rather eat raw buffalo intestines than swim in that costume. He says heâs resigning and heâs taking his tools with him. He fetches the map from the den and starts walking away with The Targets.
My
targets.
I get changed into Adore Appelâs costume. I look adorable (not). I keep myself covered with a towel until I reach the jetty and then I jump in. I swim. And then I swim some more. And then I tell Toffie to fetch my sunscreen (factor 50 + ) from the den and when heâs gone I jump out of the water and wrap myself in the towel.
I sit on the bank of the river and I feel tiny ants biting my skin. But when I take off my towel I donât see ants.
Toffie comes back with my factor 50 + and stares at my legs.
âJis, Boss,â he says, âlook at your legs.â
I look at them and I see these white things covered in hair. And I hate Toffie for looking. And I hate Mom for never getting it together to take me for a wax.
Toffie reaches over and flicks white crystals away with his fingers. I hate Toffie more for touching my legs.
âThe riverâs all choked up. In a couple of days theyâll break through the sand bank by the lagoon and then the salt will get washed away to the sea,â he says, licking his finger.
I scratch the salt crystals off my legs and cover them in cream. I tell Toffie itâs time to work. He lays the map on the ground. There are thirty-two red crosses on the map. We go through each one and in the first round we cross off fifteen. All fifteen are single men under the age of fifty. Too young.
During the second round we knock off six more names. These are all single men over the age of seventy. Too old. Toffie says there are eleven names left. I say, yeah, like duh!
We disqualify another three names on the basis of their professional status. One drives a soft-serve combi. Toffie says the ice-cream van is a clever front â heâs actually a perlemoen smuggler. Very professional. I say I donât think smuggling abalone is so professional.
The others are a painter (walls not art) and a plumber (Mr Dreyer). Toffie says thereâs nothing wrong with plumbers. I say Iâm very fond of plumbers personally, but the client wants a professional man. Toffie says I donât know what my Grummer really wants. I say I want to move on to the eight finalists.
I try to employ the next criterion on the lucky eight, and Toffie just gives up on me. âIf youâre looking for an old man who doesnât drink in this dorp, youâre wasting your time, man, Beat. Everyone drinks here. Thereâs nothing else to do.â
I say weâll be guided by bodily hair. So we go and sell more tickets. I scratch two from the list after they say they already bought tickets in the morning when they were at the pubbingrill having a couple of toots or seven. I donât care what Toffie says, I think drinking so early in the morning is taking ânothing else to doâ a bit too seriously. Dr Peter Waterford is still partying in Jozi, but my remaining one is adequately haired and I snap his photo with my cellphone.
Toffie comes back with four photos he took using his cellphone. I put three of the candidates out of their misery on the basis of extreme ugliness. Toffie says Iâm ugly about ugly people. I say Iâm ugly about ugly old men.
We put the uglies in the slush pile and we look at the three remaining names: Mr David Davis-Davis (senior school religious studies teacher aka the educated God-squadder), Dr Simon Fridjohn (veterinarian aka the professional animal lover) and Dr Peter Waterford (doctor aka the professional professional).
All bases covered.
Gotcha!
Chapter 14
I LOOK AT The Targets and I tell Toffie itâs been swell, but all good things come to an end. If he could just turn in the cellphone and hand me the fifty-two rand he owes me for the tickets, Iâll be on my way.
Toffie says thatâs just fine and what a pity me and
My
targets.
I get changed into Adore Appelâs costume. I look adorable (not). I keep myself covered with a towel until I reach the jetty and then I jump in. I swim. And then I swim some more. And then I tell Toffie to fetch my sunscreen (factor 50 + ) from the den and when heâs gone I jump out of the water and wrap myself in the towel.
I sit on the bank of the river and I feel tiny ants biting my skin. But when I take off my towel I donât see ants.
Toffie comes back with my factor 50 + and stares at my legs.
âJis, Boss,â he says, âlook at your legs.â
I look at them and I see these white things covered in hair. And I hate Toffie for looking. And I hate Mom for never getting it together to take me for a wax.
Toffie reaches over and flicks white crystals away with his fingers. I hate Toffie more for touching my legs.
âThe riverâs all choked up. In a couple of days theyâll break through the sand bank by the lagoon and then the salt will get washed away to the sea,â he says, licking his finger.
I scratch the salt crystals off my legs and cover them in cream. I tell Toffie itâs time to work. He lays the map on the ground. There are thirty-two red crosses on the map. We go through each one and in the first round we cross off fifteen. All fifteen are single men under the age of fifty. Too young.
During the second round we knock off six more names. These are all single men over the age of seventy. Too old. Toffie says there are eleven names left. I say, yeah, like duh!
We disqualify another three names on the basis of their professional status. One drives a soft-serve combi. Toffie says the ice-cream van is a clever front â heâs actually a perlemoen smuggler. Very professional. I say I donât think smuggling abalone is so professional.
The others are a painter (walls not art) and a plumber (Mr Dreyer). Toffie says thereâs nothing wrong with plumbers. I say Iâm very fond of plumbers personally, but the client wants a professional man. Toffie says I donât know what my Grummer really wants. I say I want to move on to the eight finalists.
I try to employ the next criterion on the lucky eight, and Toffie just gives up on me. âIf youâre looking for an old man who doesnât drink in this dorp, youâre wasting your time, man, Beat. Everyone drinks here. Thereâs nothing else to do.â
I say weâll be guided by bodily hair. So we go and sell more tickets. I scratch two from the list after they say they already bought tickets in the morning when they were at the pubbingrill having a couple of toots or seven. I donât care what Toffie says, I think drinking so early in the morning is taking ânothing else to doâ a bit too seriously. Dr Peter Waterford is still partying in Jozi, but my remaining one is adequately haired and I snap his photo with my cellphone.
Toffie comes back with four photos he took using his cellphone. I put three of the candidates out of their misery on the basis of extreme ugliness. Toffie says Iâm ugly about ugly people. I say Iâm ugly about ugly old men.
We put the uglies in the slush pile and we look at the three remaining names: Mr David Davis-Davis (senior school religious studies teacher aka the educated God-squadder), Dr Simon Fridjohn (veterinarian aka the professional animal lover) and Dr Peter Waterford (doctor aka the professional professional).
All bases covered.
Gotcha!
Chapter 14
I LOOK AT The Targets and I tell Toffie itâs been swell, but all good things come to an end. If he could just turn in the cellphone and hand me the fifty-two rand he owes me for the tickets, Iâll be on my way.
Toffie says thatâs just fine and what a pity me and
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