Stronger Than Lions - 3. Curiouser and Curiouser

Chris’s Jeep was an army-green Wrangler from the mid-nineties.

‘I call it The Thing,’ Chris said, grinning at the Jeep as he helped me put my bike in the back. ‘She’s old, but she goes.’

‘She's great,' I said. 'But does this give you street cred or farm cred?'

‘No comment, but I like your humour, bru. ‘More importantly. it’s back. Hop in.’

The Jeep snarled to life and we backed out into the road.

My house was on his way home. I lived in Newlands, an old, oak-lined suburb hugging the back of Table Mountain. My folks bought the creaking Edwardian double-storey just after they got married in the seventies, long before it became the rather uppity enclave it is today. Dad quipped they’d lived on baked beans and bully beef for a year after they’d bought the house, having poured all they had into the deposit. He took great pride in being the poorest man at the bottom of Snob Hill when he was still a dentistry student. They had to rely on Mom’s job at the daily paper to stay afloat.

Chris was quite the chatterbox as we drove. He told me he had grown up on a farm in the KwaZulu-Natal Midlands and that his parents were divorced. His dad was a stockbroker who owned his own investment company, while his mom was an ICU nurse.

I didn’t ask about the divorce.

‘So what brought you to St Frank’s?’ I ventured as we weaved our way through the snaking expressway that joined the city with the southern suburbs.

‘I got into a bit of shit in Durban when my folks split up. Guess you could say I was dishonourably discharged.’

I eyed him with a frown.

‘Relax, I didn’t murder anyone.'

'I wasn't thinking that.'

'Let’s just say I went a bit batshit when I discovered my old man was having an affair. With his assistant, for fuck’s sakes, just like in some stupid movie.’

‘That sucks. I’m sorry, man. Didn't realise that's why you left Durban.’ I thought of Mrs Isaacs, my dad’s ancient dragon of a receptionist with her Far Side beehive and had to stifle a hilarious giggle. There had never been a risk of an affair there.

‘Not your fault, bud.’ He stared intently at the road as we waited at a red light. 'My mom thought coming to the Cape would be a fresh start and all. She grew up here.'

‘I get it. How are you finding Cape Town?’

‘Oh, it’s lekker, man. Always loved coming here on holiday, but the culture shock is real. So different from Durbs.’

Ah, Durban. My country’s sweaty, lo-fi version of Miami that faces the warm, blue-green Indian Ocean. I’d been there once on a school trip and was amused by the mix of different cultures, tropical humidity and ugly eighties beachfront architecture. His friendliness made sense. Durbanites, bless them, are probably the most laid-back of my countrymen you’ll ever meet—and South Africans were supposedly among the friendliest people in the world, at least when we were not violently inflicting centuries of historical resentment on each other.

‘It’s going take a while to get used to the new school and all,’ Chris said, ‘but looks like I’ve already made a new friend who can show me around.’

The day was getting, as Alice would have said, curiouser and curiouser.

I shook my head. ‘You're calling me a friend already? I could be a psycho and you’re giving me a lift home.’

He burst out laughing. ‘You’re funny, Cal. Can I call you Cal?’

‘Sure.’

‘I knew you were cool when I saw the copy of Watchmen in your bag.'

'Irrelevant, it belongs to Rob.'

'Irrelevant. Was that a Borg reference? Are you a Trekkie?'

'Maybe.'

'Oh ho ho. Seven of Nine can ass-similate me any time.'

'Oh god,' I groaned. 'You sound like Rob.'

'Well your man Rob gave you my favourite graphic novel of all time, which you are clearly reading cause I spotted a bookmark, and then there was the Bach music. So you're like a man for all seasons.‘

I snorted. 'That sounds vaguely stalkerish, and for the record, cool and I are antonyms.”

He raised an eyebrow as we inched ahead, sandwiched between a Toyota Hi-Ace crammed full of workers returning to the eastern reaches of the city and a BMW with a platinum blonde a little way too engrossed with applying her lipstick.

‘But maybe I do have good taste in literature,’ I continued, stopping myself short of rattling on about my very eclectic library in case he’d really think I was a fruitcake. ‘So thanks.’

