Relevant

In this 2 part MUST-READ short story, Gerrry captures in astounding detail, life in Durban about 3 decades ago. Analytical, witty, insightful, authentically Durban and incredibly entertaining, "Booby the booby" sets a new standard for short-story writing here on Bruin-ou.com. Enjoy. Ed. My thoughts have strayed and when Mickey clicks his fingers a few inches from my face, I look up to find that he is staring at me.     “What? What’s wrong?”     “Tommy, you thinking of your stekkie (girlfriend) again? I said, if you waai (go) somewhere with me tomorrow afternoon, I'll wys (show) you something so amazing, you’ll tell your grandchildren about it!”

It is Friday night in the Mayville Hotel. The bar will close in about thirty minutes and the noise level is high, the sobriety level low. Mickey’s voice has become richer, deeper and much louder. Most of his words, rounded and smoothened by many a downpour, slide easily out of his mouth. Alcohol word erosion? 
    “Liss’n Miggy,” I imitate his slur, “Listen, there’s nothing, I repeat, nothing amazing I haven’t seen, heard of, or read about.”
        “You wanna bet on it, ekse? My ten says you will be amazed.”
        “Make it twenty!”
Mickey’s flushed face alters as his eyes narrow into slits and his mouth becomes a smile. He takes my hand and shakes it vigorously.
“Done! Easy money, Tommy. Another moegoe exposes himself every minute.”
    “Oh, come on, you're quoting me now. Be original for once, ekse.”
    He grins, "Never mind that. What’s wrong with you?”
“What you chooning now?”
“You only had three or four dops since coming here hours ago! You  slipping, ekse! I think I’ll buy you a couple of stiff dops, seeing you’ll be giving me twenty bucks tomorrow!”
     
The barman shouts, ‘Time, gentlemen, please!’, so we gulp the last of our drinks, then lurch out to our cars. I pause as I take out my keys. I’ve just remembered that Mickey is supposed to show me something amazing tomorrow, but I do not know where to meet him. When I walk over to his car, a dark green Morris Minor, he rolls down his window and laughs at me.
    "What kind? You wanna cancel the bet?"
    “Don’t be silly. I wanna check that wonder of the world, but you never  chooned me where we’re waaiing tomorrow."
    “Oh. We're waaiing to Overport.”
    “Where in Overport?” The port of Durban is not visible from this curiously named suburb, which lies behind the ridge overlooking the city. The only way to see the port from there is to pour it out of a port bottle.
    “38.” Mickey’s words are almost incomprehensible.
    “Did you say 38? You gonna wys me something amazing at 38? Why didn’t you say so! Isn’t Pat your cuzzie?”
    “Ja, we waaiing to his pozzie!”
The house is called ‘38’ because of its street number. It is an old, dilapidated tin-roofed gathering place for wastrels and idlers, whose primary aim is to be drunk or drugged all the time. When the weather is fine the daily jollification, which features excessive drinking, dagga smoking, swearing, arguments, and sometimes fighting, usually occurs in the back yard of the property. It is not uncommon to find more than one person lying temporarily dead in the yard.  
As a parting shot, Mickey tells me not to forget to bring the twenty rand I’ll have to pay him tomorrow.