Blackout

      “Settling in?” An expectant grin almost distracted him from raptor eyes, splitting through the encroaching darkness as the streetlights dimmed out.

           “Yeah,” Philip muttered.

           “Oh goodie,” she scanned the floor. “You need a TV?”, her gaze darted, “New bedframe? Extra cupboard? I have all these things that belonged to my husband you see.”

           “Maybe later.” Phillip turned away.

           She continued to hover over the threshold. He wondered if her uplifted arms were about to start humming.

           “You need me to show you how to use the solar geyser again?”

           He took a step back. “I got it.” At least he would be able to have a hot shower during the outages.

           Her foot slid further inside. “You sure? If you don’t do it right my tanks leak. The dripping is awful, like Chinese water torture. You know it’s impossible to sleep with that sound.” Her voice was tremulous, like a creaky wheel.

           “I said I’ve got it.” He grunted, reaching for the door handle.

           She was the one who had decided to install the most complex water system south of the equator. Pipes jutted out from all angles connecting to points that led only God knew where. Why should it be his problem? But Phillip had dealt with far more sophisticated machinery.

           A frown flashed across her hawkish features; a sharp nose, pointed chin, and tight skinned face that betrayed her true age. The sagging flab on her arms sent off a strong geriatric vibe. But she was not wholly unattractive, for her years. She was eager to please, and it wasn’t unappreciated.

           He just needed to be alone.

           “Okay then. Just knock if you need anything.” She turned, then hesitated for a moment, and looked back. But he was already in the process of closing his door.

           “Thanks,” he said. And then shut out the world.

           There was a moment of relief. Only a fraction of a second. Then a tyranny of thoughts pounced from all corners of his mind, obsessing over the events that had led him up to this point. 

           Compulsively he reached for his pipe, but then realized he didn’t have anything left. And the liquor stores were closed on a Sunday.

           Here he was, in the karoo desert, in a town with barely one traffic light, renting a one bedroom rondavel from a widow. The drive in earlier that day had been bleak. The arid earth coming into the northern cape was mostly cracked, bone dry, supporting only a sparse offering of rough, hardy fauna. To top it all off there had been no electricity for three days.

           This is where dreams come to commit suicide, he thought.

           Cape Town wailed for him like a forlorn siren in the vast distance. Messages from his friends had spammed his inbox for days, friends and lovers worried about his sudden disappearance. But nothing from his old work colleagues. He wondered if he would ever see any of them again. If he would ever stay up all night partying, waiting for the sun to come up, sitting on the beach after an all nighter saying stupid shit like “Of course the powers don’t want you taking Molly man, they don’t want a little joy and a whole lot of love, they want you pounding away at the machine until your will to live is dead.” 

           He had to give someone something.

           I’m in Poortgerus. 

           Wtf? Is this cos of Shannon?

           He chucked the phone onto his bed. He’d done his duty. Maybe they’d worry less. It was quite an achievement, fucking up your name in a city so big. But engineers ran in small circles.

           You working there? Or is this some rehab nonsense?

           He had been given two choices by the municipality: power or sanitation. Power was a lot more work with all the load shedding but sanitation…was he ready for his life to become excrement, literally? He had a really good resume, but government jobs were few and far between.

           “Yoohooo…. Yellllooooo…” someone sang outside his window.

           He got up, and opened the curtains.

           Two figures stood outside, a rotund man with bright slitted and eyes, and a woman barely taller than a child with conspicuously crimson hair.

           He considered ignoring them but the woman noticed him and beckoned with a plate of something. He wrenched open the door.

           The look on his face must have been quite malignant cos they both seemed to be pulled away from his presence. He tried as best he could to soften his gaze, but found he was far too tense.

           “Yeah?” He said, unable to feign decency. He loathed them in that moment. The pudgy faces, the false innocence in unblinking eyes. They had trekked all the way through Gwen’s back garden with only one agenda. Disturb the new tenant.

           “We uh…” The lady began, fidgeting with a thick hand knitted jersey, “well, I’m Marie.” She extended a jelly soft handshake.

           “Joubertus,” the man said, with a firm jawed grip.

           They started at each other in silence for a few seconds. He didn’t know what to say.

           “Oh right, sorry…” he grumbled. “Phillip.” He tried to sound friendly, but the politeness was irritating him like a bad cough.

           “We made you some koeksisters,” Marie handed him the plate. They were soggy and dripping with syrup. Large enough to feed a small family.

           “Thanks,” Phillip said. He felt a hotness surge through his neck. Now he would be hooked in. He would have to clean and return the tray. There would be more talking. But he did love a good sugary treat when he was in a mood. Or after a couple of bongs. “I’ll enjoy these.” He managed.

           Marie settled. Joubertus seemed alert. It was typical for men to sense danger in other men.

           She started to prattle on about Poortgerus…”It’s a small town…but it’s got a lot of gees…”

           Yay, spirit. All he needed right now.