‘Well, bru, you were the first person I met today who didn’t seem fake.’

‘Fake?’

‘I’ve been in a private all-boys school for four years surrounded by preppy wankers. And maybe I was one of those preppy wankers for a while. Kinda left me a bit, like, jaded or something. Am I talking too much? Ja, I’m talking too much. I didn’t mean to insult your schoolmates.’

‘No, go on,’ I said, really enjoying his confession of microscopic sins. ‘St Frank’s has its moments, but, yeah, there’s some arseholes in there too.’

Chris huffed. ‘You say “arsehole” so prim and proper. Makes my accent sound all hillbilly, hey.’

‘How’s this then.’ I engaged my best Queen’s English hot potato. ‘Piss-Willy-Fuck-Balls-Pussy!’

‘Oh my God bru!' We looked at each other and laughed. 'Too funny man.'

Then his voice darkened. ‘You mustn’t let those fuckers push you around. Why are they giving you so much grief, if you don’t mind me asking?’

We had just hit the apex of the afternoon jam on Edinburgh Drive and traffic was dead slow.

‘I’m not a rugger-bugger,’ I said, sighing. ‘People like Frank… the big guy who came up to you… they think contact sports are like the only thing that counts to be, you know, a man, and if you do music or stuff like that, then, well...’

‘Oh really,’ said Chris, nodding. ‘Didn't Bach have like twenty children? Sounds like a lot of manhood he was packing.’

‘I hadn’t thought of that.’ I was unable to contain my smile. ‘But it doesn’t change the fact that there’s always going to be this divide between the nerds and the jocks.’

‘I like to think I’m a bit of both.’

My eyes widened. ‘How so?’

‘Well, bru, I love Star Wars and I play rugby. And you know I like Star Trek too, but don’t tell the people at Lucasfilm.’

‘I love Star Wars too, but don't tell the people at CBS.'

'See, we were destined to meet,' he said. 'We've got a whole balance to the force thing going already.'

'Nice one. Don’t get me wrong—I don’t hate rugby or anything, I’m actually a proud Springbok supporter.’

He nodded. ‘Just not a Frank supporter, I got ya. Your turn now, we've already come out to each other that we are like sci-fi-bisexual.'

I froze. 'Bisexual?'

'You know, if Wars were a guy and Trek was a girl. Or the other way round. We like 'em both. Fuck, I'm talking shit. Let's talk about you.'

‘What do you mean?’ I was still reeling from the way he had said 'bisexual' with such ease.

‘So, you’re a bit of a geek, but maybe there’s another side to you. What does Cal do when you take his comics and music books away?’

‘Oh. Well, I want to try out for the swim team again. I was on last year.’

‘Yeah, see. You’re a zen bro manifesting all that balance, and you didn’t even know it.’

Those green eyes were staring at me again and it was rather disquieting. He looked back at the road. ‘Looks like it’s easing up.’ He put the Jeep back into gear and soon we were taking the turn-off to Newlands.

I wished the traffic would last for hours. It felt so simple, so safe, just chatting with this guy I hardly knew, like he was Rob or Bella.

As we drove through tree-lined lanes, dappled blobs of sunlight splashed over us, painting everything in green and gold Dalmatian spots. Springbok colours, I though with a smile. Chris had pulled up the sleeves of his white school shirt and, in the half-light, the hairs on his forearms glowed like tiny tungsten filaments. It was crazy: not even an hour ago I had been consumed by rage and panic. Now I felt as if I’d just woken from a long afternoon nap.

‘Nice-looking house, dude.’

‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘She’s proper Edwardian. Just over a hundred years old.’

‘Your mom must be quite a gardener,’ he said, pointing at the mass of rose bushes and topiaries in front of my house. 'My mom gardens too but she's kinda all over the place.'

‘Ja,’ I said quietly. ‘My mom loved gardening.’

‘Loved?’

‘She died last year. She had cancer.’

The words came out easily now. They hardly registered, I’d said them so many times. ‘My dad keeps up the garden but it’s not the same.’

