Curl Gurl
Winter is here. In a solid block of bone chilling cold in the early mornings and the velvety warmth of the noon sunshine. The unseasonal rains of autumn have stopped and the holy land’s mining dump village is settling into her Highveld glory. The avenues of plane trees are shedding leaves by the bakkie load, along with the rest of their deciduous brethren. The trim, rich green lawns of the local bowling clubs and golf courses provide an otherworldly contrast to the gold and russet palette settling over the of the city’s flora. In the only remaining still-desirable burb on this side of town, the house staff sweep up the fallen leaves and seed pods, stuff them in black plastic bags and then tip the bags into the general garbage bins. If you skip the weekday morning rush hour and amble through the streets around 9am; you’ll find the same staff walking the family mutts, while their owners grind away at the last 44 desk jobs in Jozi.
The electricity woes continue with a recent extended outage in the streets around my current billet. That was the week of the unseasonal rains. Freezing cold and without electricity, I was left wondering at all the talk of warships loading guns in Simonstown and the failed state narrative that’s taken hold of the weekend braai conversations. Listen long enough to these hollywood dialogues and you might want to slip off and lay down and never wake up. But wake up I did, on that Shabbat morning and after digging around a bit, I realised that I was out of coffee. This was, as most dramatic moments in life are, the impetus I needed to brave the freezing cold shower and suit up for a walk down the road. I was also silently praying that the local spot on the corner would be open and that they would have back-up and that I’d get my coffee. Being without a coffee, a smoke or a drink are the big three. Now add in some miserable weather and you see how these conditions have long served humanity well and often led to the most unexpected inventions and not a few 72-hour liaisons too.
I don’t know what those inventions are that have come from being without one (or all) of the big three. but I do know that asking; ‘would you like to get a drink?’ is often the start of the most beautiful hour (or so) of one’s life. To be fair, I’ve always gone in with the ‘would you like to get a coffee’ instead of a drink; mostly because I reckoned that if I can manage an hour over coffee, then I’ll survive the many hours over drinks later and likely the, ‘I have to get back home’ farewell on the third day. But enough of past lives; at least I was not Cleopatra or some such in my past life. Imagine that, you were Caesar or General De la Rey and now you’re now just a manager in an NGO in a mine dump village. It must be a heavy come-down. Having reflected thus far, I found myself at the last corner to the coffee spot. Joy and praise be, the lights were on and there were humans moving about! It took a bit of effort not to sprint the last 100 metres to the door.
After being greeted like I was a minor celebrity; which doesn’t take much in Jozi — three consecutive visits makes one a regular and a decent tipper is always a celebrity to the usually tips-only staff at coffee spots — I settled in and waited patiently (as opposed to waiting panting, if I sprinted that last 100) for the holy nectar to arrive. ‘Are you famous?’ comes a voice from the next table and I turn to see the next 72 hours of my life with a gap-toothed smile and a beanie smashed on top of a far too large head of curls. Taking the bait, despite anything Oom Tom Waits has said about how ‘you don’t meet nice girls in coffee shops’ I smile and respond, ‘absolutely not, notorious maybe but no fame and even less fortune.’ Anyway, I’d have no idea what a nice girl is if she came up to me and did or said whatever it is nice girls are supposed to say and do. Or maybe they don’t say and do and that’s why they’re nice girls? Idk, ask the patriarchy.
It was too much to process before my first coffee and under the gaze of those very dark eyes. More small talk and by the time the second coffee arrived, Curls and I were snugly enmeshed in the deepest conversation about the media and its role in the failed state narrative. Well, Curls was doing all the talking and I was nodding and asking all the wrong questions and mixing up my iteratives with my notionals until she got to the liminal and then I was lost. Well and truly lost by the way the curls bobbed and weaved as she dodged and hooked the monster that is ‘the media’ with a deft uppercut. TKO, the evil media loses to the passionate young newcomer who’s all out to tell the truth. I’d seen that look before. Her eyes bright, breathing heavily and looking deep into me for some recognition that I got her narrative — or maybe she just wanted confirmation that I was going to foot the morning coffee bill — either way, I was hooked as a cape salmon on squid bait.
Almost 72 hours later, the electricity came back on.
Curl Gurl is an entirely unbelievable story of meeting a nice girl in a coffee shop. Take that Oom Tom.
© Jesh Baker for Oppi Stoep 2023
