Thought about opening the door, closed since that night a month ago. Went as far as touching the doorknob with her fingertips. Knew she wasn’t ready to turn it.
Roxy withdrew her hand and went toward her bedroom.
DISCO DE LILLY woke up looking straight into his mommy’s eyes.
She said, Why you mess up your life like so?
Lying there, staring at the framed photograph that hung on the wall of the wooden zozo hut—all that was left of his mother, dead these fifteen years—he flashed back to the smack of the gunshot, saw the white man grabbing his leg, sinking to his knees.
Panicked, Disco stood his bare ass up from the bed and turned his back on the photo he couldn’t bring himself to remove.
But he still heard his mommy: You know where you going? Straight to hell.
Never mind hell; unless he got his shit together, he was going straight back to Pollsmoor Maximum Security Prison.
And Piper.
The sun blasting in through the window told him it was past midday as he pulled on a pair of jeans, slung low on his narrow hips. He grabbed for his cell phone and dialed Goddy’s number. Call disallowed. Out of fucken airtime.
Disco opened the door of the hut and sat on the step, shirtless, preparing his first pipe of the day, already feeling the itching on his skin, his body crying out for the meth. His perfect torso was etched with tattoos. Not the elegant, swirling curlicues that adorned the blond surfer boys who rode Cape Town’s waves, these were the crude prison variety, carved into his skin with razor blades and sharpened wire. Ink made from melted plastic, shoe polish, and the blackened innards of batteries. Dollar signs, playing cards, bleeding hearts, poker dice, a coiled snake with the head of a penis.
The work of Piper. Disco the helpless supplicant as he lay on the bunk in the communal cell in Pollsmoor.
Disco pulled on the pipe. Exhaled. Sucked the pipe empty, oblivious to the hot glass burning his lips. Trying to suck his way to oblivion. A blank place without memory.
He couldn’t.
Disco made another pipe and fired it up. Battling to hold back a sewage spill of fear. He absorbed the smoke, feeling the rush by the time he exhaled.
Better .
The fat woman from the main house waddled out to string up washing on a sagging line. She was barefoot, wearing a frayed nightdress, buttons straining against her massive breasts, her
coarse hair wound tight around pink rollers. A little black mongrel bared its teeth and snarled at Disco from behind the woman’s hairy calf, peering past the varicose veins that grew like jungle vines up her legs.
The fat bitch spoke around the clothes peg she held in her mouth. “Hey, go put you a shirt on. You scaring little Zuma.” She laughed and made wet kissing sounds as she stroked the dog with a calloused foot.
She wobbled over to where Disco sat. “Where’s your fucken rent money?”
“Tonight, Auntie, okay?”
“Gimme a hit.”
She grabbed the pipe and vacuumed up what was left, her tits threatening to escape the housecoat. Her naked gums smacked wetly as she exhaled a stream of smoke. “Or you can pay me the other way.”
She was looking at him the way the 28s had looked at him that first night at Pollsmoor: like he was a piece of meat. Her left hand opened the folds of the nightdress, and Disco saw she hadn’t bothered with underwear. Her stink filled his nose as she pushed herself close to his face.
He jumped to his feet, remembering the god-awful day a month back when he had done what she wanted, her brutal thrusts rocking the wooden hut, leaving the picture of his mommy hanging askew.
Never again.
“I’ll have Auntie’s money tonight.” He fled into the zozo .
“Don’t think I didn’t see youse in that Benz last night, little fuckers!” she shouted as he slammed the door.
Disco looked at himself in the cracked mirror that leaned against the wall, lamenting the mess Piper had made of his body. Not only had Piper broken him and poisoned
Roxy withdrew her hand and went toward her bedroom.
DISCO DE LILLY woke up looking straight into his mommy’s eyes.
She said, Why you mess up your life like so?
Lying there, staring at the framed photograph that hung on the wall of the wooden zozo hut—all that was left of his mother, dead these fifteen years—he flashed back to the smack of the gunshot, saw the white man grabbing his leg, sinking to his knees.
Panicked, Disco stood his bare ass up from the bed and turned his back on the photo he couldn’t bring himself to remove.
But he still heard his mommy: You know where you going? Straight to hell.
Never mind hell; unless he got his shit together, he was going straight back to Pollsmoor Maximum Security Prison.
And Piper.
The sun blasting in through the window told him it was past midday as he pulled on a pair of jeans, slung low on his narrow hips. He grabbed for his cell phone and dialed Goddy’s number. Call disallowed. Out of fucken airtime.
Disco opened the door of the hut and sat on the step, shirtless, preparing his first pipe of the day, already feeling the itching on his skin, his body crying out for the meth. His perfect torso was etched with tattoos. Not the elegant, swirling curlicues that adorned the blond surfer boys who rode Cape Town’s waves, these were the crude prison variety, carved into his skin with razor blades and sharpened wire. Ink made from melted plastic, shoe polish, and the blackened innards of batteries. Dollar signs, playing cards, bleeding hearts, poker dice, a coiled snake with the head of a penis.
The work of Piper. Disco the helpless supplicant as he lay on the bunk in the communal cell in Pollsmoor.
Disco pulled on the pipe. Exhaled. Sucked the pipe empty, oblivious to the hot glass burning his lips. Trying to suck his way to oblivion. A blank place without memory.
He couldn’t.
Disco made another pipe and fired it up. Battling to hold back a sewage spill of fear. He absorbed the smoke, feeling the rush by the time he exhaled.
Better .
The fat woman from the main house waddled out to string up washing on a sagging line. She was barefoot, wearing a frayed nightdress, buttons straining against her massive breasts, her
coarse hair wound tight around pink rollers. A little black mongrel bared its teeth and snarled at Disco from behind the woman’s hairy calf, peering past the varicose veins that grew like jungle vines up her legs.
The fat bitch spoke around the clothes peg she held in her mouth. “Hey, go put you a shirt on. You scaring little Zuma.” She laughed and made wet kissing sounds as she stroked the dog with a calloused foot.
She wobbled over to where Disco sat. “Where’s your fucken rent money?”
“Tonight, Auntie, okay?”
“Gimme a hit.”
She grabbed the pipe and vacuumed up what was left, her tits threatening to escape the housecoat. Her naked gums smacked wetly as she exhaled a stream of smoke. “Or you can pay me the other way.”
She was looking at him the way the 28s had looked at him that first night at Pollsmoor: like he was a piece of meat. Her left hand opened the folds of the nightdress, and Disco saw she hadn’t bothered with underwear. Her stink filled his nose as she pushed herself close to his face.
He jumped to his feet, remembering the god-awful day a month back when he had done what she wanted, her brutal thrusts rocking the wooden hut, leaving the picture of his mommy hanging askew.
Never again.
“I’ll have Auntie’s money tonight.” He fled into the zozo .
“Don’t think I didn’t see youse in that Benz last night, little fuckers!” she shouted as he slammed the door.
Disco looked at himself in the cracked mirror that leaned against the wall, lamenting the mess Piper had made of his body. Not only had Piper broken him and poisoned
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