           “You should come to our church fete on Sunday afternoon, it’s a real blast. We have them once a month. Maybe not the sort of thing you’re used to from the big city. But we’ll have more baked goods, a book stall, some entertainment for the kids and…”

           “He don’t have kids Marie,” Joubertus said winking at Phillip as if to say, ‘I know what kind of man you are, bud. I understand you.’

           Phillip was sure that he did not. “Yeah I’ll think about it.”

           “What denomination?” Marie asked. “Methodist? Baptist? Presbytarian?” Phillip shook his head. Her eyes widened, “…um…Catholic?” Her voice indicated that this would be a troubling choice.

           “I’m Buddhist, I think. Don’t really know.” Phillip said, instantly regretting it. These hicks wouldn’t understand that. 

           Marie seemed to swallow her tongue. Joubertus’s lips turned up in a half smile.

           “Oh, well,” Marie looked around the garden, “We take all kinds at our church, no judgments,” her hands flitted in and out of her pockets, “You see, Jesus said in James Chapter…” 

           Joubertus grabbed his wife’s arm.

           “Oh, right. Don’t want to bore you. Um, go with Christ…Buddha…I mean…” 

           And with that they disappeared through the gate, scurrying away into an oblivion of red dusted streets.

           He was on call for the substation that powered much of the lower half of the province, perhaps Poortgerus’s only strategic function. It was mainly simple, and hard labour. There was no chance to challenge his mind and whenever he offered insight into how to upgrade fuses or which new materials to purchase for transformer cables, he was met with derision. There was no money in the budget and who cared anyway, it was working fine. He wanted to argue the last point but held back. The country was used to things as they were.

           In the evenings he retreated to his rondavel. He had come to like it. He would have a beer or two, smoke a little weed, do technical drawings on his computer when the power was on, or take apart some of the old devices he had brought with him when it was not. Old remotes, laptops, cellphones. His tinkering mostly didn’t produce any results. It was just a comforting compulsion.

           But without fail, every evening at seven fifteen, having calculated that he had rested, finished supper and sunk into a mellow state of drunkenness, Gwen would show up at his door with a problem. “Can you show me how to use this spreadsheet?” Her eyes would glimmer. “Oh I need a big strong man to help me with this fridge,” with a sly grin. Or “Phi…lliiiip,” her voice drawn out, “Do you mind going into the shops for me and returning these gloves?”.

           Every day he felt the neck burn more intensely. It coursed downwards, towards his chest, growing, and engorging. He felt like a piece of refuse being eaten up by an enormous maggot. And he couldn’t think of how to get rid of it.

           So he did what he always did in times of stress.

           On the outskirts of the village a township, almost larger than Poortgerus itself, rolled up the hilly exterior. Brietsville was a location of extreme poverty, shacks built with scrap wood, metal and plastic roof sheeting that baked in the heat amidst stony dirt roads.

           It was there that Burton lived.

           He had met the tall, gaunt, criminal some time back, prowling through his neighborhood, spying out the houses for electric fences and burglar bars. When Phillip had caught him he had at first frozen in fear.

           But all Phillip had wanted was drugs.

           So that was how he found himself sitting in a wobbly camping chair, in a house made of scrap metal, lighted by candles.

           He took a long pull off the chillum.

           “Good ja?” Burton said, through a mouth full of stained brown teeth.

           “Compared to last one, sure.”

           “Mandrax button’s always good my mun, but de secret now is a liddle tik. Jus a liddle so it won’t make ya tweak yo bawls af.”

           Phillip too a few more powerful chemical pulls and found himself sinking into the deepest of spiritual cushions, feeling free as a bird.

           “How much?” He asked.

           “Fo you? A fifdy.”

           It was cheap for such a huge supply. But this was a poor man’s drug.

           So Phillip walked home, goodies in hand. It was nine thirty and Brietsville was dark, except for the offcut steel reflecting the moonlight. But the sound of music pumping from one of the homes on makeshift inverters filled the air with a buzzing brightness. Folk nodded to him as he walked past, shooting knowing smiles. Everyone knew what a guy like him was there for. He almost felt excited about life again.

On a particular day he had felt even more claustrophobic than usual. Gwen had come to his door with a request early in the morning, texted him during his lunch hour, and come back immediately after he arrived back from work, which had been particularly mind-numbing; tightening shock boxes, and soul destroying; observing where cable had been damaged and stolen. To top it off he had been chastised by the supervisor for sneaking out to smoke too often.

           So in the late evening, after running errands for Gwen, he lay back in his chair, turned on autocad, and drowned his sorrows. 

           By 10 ‘o clock he was half a bottle of vodka down and chasing with enormous puffs from a chillum he had fashioned by poking holes in an empty coke in.

           When he stood up, basking in the glow, he saw the lights still on in the landlady’s house.

           He wondered about her loneliness, about having someone, something, suddenly ripped out of your life. Did it make her feel better to have a substitute man around?

