charlie-sunshine

My body, your body, everybody’s body is one amazing machine. Yes, indeedy. And although I was the type of kid that would rather let a splinter the size of a piece of braai- wood assimilate naturally into my body than have one of my parents attempt to take out the sucker with a needle….- I am not immune to the seduction and account –draining lure of all the glorious pseudo-medical crap that the general health care industry tries to  peddle onto my all too-suspecting ass.

Like every non-German engineered machine, your body needs a little bit of help and perfunctory maintenance from time to time. Sometimes a stern lecture about bad habits, over indulgence and the importance maintaining a decent level of eyesight is necessary….well, for me at least. I have a penchant for rubbing my eyes and not wearing my spec-TACK-ulars. So much so, that one godforsaken day a few years back I gave myself a self-fulfilling case of conjunctivitis. #FML.

If you are giggling quietly to yourself…..what a sick, twisted person you are…just my kinda people- I say. But if you’re really my kinda people- you’ll allow me to weave a fantastical narrative and set the stage for this Machiavellian tale.    

Deep South in the trenches of conservative suburban hell, the awesome that is Moth escorted me in all my myopic glory to the closest chemist. Anti-inflammatory eye-drops aside…. my blurry gaze settled upon…..wait for it….an eye-patch!!!! KISMET….I shit you not. Somebody, somewhere was trying to tell me something. I gave Moth one of those mischievous looks (with a heavy misdirected under-current of how this might turn into something kinky) and like a Flake….all resistance crumbled.

 

He is supportive that one. Much in the same vein as Voltaire’s credo of “I do not agree with what you have to say, but I’ll defend to the death you right to say it” Moth’s management style (laissez faire- of course) with me has always been….”I don’t agree with your naughty impulses and obstreperous (coloured pronunciation- opstropolis) behaviour, but I will facilitate the process of you catching on kak.”  And rightly so. Damn straight!

And because he's such a fucking nice guy, he takes me to this treasure trove of a babi shop (corner store). Basically Cape Town's Indian version of Willy Wonka.....and I, the namesake in this glorious tale....the presiding Charlie to this VERY rinkydink Chocolate Factory. Glass display boxes, stacked like an imposing wall of tetris filled with fire balls, coconut puffs, sour rope, musky chalk sweets that are reminiscent of rat poison....as well as all the racialistic candy you could possibly comprehend.

Namaste!

For the sake of accuracy...I do have to state the facts. Yes....the Indian Willy Wonka did look more like a tan version of Mr. Burns from the Simpson's. And yes, if you gathered that I was sporting a powder pink eye-patch the minute I layed my hands on it...and dutifully proceeded to parade myself from the chemist, alllllll the way to the corner store; eye ensconced in all its pink plastic glory- you are correct!



In this particular corner shop, in this particular suburb, during that particular time......everybody made it their business to know your business. Now you see, I come from an extremely different background to where I found myself at that particular moment. They'd lynch me for saying this, but it's true that my family's version of community spirit starts and ends with being a Community of One, the One above any and everything.....put frankly Bigots Extraordinaire. By logical extention a community can not consist of One, it is the complete antithesis of what community stands for, so that should give you an indication of just how much energy they expend on being cognicient of other people and their surroundings. <sigh> So naturally I've adopted the polar opposite stance to almost all people and things- excluding bigots of course. My childhood was peppered with "Stranger Danger", "No, you can't play with the neighbour's kids"...and "Don't make too much noise outside, or you'll aggrevate Aunty Ruby's dog's epilepsy...again."(And to think that dog's name was Lucky....just another furry bigot in my books- how unlucky).

Soul-less childhood aside, let's be fair and admit that I prefer Nosey Parker's just as much as the League of Extraordinary Bigots. Both, ironically are fair game when it comes to whimsical mind-fuckery! Sometimes I think people are just waiting for it to happen.




We walk up to the counter, off load enough sweets to fill the counter, offend the morbidly obese, insulin dependent and possibly perpetuate racial pornographic slurs (if you don't know what I'm talking about they're called k__fir balls). I muster up the most Bambified, doe-eyed moisture soaked gaze...transfix it to Indian Mr Burns cum Willy Wonka...smile a small sad smile...and wait.










I thought it was friggen h!-lar-ious, he thought I was serious....Moth was indifferent and taught me the consequence of my actions. Apparently my twisted humour is not readily appreciated in the suburban hell that is the Deep Dirty South.... especially around patriarchal Indian Willy Burns Wonka (lol- that name sounds like a title for a fetish porno).

Alas, I am no longer the Charlie to that Chocolate Factory and unfortunately  incognito rat poison shaped candy, imposing tetris walls of awesome decay-inducing sweets and the last remnants of racialistic confectionery are forever beyond my grasp. But I will forever remember the twisted power of that powder pink eye patch.