didn’t like his columns a great deal.
It was losing the sharpness it had when he was starting out and they
replaced him with an old hand, a 50-year old retired academic who just
recently came from Scott
became a hack, a freelance junkie that reminisced over lost genius. Eventually he couldn’t support himself or
Zelda or his drinking. The latter made
him desperate, and Scott lost everything.
Zelda went back to live with her parents. They sent her to some madhouse where she’s
now receiving therapy. Word is she’s
not responding to therapy, only talking to Scott in her sleep when she’s not
masturbating. Zelda’s parents blame
Scott for all this. It’s Scott who
should be burned for Zelda’s deteriorate in character and esteem they
said. The last I heard of Scott was
from none other than Ernest. Ernest
said a no-good friend of Scott has taken Scott under his wings to stay with
him for a while in the great city of Scott was staying at his new friend who
had a distinct affinity for chemicals and needles in the great city of Ernest said that it was almost hard to see
Scott the last time at Dingo bar in such a terrible shape, where the shining
eyes of brilliance had a deadness rivalled only to PAT HOBBIE’s
obituaries. Where Scott was once a
butterfly that understood beautifully, his wings were now broken and its
patterns marred and smudged. He wasn’t
a butterfly but a moth, a shadow of the Scott I was introduced to. All in a few years, with a crazy woman, an
alleged fairy affair, lots of drinking and a selfish egomaniac best friend,
Scott lost the fight against his destiny at becoming a crack-up. He was determined to fail I suppose that
Scott and Ernest said that Scott last spoke to him with the authority of
failure. Ernest said he’ll never cry
over Scott because despite everything they had together, Scott pissed all his
talents and gifts away on a silver literary disposable platter. He’ll never cry over Scott Ernest said to
me. He said he cried over the lion he
killed with his bare hands in Ernest
Hemingway… he was in every way the artist who as a young man felt he could
forge in the smithy of his soul the uncreated conscious of his race, through
which all else must bow to in admiration.
A James Joyce portrait one could say. And yet, despite his devilish character,
I’ll always respect Ernest’s brutal honesty, his quick wit and
intelligence. I’ll remember an Ernest
who despite his subordinating and dominating personality, I’ll remember a
face that showed symptoms of care.
Yes, care. Jerome, Stump and I,
all of us were scrutinized by Ernest to give our outmost. He knew our gifts; he made us aware of it
and gave us courage to take it further.
Ernest was brave to the extent of becoming contagious to us all. He wanted to extract the best out of Scott
more than anyone else I believe, despite contradictions. When Scott lacked creative focus, Ernest
was the one to help him. When Scott
was ridiculed and abandoned by his wife, Ernest was there by his side. Later on, when Ernest finally rolled up his
mind over a wretched Scott, a Scott that is unable to take stock of
self-destructing, Ernest turned his back on his best friend. Ernest has a reputation for that you
know. He tried whole-heartedly with
Scott, but he gave up and that’s never a good thing, giving up that is. Just a pity that success went to his head
that Ernest. From what I know, Ernest
has erased Scott from his memory almost completely. Scott refused to walk the path Ernest took
on walking, the path of success. And
Ernest has given up on Scott for good, saying his former friend is full of
drinking betrayal that should be shot for cowardice, but surely Ernest was
reading the contradiction poem of Walt Whitman that day. I’ll never forgive Ernest for leaving
Scott. Scott and Ernest were as friends
inseparable. They shared their whole
life to each other. But it all wore
out quickly. Like a love-affair it
wore out as quickly as it was consummated.
I knew Scott and Ernest were best friends. I knew it all along and I didn’t compete
for that spot one bit. They were best
friends no question. Hell, they
probably did have that homosexual affair after all, eh? It wouldn’t surprise me seeing the voltage
of electricity those two generated together when they were spending time
together. Ernest left for Cuba last I heard you
know, for… for he said Cuba is living in exciting times, especially with the
tropical storms and hurricanes hitting the island at regular intervals. It’s good he said. He was just in time to capture Hurricane
Melinda, a fierce hurricane that gave even the infamous Fidel Castro a
mildest of headache. Ernest is
supposed to do some fishing in CHAPTER SIXTEEN When
I look back I regret nothing of the city.
