Is God a Mechanic #2

...and then there was light! The conclusion of the short story from the novella, Two Feet, where Meneer Gerber and all see eye-to-eye. Sort of.

FEEL FREE TO COMMENT -- or better yet, read more of Mark's scribblings in his novella, TWO FEET available as a link on this site to +Amazon.com. Either as a Kindle download or in paperback.

Available at Amazon.com

****

A question I never asked:

“Daddy, how do I switch this on?”

*****

A question I never asked:

“Daddy, how do I switch this off?”

*****

If God’s vehicle was a re-vamped, super-charged, gun metal grey, 1966 F-100 Chevy, He drove it into our lives early one morning.

If God’s vehicle was a re-vamped, super-charged, gun metal grey, 1966 F-100 Chevy that was meant to raise sufficient dust to asphyxiate both bird and insect, it was doing a damn good job of that, too.

We seldom had visitors. If a car was seen or heard navigating the pot-hole ravaged road toward the house, it would draw the brood out onto the flaking, thirsty lawn. From here we would view its approach. Mabuza stood poised nearby with his garden fork. The cloud of advancing dust would be watched with some trepidation.

Mostly, the occupants of the cars were men wearing jackets and ties and carrying briefcases and brown, official type folders. They were in search of you, Father, as were we. They were men from distant cities, perspiring uncomfortably, their flesh rebelling at the sun, hunting down debt like we sometimes hunted the King’s buck.

“Vultures,” is what my older brother described them as.

“Rooineks,” is what Pisskop would have called them.

The moment these men got stiffly out of the car, my younger brother would yelp like a puppy and hurry away, probably to the dam which was his place of solitude. My elder brothers would stand mutely, ready to do battle, keeping our dogs at bay.

I stood alongside my mother, always slightly to the rear. I would find solitude in the ant-lion (Myrmeleontidea) holes in the dust, or watch Mabuza from the corner of my eye. He stood ramrod, like a warrior on a cliff awaiting an Induna’s call to battle.

My mother always said “shit” under her breath as she walked forward. Her conversations with these men would be animated, but brief. They would try, with a mix of honey and tar, to cajole the documents into her hands, but she heeded Mister Kelly’s advice, and kept her hands behind her back. Small hands, dirt engrained hands that had once boasted of diamond rings and the scent of expensive oils and nail polish.

“If you take the papers, they take everything. Do you understand, Missus? Never take the bloody papers!”

These men, often through sunglasses, would glance askew at us children as they talked with our mother. I wonder now how they perceived us; we were white children, barefoot, not in school, and our hair was long, way too long for those years. Perhaps our physical appearance was suffice for them to realise that what my mother told them, was the truth. Was there sympathy behind those sunglasses? I seriously doubt it.

There was nothing left to surrender, repossess or sell. Speak to Mister Kelly. Here is his telephone number. No. No forwarding address. Their father’s present whereabouts remains unknown.

Like disgruntled bees leaving a dying blossom, these men would return to their car, reverse, and drive away, soon obliterated in a cloud of dust that had never quite settled.

God’s vehicle pulled to a stop with the sound of an impulsive lion, sending a tremor under our waiting feet. Muffled, chrome exhausts coughed a victorious expletive as they died, sending startled pigeons flapping from the trees.

Barking dogs, momentarily, go mute.

For a change, my younger brother did not move. Instead, he stopped frowning, a gesture that had, recently, become as common on his face as a red- tick to the hide of a cow.

In the rear of the F-100, amongst the tool boxes, winches, chains and scaffolding pipe, sat four labourers. They all wore blue overalls and wellington boots. Their smiles were open and broad, eyes alert and expectant to their new environment.

The driver stepped out. He was short but muscular. He wore khaki shorts and a short sleeved shirt. His skin was tanned; a farmer’s tan, his forearms and legs bred a thick mesh of wiry hair. A veldt hat with a sweat stained band was perched on a balding head. His eyes were a light blue, his moustache neatly trimmed, his feet encased in worn but expensive veldskoens and khaki socks. In his breast pocket, he carried a packet of Springbok cigarettes and a box of lion matches.

“Good morning,” he said to all of us. “I’m here to help with the borehole?” Out came the cigarettes: A flash of a match, a puff of smoke. “Mister Kelly asked me.”

“Oh,” said my mother and stepped forward. Her hands were not behind her back. “Oh,” she repeated.