‘Fuck.' He grimaced. 'Fuck, fuck, fuck. I’m so sorry man. If I'd known...'

‘It’s fine,’ I said, looking away. ‘Like you said, not your fault, dude.’

I waited for the inevitable silence to pass. Chris put a hand on my shoulder and patted it. I didn’t know what to do. The MacLeod men have never been touchy-feely types, and I was no exception.

Chris started talking rapidly again. ‘I’m making you uncomfortable, aren’t I? I always do this, I can be a real idiot sometimes.’

‘I said it’s okay. Let me get out before this all turns into a scene from a bad soap opera.’

‘You’re so funny.’

‘Thanks.’ I said. ‘Oh wait. My bike.’

‘I told you, I’m taking care of it.’

‘But...’

‘No, bru, it’s cool. Maybe if it’s okay with your dad I could even give you a lift to school until it’s fixed.’

‘You don’t have to do that.’

‘I wouldn’t mind some company while I’m settling in and stuff. Just show me around okay? Those girls at lunch were totally fembots. They wanted to give me this big tour but I went to the library instead and did some homework.’

Glad to see you weren’t ass-similated into their collective,’ I said, and he chuckled.

As if I would be so lucky, I couldn’t help thinking.

‘So do we have a deal then, Cal?’

‘Are you for real? I guess I’m not saying no. But you’ll have to deal with my Catholic guilt then.’

‘That’s okay, I’ve had all my shots. My grandma was Jewish, and Dad’s a WASP. I know a bit about guilt too.’

I felt I could sit in The Thing with him for hours talking crap, but then I saw my dad waving from the kitchen window. I opened the door.

‘I gotta go.’

‘Sure. Let me take your number,’ he said, and we exchanged details.

‘Let me know if your dad’s cool with me picking you up tomorrow,’ he said, starting the Jeep. ‘I'll swing by your house at 7:30?’

‘That would be awesome.’

‘Schweet.’

I waved as he drove off. Seven-thirty. It almost sounded like a date.

* * * 

‘Hello, laddie.’ My dad was fussing over the gas hob. Einstein, our tuxedo cat, was sitting next to the stove, observing the proceedings with disdain. My sister had named him Schrödinger as a kitten, but one morning she declared he would be Einstein from now on because it turns out Erwin Schrödinger was apparently a predatory dick.

‘Hey Dad. What are you doing?’ I'd hastily ducked into my room to get out of my dishevelled uniform and into some civvies.

‘Trying to cook pasta. Rosalie had to go home early because her daughter’s ill... damn! Now I’m burning the sauce.’

I flitted over to the stove and turned down the raging gas flame, which was threatening to turn the napoletana into a tomato Vesuvius.

‘I’ve got it,’ I said, stirring the stuff as fast as I could and added a good glug of Mrs Balls, the chutney that could save any culinary misadventure from doom. ‘Okay. I think I’ve rescued it.’

Einstein miaowed his assent.

My dad mopped his brow and tried to restore his culinary dignity by dishing out the pasta. ‘Thanks for the save, laddie.’ He looked really tired. ‘So how was the first day of Matric? Anything exciting?’

‘No, pretty straightforward,’ I lied, sitting down at the counter and doodling with a sketch pad. ‘Seem to have made a new friend though.’

‘Is that the boy who dropped you off? I was about to ask about that, but you dashed upstairs.’

‘Oh. Yes. That’s Chris. A new guy from Durban. I, um, broke my bicycle chain, and he helped me out.’

I hated lying to my father.

My father raised his eyebrows. ‘Why didn’t you call me? I could have picked you up on my way back from work. Does he have a licence?’

‘Sorry, Dad,’ I said, realizing I’d had him worried. I busied myself cleaning up the mess on the stove. ‘He’s very nice, he and his mom just moved down to Cape Town. Of course he’s got a licence.’

‘I just want you to be safe, Caleb. Let me know, next time. Where’s your bike?’

I told him Chris had offered to fix it as well as give me a ride to school until it was sorted.

‘That’s very nice of him,’ said my father. ‘But I want to meet him tomorrow when he picks you up. My first patient is only at nine.’

