The year 1996. The Matric Dance.
The mid nineties weren’t all Oasis, Manchester United and strolls along Muizenberg beach.
A face once bursting with pusy zits that only two doses of the nuclear warhead that is roacutan could obliterate; teeth growing to all sides of my mouth like aloe cactus that only iron roped braces could straighten; a voice that wouldn’t crack and hair straighter than Tom Jones. I was an awkward kid. And to boot it all, I was a Latin scholar.
With this fine shiny armoury, it was Matric dance time and I couldn’t go it alone.
Tuesday nights were student night at the Doors night club, Marshal town, Johannesburg.
The Doors was a dark dingy episode. The now furry walls had seen it all, the buns of a body, the spill of a drink, the back street brawl and some footloose dance moves. Dragging your hands along those walls you could feel the pulse of the club, you could hear them talk.
The dj platform rose from the dance floor pit and a cat ladder lassooed the periphery. Intermittently jellie vodka shots would come raining down on us as we sweated our moves, grinded our crotches and mimed the rock tunes that came crashing through the booming speakers.
That school night I saw her. Dribbling that Black label beer , the cheapest beer for the leanest pocket ,down my chin, she was the girl that turned my legs to tagliatelle and she was the one that would accompany me on Dance Night. fingers crossed
The next day at school in maths class, looking cooler than Boy George in my spit shined Doc Martens and rolled up short sleeve white button shirt, tie and gray brooks with the iron seemed down the side, i leaned on Leanne’s flip top desk , on it scratched LD heart GS. ‘Leanne, babe, sooo, the girl I saw you with last night, well, I wana take her to the dance, what do you think?’ ‘Uhm, oh yea, Narissa?, hmm let me ask her’. ‘Great, thanks, let me know’. With that conversation and inches closer to my dream, I shot her a wink and made two ‘gun fingers’ as I Michael Jackson Moonwalked away to my desk in relief.
I set aside the time between Carte Blanche and the 8oclock flik for the phone call to Miss Hot-entot.
Finger dialling on the cream-coloured round, rotund family dog n bone of yesteryear, I waited for the ring, i waited for the pick up, waited for the ‘hello’, proceeded to asked her mom if i could chat her and then waited as her footsteps echoed in the background as her mom hollered for her. More nervous than an impala in big lion country, i heard her pick up the phone. With my tongue stuck to the receiver, she said ‘yes’. ofcourse she did, they always seem to.
My dad had a beast of a car. His real love, it was an Alfa Giulietta. It was aged-white and had rusted fringes, a truncated rear and a bulbous front end. It was a car constructed by a black smith, beaten into shape. It was an iron horse this thing. Caramale coloured leather interior, a giant disco ball for a gear lever and a hula hoop steering wheel. It was a sieve, for the wind howled through its cavernous interior. There was a radio and a tape deck that hovered below the dash board and the incremental lines on the station dial meant the car was of antiquity. but he loved his Italian marque.
It embarrassed the blood out of me.
On date night my dad drove us in his Italian tar killer. First we’d pick up this cherry, and my assumption was that id go into her house and sip champers with her parents and reminisce about the 60’s; we’d have photos in the garden of the greatest night of our lives and be all smiles at the upcoming event. But alas, as we arrived, there she stood with the front door shut surely behind her. Having opened the car door for her, we sat back seat. It was only the sounds of Crowded House that cut through the awkwardness of the drive. I really wanted to tip-ex myself out of sight at that point in time.
The dance was a horror show being sat with her and her chums, and the after party saw me leave alone. With that night going down in the anals of history as the worst night of my life, i’m glad its behind me. To all the geeks out there, those latin scholars, those wearing braces and those with pigeon toes, The Russian Bear Hunter stands with you.
The mid nineties weren’t all Oasis, Manchester United and strolls along Muizenberg beach.
A face once bursting with pusy zits that only two doses of the nuclear warhead that is roacutan could obliterate; teeth growing to all sides of my mouth like aloe cactus that only iron roped braces could straighten; a voice that wouldn’t crack and hair straighter than Tom Jones. I was an awkward kid. And to boot it all, I was a Latin scholar.
With this fine shiny armoury, it was Matric dance time and I couldn’t go it alone.
Tuesday nights were student night at the Doors night club, Marshal town, Johannesburg.
The Doors was a dark dingy episode. The now furry walls had seen it all, the buns of a body, the spill of a drink, the back street brawl and some footloose dance moves. Dragging your hands along those walls you could feel the pulse of the club, you could hear them talk.
The dj platform rose from the dance floor pit and a cat ladder lassooed the periphery. Intermittently jellie vodka shots would come raining down on us as we sweated our moves, grinded our crotches and mimed the rock tunes that came crashing through the booming speakers.
That school night I saw her. Dribbling that Black label beer , the cheapest beer for the leanest pocket ,down my chin, she was the girl that turned my legs to tagliatelle and she was the one that would accompany me on Dance Night. fingers crossed
The next day at school in maths class, looking cooler than Boy George in my spit shined Doc Martens and rolled up short sleeve white button shirt, tie and gray brooks with the iron seemed down the side, i leaned on Leanne’s flip top desk , on it scratched LD heart GS. ‘Leanne, babe, sooo, the girl I saw you with last night, well, I wana take her to the dance, what do you think?’ ‘Uhm, oh yea, Narissa?, hmm let me ask her’. ‘Great, thanks, let me know’. With that conversation and inches closer to my dream, I shot her a wink and made two ‘gun fingers’ as I Michael Jackson Moonwalked away to my desk in relief.
I set aside the time between Carte Blanche and the 8oclock flik for the phone call to Miss Hot-entot.
Finger dialling on the cream-coloured round, rotund family dog n bone of yesteryear, I waited for the ring, i waited for the pick up, waited for the ‘hello’, proceeded to asked her mom if i could chat her and then waited as her footsteps echoed in the background as her mom hollered for her. More nervous than an impala in big lion country, i heard her pick up the phone. With my tongue stuck to the receiver, she said ‘yes’. ofcourse she did, they always seem to.
My dad had a beast of a car. His real love, it was an Alfa Giulietta. It was aged-white and had rusted fringes, a truncated rear and a bulbous front end. It was a car constructed by a black smith, beaten into shape. It was an iron horse this thing. Caramale coloured leather interior, a giant disco ball for a gear lever and a hula hoop steering wheel. It was a sieve, for the wind howled through its cavernous interior. There was a radio and a tape deck that hovered below the dash board and the incremental lines on the station dial meant the car was of antiquity. but he loved his Italian marque.
It embarrassed the blood out of me.
On date night my dad drove us in his Italian tar killer. First we’d pick up this cherry, and my assumption was that id go into her house and sip champers with her parents and reminisce about the 60’s; we’d have photos in the garden of the greatest night of our lives and be all smiles at the upcoming event. But alas, as we arrived, there she stood with the front door shut surely behind her. Having opened the car door for her, we sat back seat. It was only the sounds of Crowded House that cut through the awkwardness of the drive. I really wanted to tip-ex myself out of sight at that point in time.
The dance was a horror show being sat with her and her chums, and the after party saw me leave alone. With that night going down in the anals of history as the worst night of my life, i’m glad its behind me. To all the geeks out there, those latin scholars, those wearing braces and those with pigeon toes, The Russian Bear Hunter stands with you.
