vir jou, my lekker lady.’
‘Oh, feel these seats,’ she crooned as she stretched out her legs in front of her. ‘And so much space. This is a car that you just must have sex in.’ She giggled, her tanned breasts wobbling beneath her stretched top, and rubbed her hands over the leatherwork. The car smacked of pretension, but Richard still found himself peeking at it out of the corner of his eye, even months later.
He sat now in his own cramped vehicle, feeling caged like a domestic pet. As he waited for the cheap Korean runabout in front of him to move, he felt none of the vigour that he had hoped for. Instead, sitting so low on the ground with his buttocks only inches from the tar now seemed ridiculous. He was trapped with this discharge of humanity that escaped the city like pus oozing from a wound. He was surrounded by their jam-packed cars, five, six people to a vehicle, all trying to make their way home. The functionality of their commuting choices jarred with the gaudiness of his, and he thought he saw some passengers smirk as they looked down at him from their elevated taxis and buses. They saw his ageing visage, he imagined, his hair thinning and eyes sagging, driving a young buck’s sports car.
In his side mirror he noticed the bright light of a motorcycle moving towards him in the gap between the lanes. A middle-aged man on a Vespa chugged past him, a stained beard protruding from beneath his helmet. His jersey and lunch box were strapped down on the back of the small seat with elasticised snakeys. He looked like an overgrown adolescent on a child’s toy, his legs splayed like bat’s wings. Some days Richard might have been amused, but his mood was peevish and he felt a wave of loathing as he watched the small machine whine its way through the traffic, wobbling through the heated air between the stacked-up cars. The man’s silly demeanour only highlighted Richard’s sense of his own rectitude, the suffocating self-consciousness that was his mantle and his prison. How free might you be, he thought, once you stopped noticing the eyes of the audience about you? Or stopped caring.
But when Richard saw the yellow-orange light of another motorbike approaching, he instinctively turned the wheel, just slightly, letting the nose of the car drift a few inches to the right, closing down the middle path by a critical fraction. It was almost an unconscious act, unwilled, he would have argued prissily. The driver braked sharply as he realised that the gap was too narrow. The bike drew level with Richard’s closed window. It was huge in comparison to the flimsy scooter that had gone before; its engine block was massive and the surrounding fairings shone fiercely orange. The expression of the driver was obscured by a full-face helmet and dark glasses, his riding jacket zipped tightly around his neck. He twisted the throttle, revving the bike into a guttural roar until Richard’s door hummed in protest. The rider’s thigh was close to the glass and his body towered over Richard in his bucket seat. The unspoken aggression was intimidating; Richard’s hands felt damp despite the air conditioning. Reluctantly, he turned the steering wheel back the other way, and the gap slowly opened as the traffic stumbled forward. With another low growl of the engine, the biker let out his clutch and the bike sprinted past, nimble despite its size. Richard thought he noticed the man shake his helmeted head, but he couldn’t be sure. The bike’s tail light was soon lost beyond the line of metal shapes baking in the afternoon heat.
The traffic crawled around the side of Devil’s Peak. The old English blockhouse stood on its promontory, watching over the bay. The lower slopes of the mountain were marked with pockets of dense pine trees, originally introduced for firewood and now clustered around the white stone blocks of Rhodes Memorial. Richard scanned the grass slope near the road for signs of wildlife. He could make out a small
‘Oh, feel these seats,’ she crooned as she stretched out her legs in front of her. ‘And so much space. This is a car that you just must have sex in.’ She giggled, her tanned breasts wobbling beneath her stretched top, and rubbed her hands over the leatherwork. The car smacked of pretension, but Richard still found himself peeking at it out of the corner of his eye, even months later.
He sat now in his own cramped vehicle, feeling caged like a domestic pet. As he waited for the cheap Korean runabout in front of him to move, he felt none of the vigour that he had hoped for. Instead, sitting so low on the ground with his buttocks only inches from the tar now seemed ridiculous. He was trapped with this discharge of humanity that escaped the city like pus oozing from a wound. He was surrounded by their jam-packed cars, five, six people to a vehicle, all trying to make their way home. The functionality of their commuting choices jarred with the gaudiness of his, and he thought he saw some passengers smirk as they looked down at him from their elevated taxis and buses. They saw his ageing visage, he imagined, his hair thinning and eyes sagging, driving a young buck’s sports car.
In his side mirror he noticed the bright light of a motorcycle moving towards him in the gap between the lanes. A middle-aged man on a Vespa chugged past him, a stained beard protruding from beneath his helmet. His jersey and lunch box were strapped down on the back of the small seat with elasticised snakeys. He looked like an overgrown adolescent on a child’s toy, his legs splayed like bat’s wings. Some days Richard might have been amused, but his mood was peevish and he felt a wave of loathing as he watched the small machine whine its way through the traffic, wobbling through the heated air between the stacked-up cars. The man’s silly demeanour only highlighted Richard’s sense of his own rectitude, the suffocating self-consciousness that was his mantle and his prison. How free might you be, he thought, once you stopped noticing the eyes of the audience about you? Or stopped caring.
But when Richard saw the yellow-orange light of another motorbike approaching, he instinctively turned the wheel, just slightly, letting the nose of the car drift a few inches to the right, closing down the middle path by a critical fraction. It was almost an unconscious act, unwilled, he would have argued prissily. The driver braked sharply as he realised that the gap was too narrow. The bike drew level with Richard’s closed window. It was huge in comparison to the flimsy scooter that had gone before; its engine block was massive and the surrounding fairings shone fiercely orange. The expression of the driver was obscured by a full-face helmet and dark glasses, his riding jacket zipped tightly around his neck. He twisted the throttle, revving the bike into a guttural roar until Richard’s door hummed in protest. The rider’s thigh was close to the glass and his body towered over Richard in his bucket seat. The unspoken aggression was intimidating; Richard’s hands felt damp despite the air conditioning. Reluctantly, he turned the steering wheel back the other way, and the gap slowly opened as the traffic stumbled forward. With another low growl of the engine, the biker let out his clutch and the bike sprinted past, nimble despite its size. Richard thought he noticed the man shake his helmeted head, but he couldn’t be sure. The bike’s tail light was soon lost beyond the line of metal shapes baking in the afternoon heat.
The traffic crawled around the side of Devil’s Peak. The old English blockhouse stood on its promontory, watching over the bay. The lower slopes of the mountain were marked with pockets of dense pine trees, originally introduced for firewood and now clustered around the white stone blocks of Rhodes Memorial. Richard scanned the grass slope near the road for signs of wildlife. He could make out a small
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