My brothers walked forward; sucked toward the glory of the F-100, whose metallic colour bounced back the sunlight like a granite boulder fends off a rifle bullet, like a blue-fly to a pile of elephant dung.

Mabuza tugged my shirt sleeve. I looked up into his face. I saw the Mabuza grin: big, white teeth and gums as pink as the fruit of a ripe pawpaw. He patted me on my shoulder and danced his skinny thong clad backside toward the F-100,leaving me standing amongst the ant-lion holes, with a butterfly fluttering somewhere in my young, vegetable starved stomach.

*****

Dear Meneer Gerber,

How are you? I am fine.

I am sorry to be writing this letter to you in pencil, but I have no ink or pen.

I am writing this letter to you to tell you that the borehole pump is fixed.

He came to fix the pump driving a very special super truck that shone in the sun like the silver of that box you have for your pipe tobacco. It made the sound of thunder too. Like the sound we hear in the late afternoon when the vultures are high in the sky and the kopje is standing alone against an army of black clouds, Meneer.

He is from the same valley that I can see from our garden. In the valley, pineapples, oranges and avocados grow. There is always water in the valley, Meneer. There are small canals there, and it is always green even when it is so hot the dogs don’t want to walk and the bees are angry. I think the water is called irrigation, Meneer.

He fixed the pump quickly. He had four labourers working with him, and they sang a song as they made the winch system and pulled the broken pump from deep out of the ground. He is not like Mister Ford from Ford Farm who just sits and watches his labourers work and says rude things to them. He worked all the time with the chains and tackle, and it was good to see the mud and the water at the end, Meneer. It was thick mud from deep under. He said it was a good sign because it meant that there was still a lot of water down there.

He is very strong, and from his truck he took out a brand new pump. My mother did not know what to say, so she went to make us all some tea, even for the labourers. She did not have any cake, so he said he will bring some next time. My mother looked shy, and when she laughed she sounded like a little girl.

Now we do not have to carry Mister Kelly’s jerry cans up the hill anymore, Meneer. My mother thinks the radish plants and maybe the carrots will survive, but the cabbages are no good. I am sad for the cabbages.

I am sorry I cannot attend class. The men took the red Mini-Imp, so we only have the bicycle.

 Yours Sincerely

M.

*****

 Dear M

I am happy to hear that the borehole is fixed.

I am also very sorry.

Yours Sincerely

Meneer Gerber

*****

 Dear Meneer Gerber

Thank you for your letter dated....................

I do not understand why you are sorry.

Can I do my History test from home?

Yours Sincerely

M.

*****

Dear M

I am rwitting with the typwriteer at hte in the office.

God moves in a mydsterious way
His wonders to pergform;
He plants His footsteps in the sea
And rides upoon the strorm.

Deep in unfathoimable mines
Of nevbyer failing skill
He treasures up His bright designs
And works His sov’reign will.

Did He ring the caske? Cake? Did he bring the cake for your mother?

Cphter 4 of the history book. Write an esay. Essay.

God Bless you.

 Meneer  Gerber.

Is God a Mechanic?

To read more of Mark Roper's writing, please read the novella, TWO FEET, available on this site with its link to +Amazon.com. For a mere pittance it is available as a +Kindle Fire download or as a paperback.

Feel free to comment and support this Blog. Your purchase will enable me to sharpen the pencil, or, at least, buy another! 

IS GOD A MECHANIC?

Meneer Gerber once said we were all marching forward on God’s road.

God was our engine driving us on.

God was our petrol fuelling us around the bends and up the hills and down the hills.

God was a powerful motor vehicle and we were his passengers.

I wanted to put my hand up and ask if God wore a crash helmet, as the racing car drivers do that I had seen pictures of. But I did not.

I wanted to put my hand up and ask if God’s car, as it zoomed along, also left behind clouds of red dust that asphyxiated bird and insect as it travelled. But I did not.

I wanted to put up my hand and ask if God’s car had any gears, especially a reverse gear. I was thinking that a reverse gear would be a good idea for God’s car because if there were any mistakes to be fixed, God could just reverse over the mistakes and then drive forward again. This way He could repair the mistakes and make certain they never occurred again. But I did not ask.

I wanted to put my hand up and ask if God’s engine ever broke down. But I did not.

But I should.

Was a submersible borehole-pump not a part of God’s engine?

I won't ask.

But if God was in control of an engine, any engine, then He would know how to repair it?

But I should ask.

