Coconut (20 page)

The Tlous eventually leave. Of course they go without leaving a tip, but then again, what more does one expect from black people? The shop begins to quieten down as the brunch crowd leaves. I get out the broom and sweep the floor. After this I will wipe the tables down and push the chairs in. I hope Miss Becky sees me taking some initiative.

I hate this time of day, when the shop is still and there are few people to socialise with. When things are still, time seems to drag on and soon you have done all there is to do and are left with nothing so you are forced to think. And that is exactly when your mind thinks it a handsome idea to deliberate over all that deep and meaningful stuff, which quite frankly gives me a headache. I am not shallow, I just have too many of my own problems to try to solve the rest of the world’s. I really just can’t be involved.

I need to spring-clean my head. There is a real big mess up there but I am too afraid to go in because I do not think I have the strength to handle the task of tidying it all. It is a long time since I was there last. I am scared of what I may find. I am fearful of the cluttered floor, the dusty shelves, the locked cases, the stuffed drawers, the broken bulbs and the cracked windows.

Two young guys walk into the shop. They do not wait to be seated but head straight for one of the tables inside. One of them gets up and grabs an ashtray from the pile I have stacked on a tray and left on one of the side tables to clean up later. He empties it onto the floor, sits back down at the table, and lights a cigarette.

“Welcome to Silver Spoon Coffee Shop, gentlemen, would you like me to show you to the smoking section outside?” I ignore the ash on the floor I have just swept clean.

“We are fine here thanks, Peach,” the one with the cigarette says without looking at me.

“I am afraid it is shop policy, sir, that if you wish to smoke, you have to sit in the smoking section. There’s a very nice table I can show you – ”

“We’re fine, really, thanks, hun. Mind getting us some menus?” He takes another puff of his cigarette and blows rings into the air. His friend looks at me and shrugs. I sigh and go get them their menus.

There are no other people in the shop now so I guess it is OK, I tell myself. But as soon as a non-smoking customer walks in they are going to have to move outside, with no negotiations! I sweep the ash from the floor, and pick up the stack of ashtrays so I can take them to the back. But before I can get through the door I see Miss Becky walking into the shop. She spots the two guys at the table, walks over to them to give her usual Silver Spoon welcome, and before I can rush in to explain, she sees the cigarette and throws a cold look up at me standing helplessly at the storeroom door with a pile of ashtrays in my hands. She tells them she hopes they enjoy their meal and marches up to me.

“So you want to explain to me, dahling, why the gentleman is sitting with a cigarette in the non-smoking section of the shop? Are you trying to get this shop closed down?”

“He wouldn’t move, Miss Becky.”

“He wouldn’t move? Why didn’t you ask them whether they wanted to be in the smoking section before you seated them, Fiks?”

“They seated themselves, Miss Becky.”

“They seated themselves? Oh, Fiks! You allowed customers to seat themselves?” She shakes her head, and raises her hand to stop me as I attempt to explain. “You really are intent on working on my nerves today, aren’t you, dahling?”

I try to speak again, but am once again stopped by her hand. She takes a deep breath, in and out, and then coolly walks over to the table with the two guys. She smiles her large Miss Becky smile, puts her hand on the one with the cigarette’s shoulder, says something that makes them laugh and then nod and then laugh again and then get up and move outside. Miss Becky calmly walks back to me. “The young gentlemen had no problem with sitting in the smoking section, dahling. If only you had taken the time to explain to them that the inside of the shop is for non-smokers only, then we wouldn’t have to be having this conversation.”

“But I did – ”

“I do not want to hear it, Fiks. I think I’ve had enough of you for one day.” She closes her eyes, breathes deeply again, and then says, “Maybe you should just go home.”

“Go home? But Miss Becky it’s only – ”

“Yes Fiks, go home and think about your behaviour. I’ll get Yvonne to take over from you. We’ll speak again on Monday.” She does not wait for me to say anything, but takes the ashtrays out of my hands and walks into the storeroom calling for Yvonne.

Go home? But it’s only two o’clock. How can Miss Becky be sending me home at two o’clock? There are another three whole hours before the shop closes and I am being sent home? What about the customers? They won’t be happy if Fiks is not here. They need me. Yvonne has no waitressing experience. Yvonne can barely speak English, she won’t ever manage. This thing I do, this waitressing thing at this shop, takes a certain kind of person. A person with people skills, a person who knows how to speak to the rich and famous without making them feel uncomfortable. This job requires a person who has an understanding of the Silver Spoon world and the kind of people who live in it. A person like me. Yvonne understands none of that.

My cheeks dampen. One day Miss Becky will see that this place is nothing without me. She’ll be so sorry she sent me home early that when I come in tomorrow morning she’ll be down on her knees begging me to forgive her. But I won’t, I’ll tell her that I am leaving with Paul and taking my style, my talent and my manner with people with me, and never coming back.

Sometimes I feel it all collapsing around me. My face gets so hot that I cannot even breathe.