Not the streets nor the bars nor the cafes nor the theatres. I don’t miss the morning drum nor the
strange faces, nor the funny man you don’t seem to put into perspective. The city doesn’t give colour like
that. No, you only remember the people
close to you, those that you wake up for, those that you spend your tiresome
days with. It’s whom make you laugh
and cry that you remember. It’s their
sadness and state of misery that you cannot erase. It’s their cry for help I never seem to
quite get rid of, but can’t get enough of either. That’s the city, whereas in the place I was
born there is only silence and peace.
There is silence and peace and silence and peace. Gee, there is so much silence and peace and
silence and peace that you go back to the misery you tried to escape in the
first place. And when you come back,
oh, it doesn’t take a second before you get wretched all over. Not even a second. Just one fresh breath of smoky filthy city
air and… you’re hooked for good. It
really is an addiction you know. They
should put the city up on the addiction list.
Trust me. My
last word and… and I went to the city to see some extravagant musical. It was a good musical, and June enjoyed
it. I also wanted to show her where I
lived. I remember that night clearly
and being in Sea Point for the first time in a long while made me want to
come back for good. I still love Tania
and Rosemary and I wanted to see them primarily for some reason, a sexual
reason I guess, and some nights when I go to bed with June alongside me I
still dream of them. I dream of the
times we made violent and painful love all over the toilet seat. I dream of those great and wonderful times
when my wife June is lying snoring alongside me, or when June is in the other
room taking care of the screaming baby, or when June is doing the dishes, or
when June is irritating the crap out of me.
I say to myself, Pat! Go back
to Tania! Go back to Rosemary! Leave this June person you stupid stupid
man. This is silliness. There are nights when I hear the baby
crying with June fast asleep. She doesn’t
hear a thing some nights. It’s then
that I feel nothing. Yes, I go and
have a look at the baby to stare and comfort its effortless squealing. If only it will go to sleep… that will
help. Maybe I should smother the
squealer? I’ll say to myself. Tomorrow
I’ll wake up and this wouldn’t be real.
I wouldn’t have wanted it. Not
in a million years. Maybe I should
leave June? Yes, good idea. Gosh, maybe I should shut up and check up
on that squealing baby. But I haven’t
left June yet. And it’s been a while
since I’ve settled so I feel pretty comfortable with my time spent with June
and the baby. Oh, it’s a beautiful baby you know. His name is Scotty, named after Scott. I… I did this naming after Scott thing
because even though Scott wasn’t my best friend, he still impressed me the
most of all the people I’ve met during my time here in Sea Point. Ha, whereas I’ll name my boy after Scott,
I’ll probably name my scavenger pet after Ernest. And that’s not because I’m favouring any
one here for both were marvellous people on their own. Both Scott and Ernest were so unique, both
so dynamic, their words and sayings drove me to writing damn obituaries I
tell you, and sometimes even rotten poetry.
Both were unique, but I’d choose my boy to be like Scott, for even
though Scott is pretty much seen as a failure in life by those around him,
including himself of course, I’ve never met a more generous and charming
human being and gentleman in my life, a gentleman that defined the essence of
being, of what it is to really be in this world. He’s a drunk I admit, but trust me also,
I’ve seen the best of Scott the gentleman.
And that’s what I want from my Scotty at all times. I want the best of Scott in my living room.
Anyway, I remember the musical that night
and how we came to Sea Point and Dingo bar in too much of a hurry. It was closed but I knew that long before
already. I remember June cursing and I
remembered Sea Point for the last time.
Soon I’ll come back. That’s PAT
HOBBIE’s Christmas wish. I wish good
things for you too. Always your
stinking old friend Pat the hack. P.S. Or… or
maybe I should change Scotty to Ernesto?
He’ll make a fine Ernesto too. * * * So
perhaps I am destined to return some day and find in the city new experiences
that so far I have only read about.
For the moment I can only cry out that I have lost my splendid
mirage! Come back, come back, O
glittering and white! F.
Scott Fitzgerald, My Lost City |