A borehole was an engine. It had an engine, a pump. It was buried deep down in the shaft after the drilling machine – Clunk! Clunk! Clunk! -- had driven away leaving mounds of red clay and diesel and black oil stains on the grass. Yes, a pump engine that sucked the water from down there where it was quiet and still and dark. Immersed in the bowels of the earth, where the sun didn't shine and where the water was sweet.

I won't ask.

I will.

Will not.

Will.

I raised my hand.

“Meneer?”

Meneer Gerber had his feet up on the desk. He twisted his feet and separated them so he could get a view of me. He remained lounging back in the wooden chair that often creaked with the sound of a timid fart. He looked at me between his polished shoes.

“I did not ask a question, boy.”

“No, Meneer.”

“Then what the bloody Hell do you want?”

“You are in deep kak (shit), Rooinek!”That was Pisskop’s whispering voice. He sat at the rear of the class, but his words were like rifle shots in my burning ears.

Stand up, Feet. Make me stand. Please!

I stood on shaking knees trying to focus on Meneer Gerber’s shoes that partly hid his face. I was deeply flushed. I felt as if I was rolling in a field of stinging nettles. The soles of Meneer Gerber’s shoes were worn thin, and there was a patch on the left shoe. I spoke to the patch.

“Dust, Meneer. There is only dust now because the borehole engine has broken. In the vegetable garden where my mother is growing radishes, beetroot, cabbage and carrots so we can sell them at the road shop. (Breathe, chest in and out) Mister Kelly, he says the pump is old and worn, and he showed us the remains of some rusty pieces (cheeks hot, so hot)...so... so now there is no water, Meneer because of the pump so we...we are carrying water now from the dam in Mister Kelly’s jerry cans. (Bare-feet now sweating on the wooden floorboards and toes curling) We use a pole, Meneer, so we can carry the water on our shoulders, you see? But the grass on the hill is dry Meneer, and we are often falling and (hearing a dry chuckle from Pisskop)...and Mabuza is helping with some rope to pull the jerry cans up the hill, and my mother, she is really trying to show the water the way to find the vegetables. (No breath anymore. Sucking in air) Meneer, but it is not enough water without the borehole engine so...so...I...the plants are dying in the dust so I...so I...was thinking that maybe God because he knows engines, Meneer, can fix the submersible pump?”

Meneer Gerber abruptly swings his feet off the desk. He sits slowly upright in the wooden chair that makes a farting sound. He does not lose focus of me.

I remained standing. Sweaty, naked feet glued to wooden floorboards. A strong smell of chalk suddenly, a waft of Pisskop’s sour body odour. I sense movement from Max, the baker’s son, seated behind his desk. It is more of a nervous squirm, like someone waiting for a film to be projected.

“You are in deep, deep kak (shit), Rooinek,” whispers Pisskop from out there amongst the blurred faces.

Think:  mother on hands and knees in dust whispering to rivulet of tepid water. Solution: God repairs pump. Result: mother not necessary to be on hands and knees in dust whispering to tepid water.

“Are you...”His voice is shrill with pain, like the sound a rugby player makes when he is kicked between the legs. He coughs then again speaks.

“Are you are asking me if God is bloody mechanic, boy?”

I am I suppose, so I nod, and my head feels heavy, and I know the gesture makes me look like a dumb child with his bare feet glued to a wooden floor.

I am soon bent over with my head in the corner. Above my head, just a few inches away, is a small book shelf. It carries two heavy books – the A-Z of African Wildlife and Fauna and the A-Z of Places of the World. There is a layer of chalk dust on the books. They are not a part of the curriculum so are never read and are left to gather chalk dust.

When a child is bent over in a corner of a room, and he is given a caning, his first reaction is to recoil, is to lift up his head. That is what the bookshelf is for. When you recoil, you slam your head into the bookshelf. This way Meneer Gerber gets you twice with one blow. This way the A-Z of African Wildlife and Fauna and the A-Z of Places in the World also have some use.

I look down at my two, bare feet as Meneer Gerber lands the first of six strokes. He will land the second stroke half an inch above the first, and then the third will strike where the first landed. He is a master of his craft.

I wonder if God will try the reverse gear for me.

*****

A question I never asked:

“Daddy, how do I switch this on?”

*****

A question I never asked:

“Daddy, how do I switch this off?”

TO READ THE CONCLUSION OF THIS STORY, CHECK UNDER POPULAR POSTS ON THE LEFT!!!