I am suddenly aware of the boy outside watching me. It’s the friend, the one who was not smoking, the one who shrugged his shoulders. I am embarrassed as I realise that he has been watching me this whole time, watching while Miss Becky scolded me, watching as I wet my cheeks. He smiles when he sees that I can see him. “I am sorry,” he mouths through the glass. I look away, and go to the back to get my stuff. Whatever.

I am tired of waiting, waiting for the day when it will all be different, when it will be my turn, my story, my rose.

I am tired of the fear, the anxiety, the endless debates within my head, the empty feeling in my chest and the knot in my stomach.

I am tired of looking around, in the mirror, at my legs and my hands, wondering when they will be different.

I am tired of the same outfit worn in different styles. I am tired of sleepless nights, phone calls to far-away places, crossed fingers and bended knees.

I am tired. I have tried, I am always trying, but now I am tired. I want it now.

Yvonne waves as I walk out of the shop, yanking her hair net and plastic apron off and tucking in the Silver Spoon T-shirt Miss Becky has lent her. It is evident that she is insanely excited. She waves at me but I do not wave back. There is only one Fiks, and nobody else can do what I do.

The boy, the friend, the one who was not smoking, the one who shrugged his shoulders, the one who smiled, the one who mouthed “I am sorry,” gets up from his chair and runs after me.

I do not stop and hear the other guy, the one who emptied the ashtray onto the floor after I had just swept it, the one who lit a cigarette in the non-smoking section, the one who lied to Miss Becky about what happened, shout, “What is it with you and black girls, Sky! It’s fucking embarrassing, dude! Leave the chick alone, man!”

I walk faster. Those words make my eyes fill again. I want him to leave me alone but he catches up to me.

“Sheesh,” he gasps, out of breath. “I’m not trying to mug you, lady, I just wanted to apologise for what happened there earlier.”

Before I can help it my cheeks are drenched.

“I hope we didn’t get you fired or anything. My friend has issues, don’t let him get to you. I don’t actually know why I’m friends with him. He’s a real jerk. I can speak to your boss-lady if you want, I really don’t want you to lose your job because of us. I really am sorry.”

I nod, but cannot get any words out.

“I am
so
sorry. This job obviously means a lot to you. I am really sorry. Please don’t cry. I’ll go speak to your boss. Do you want me to speak to her?”

I shake my head. Gosh no, I think, that’s the last thing I need. He does that and she’ll send me home for good. “No,” I manage to say, drying my eyes with a bunch of Silver Spoon napkins I keep in my bag. “It’s fine, I’m fine.”

Even if I cry all night, I am fine.
Even though my heart is punctured, I am fine.
Even though I feel like there is no hope, I am fine.
Even though it feels like it will be this way forever,
I am fine.
Even though it makes no sense, I am fine.

“I really do hate to see such a beautiful girl so sad,” he says, smiling, relieved that I have stopped crying. “
Kumuhle kakhulu
.” He says this with a confidence that makes me think that this guy has used this line before. But I cannot help laughing at his silliness. I wonder if he is saying it wrong intentionally

“
Umuhle
,” I say, correcting him anyway.

“Thank you,” he smiles, thinking I am returning the compliment. I realise that it was a sincere mistake and not just a white boy’s silliness. How sweet, I think. How refreshing.

“No, it’s
Umuhle
, not
Kumuhle.
” I explain.

“Oh,” he laughs. “Well,
Umuhle
.”

Such a nice boy, I think.

If it was another day and I was not being sent home and replaced by a kitchen maid, I might have been disappointed that the moment was spoilt by the friend’s rude interruption. “Sky, I didn’t come here to watch you run after every black chick that walks past.”

I look at my watch and realise that if I want to catch the 3.30 train I need to leave and find a taxi now. “Thank you,” I say, and walk away.

“The name is Sky, Sky Richardson,” he shouts to my back as I move further and further away. “We should have coffee some time, a drink or whatever. I’ll come find you. Hey, you didn’t tell me your name!” he yells, but I don’t stop and keep walking until I can’t hear him anymore.

Sky. Such a nice name.

There’s a couple of taxis standing empty on the corner of Schubert when I get there. So much for the taxi strikes, Miss Becky.

We wait for forty minutes until the taxi fills up and we finally leave. It is Sunday, and everybody is tired, lost in his or her own thoughts, wondering where the weekend went, so the drive back to the station is quiet. I remind the driver to stop at the station so I can get out. It is 3.50 when I get to the platform where I board the train for Mphe Batho, so because I am twenty minutes late, I have to wait for the 4.30 train. The station is empty and there are numerous benches to choose from. I am a little uneasy being here alone, so decide against reading my magazine and instead sit on my bag and keep my eyes wide open and watchful for any strange activities.

When the train arrives at 5pm and not 4.30 as is timetabled, I am surprised to see the gentleman I was on the train with this morning sitting in the same place. Before I can pretend to have not seen him, he waves and beckons me to come sit next to him and a little girl he seats on his lap to make room for me.

“You have a daughter?” I ask as I sit down.

“Yes, her name is Palesa.” He says proudly. “
Yithi molo ngo sisi Palesa
, say hello to the nice lady, Palesa.”