My father looked so helpless in the kitchen. I don’t even think he’d ever even cooked an egg properly. If it weren’t for Rosalie, who worked for us three times a week, our whole household would have imploded within a month after Mom died. Between her and my sister, who drove in from Somerset West to see us on the weekends, the MacLeod men were saved from living the rest of our lives on KFC and Nandos.

‘Sure, Dad. Appreciate you wanting me safe.'

‘Of course, laddie.’ My father rubbed his eyes. ‘Shall we eat now, or heat it up later? Want to watch some TV in the meantime?’

‘Thanks, Dad, but let's eat later. I want to go to my room and sort out some stuff.’

I was exhausted and needed to lie down and zone out for a bit. It was nearly six, and the sun was only now beginning to dip down behind the mountain. It was still hot, so I stripped down to my boxers and flopped down onto my bed. I stared at the canopy of old trees that turned our back garden into a mini Hundred Acre Wood.

So many things had happened today. For some reason I was focusing on Tricia hijacking Chris at lunch and was surprised at how irritated the thought made me. Veronica Willemse, Jason’s girlfriend, had been there as well. I thought she was much hotter than Tricia’s Hitchcock Blonde vibes. Like almost every other male at St Francis, I had my puppy-dog crush on her. I thought of how hot she looked today with the non-length of her skirt bordering on the obscene. Great. Now I had a raging boner and it needed to be dealt with before I could nap.

I’ll always be grateful that I was raised with an open-minded attitude to sex, even if I had zero experience in my teens. My sister and I were spared the more odious overtones of eternal hellfire due to teenage hormones.

The memory now surfaced: Poor Dad, trying to have The Conversation with me when I was eleven. As I died inside, he managed to deliver his TED talk of awkwardness in one stumbling run on sentence: 'Just know, laddie, things like.... condoms and m-m-mastur… oh God, um…you know, taking matters in hand so to speak ha ha ha... they’re actually good things for young men if used within… reason... and if the Church disagrees I’ll… I’ll take full responsibility.’ He then left me to turn various shades of purple while he ran away to recover in his study.

I fumbled for the Swimsuit Edition of Sports Illustrated under my bed and proceeded to find the babes. They were always there, and never judged. II hadn’t had the guts to ever buy a Penthouse or Hustler, and I didn’t have an older brother to supply such contraband. Nipple stands under bikinis would have to do.

I was happily paging through when I noticed I’d gone way past the usual paper harem and found myself eyeing some pics of Olympic swimmers. As in dudes. Not girls.

Okay, I thought. This hasn’t happened in a while. Sure, I’d had a few gay, bi and some flat-out bizarre fantasies (is a Ferrari too weird?)—but I’d never looked at actual pics of guys before. Staring at their Speedos and chiselled bodies directly was something new.

And rather nice.

And I was now very uncomfortable down there.

I looked around the room, and from where I was lying, I was grateful that I couldn’t see the icon of the Theotokos that hung above my desk. Jesus saw everything, but Mary probably couldn’t, I reasoned with idiot logic.

It felt as if the First Deadly Sin would be moderately irritant to my soul if it took the form of the girl on page 46. Had it now become lethal and radioactive because I was looking at the buff men on page 77?

I groaned with resignation and self-loathing. It didn’t quell the underwear party at all. I stared in miserable lust at the parade of young demigods, my hand traveling south automatically. Soon the small knots gathered together in the pit of my stomach as I helped myself out. The intense wave ricocheted through my body quicker than I expected, followed by the deep intake of breath, and the inevitable explosion.

The dizzy descent was quick. I needed to clean up. Instead I just lay there for a good couple of minutes, listening to my breathing slowing down, gazing at my rising and falling chest in the twilight. I closed my eyes and thought about one of the swimmers I’d particularly liked. I imagined him holding me close, my cool body against his warm skin. I’d never thought about after-the-fact cuddles before.

I sat bolt upright.

That swimmer had blond hair and green eyes.

‘Shit,’ I whispered loudly as I reached for the box of tissues.

This Dorothy was definitely not in Kansas anymore.