           The burning hotness was sweetly sedated now. He felt his own isolation deeply. He would need to change things. He had to.

           How much worse if he had lost a wife or a child?

           So he went outside for a smoke.

           The power went out.

           And it was the last thing he remembered of that night.

           Late afternoon sun caught him sharply in the corner of his eye through a slit in the curtains. He felt heavy and laden with a squirming hangover.

           Pulling himself up he felt a soft carpet beneath his toes. The curtains were patterned with oddly aggressive-looking Egyptian Geese.

           Had Gwen changed something while he slept?

           No. He wasn’t in his rondavel. He scratched at his back and felt a strange material. He was wearing plaid boxer shorts and a khaki t-shirt.

           He owned neither of those things.

           “Oh Phillip are you up? I’ve made lunch,” Gwen’s voice tittered like a bluebird.

           She twirled into the room, somehow managing to keep a tray of curried chicken and basmati rice perfectly stable as she did. Her eyes sparkled like he had never seen before.

           And, Phillip had an erection.

She begun to lower the tray, her pocked porous face broken by a flittering, curled smile. She looked like the witch who had finally eaten those pesky children.

           In an instant Phillip was up. He tried to dodge the tray, but knocked the side and sent gravy spraying all over the bed.

           Not even looking back to get a reaction he sprinted down the passageway. The boxers were loose on his narrow hips, and he had to hold them up with his hand. He burst through the wood and stained-glass door in front, and emerged, head throbbing, into the punishing light.

           “Good afternoon, Phillip.” Marie was tending to Gwen’s hedge.

           “Ugh,” was all he could manage. Did this hag think something weird was going on?

           “You should come to our church fete this weekend,” her eyes never left the thorny thicket, “there’ll be brownies.”

           Some religious folk really had a wear-you-down approach.

           He gave her a tense nod and fled. Safety and his rondavel were just around the corner.

           Somehow he had managed to avoid Gwen for almost a week. He didn’t like to think about the blackout, but was sure he would remember if it was more than innocent. He had called in sick to work and stayed off the drugs and alcohol. He imagined it as a sort of shutdown before a new boot-up, to replenish and refocus.

           He realized that if he was going to live here, he needed to make the most of it. If he was ever going to get a better job, and get to a less shitty town he needed to embrace where he was.

           Having lived on canned food and instant noodles for a week, he felt ravenous. Marie had spoken of baked goods at the church fete. Maybe it was time to get to it.

           When he arrived, the open lawn in front of the old brick building was teaming with crowds, more people than he had ever thought lived in the desert village. They chatted, sampled, and flowed like a lazy river among the various stalls and stands. He could fit in here. He didn’t have a choice.

           He made a beeline for the brownies and threw a twenty at the keeper, who shot him a look he could not quite fathom. He almost inhaled the first two and then chewed on the third more slowly.

           “Phillip,” an unknown voice called, “am I right?” The man was dressed in a pale blue shirt and brown kakhis.

           “Yeah?”

           “It’s nice to finally meet you in person.” He extended his hand. Phillip shook it. “My congregation has been eager to see you in the flesh.”

           Was this the part where subtle conversion came in? Maybe he could attend the church just as a social thing, take out the good, leave the bad. “They talk about me?”

           “We take all kinds here,” the pastor said, “We’re not one of those dogmatic parishes.”

           “I’ve been told.”

           “Jesus never judged the sinners, nor the saints. He never put himself above anyone for their own choices. He preached to kings, soldiers, fishermen, even prostitutes.”

           Phillip felt his face becoming hot. “And that’s supposed to mean what?”

           The pastor was looking through him. “We all have our little indiscretions,” Phillip had the sinking feeling he was trying to whisper it but was unable to. “Nothing to be ashamed of. Christ forgives all.”

           Phillip suddenly wanted to scream at his coy jawline, and the arched concern in his brow. What the fuck was he talking about?

           The pastor seemed to sense his confusion. “Oh I hear it all from my congregants. We all use people, even I have, for our own selfish needs. Perhaps not for carnal pleasures, but it’s all the same,” he put a hand on Phillip’s shoulder. “But if we accept our sins, we can receive his grace.”

           “No,” Phillip stuttered, “not Gwen, I…”

           The fire in his extremities was raging now.

           He turned around.

           Everyone had stopped what they were doing and were staring at him. The tasty news of whatever had transpired that night seemed to have swept through their imaginations.

           “I didn’t. I couldn’t have.”

           The Pastor’s eyes were knowing.

           People were obsessed with sex. Especially those who were not having it. Even the tiniest morsel of it, whether true or not, would run rampant through their collective mythos.

           Surely not even if he was that wasted.

           Could he face them? Could he face Gwen?

           Or would he flee again, to another town, take another job even less satisfying than this one.

           Well, he thought, I hope that Burton’s looking for a roommate.