Aforementioned
Weather-beaten
swig
I have had a busy week. I wake up on Saturday morning exhausted. 11h00...
The first thing that comes to mind disturbs me slightly. I don't want to eat immediately. I don't want to urinate immediately. I don't even want to hammer down my morning wood immediately. The first thing I want is a drink!
After I proceed to take care of the aforementioned urges, I head out. The trek from Muizenberg to the livelier parts of Cape Town takes 30 minutes on a train. I cannot wait that long for a drink
I visit the pricey, local bottle store. It is strange to see weather-beaten appearance of alcoholics on white faces. They are funnier to look at. I'm not sure whether that's because of the sunburnt appearance, or the racist inside of me.
They keep the smaller bottles of strong alcohol at the counter. I'm not sure how to tell the lady what i want. Where I come from, half a bottle is called a 'straight' and half of that is called a 'nip'. I'm not sure this Muizenberger will understand. I point to the 'nip' of Russian bear. I happily part with my R20.
At the station I take large swigs of the toxic vodka. Surely this is not healthy. It burns my throat and takes my breath away for a few seconds. I make sure my lips don't come into contact with the vodka. I'm trying to avoid those excessively pink lips. I have a genetic predisposition to this condition because most of my uncles have the sexy pink lip.
I plan everything out. I’ll get into the first carriage. Each time I need a swig, I’ll walk into the convenient space between the carriages. When I’m finished I’ll just walk into the next carriage as if nothing happened.
I meet up with my friends. They laugh at my antics and desperation. I haven’t been paid yet…I have R100 which needs to last till Wednesday.
My mind buzzes with calculations. I compare prices, alcoholic percentage, current levels of dignity. The vodka has helped in lowering the latter, which makes my decisions slightly easier.
My budget does not allow for the likes of Jack Daniels, Red Heart, or Jameson. However my dignity is still too high to go for the likes of Zorba, Alaska peppermint, Cane or Autmn harvest crackling. Finally I decide to go for it. I decide to go back to the 5l boxes of wine.
I’ve never had good experiences with boxed wine. It resulted in me breaking up with 2 girlfriends. It was responsible for getting me mugged. I’ve also spoken it tongues under the influence of boxed wine. I consider it to be the devil’s urine.
Hard times dictate.
While reaching out for the cheapest boxed…marked ‘semi-sweet rose’ I experience an out of body experience.
I think back to the time we used to make fun of the alcoholics in the township who would skillfully remove the silver bag from the box. How they would hold the bag above their heads, and suckle on it like drunken calves. How we would sneak up on them when they pa**ed out, and finish off the remainders. How we would laugh at their ‘phuza face’. How we would mischievously kick and punch their lame bodies. I thought about how they used to fight over the ownership of the silver bags…they were useful when going to swim in the pool.
SCREW that. I’m broke and thirsty. I take the wine. It sets me back R50 for 5 litres. It works out cheaper than the cheapest quarts of beer. Plus it creates more work for the grape-pickers in Paarl. We know how well they are treated. This is my ode to them. All those victims of the Dop system, you are not alone. I am here with you. Solidarity.
I brought back the wine. My friends looked at me disapprovingly. I downed the 60% of the box. I pa**ed out.
I’ll do it again next weekend!
