Con Artists In Cape Town

Tuesday evening found me floating around the parking area of Gardens Centre in Cape Town, like a care-free young pigeon that's just been released over the skies above Table Mountain, but can't remember where he's flying, because the bread crumbs he was given by the kind old lady in her Oranjezicht garden contained traces of LSD.

What was I doing there? I wasn't exactly sure. The grocery list crudely stapled to my hand suggested that this was some sort of shopping expedition, organised by The Girlfriend, who I had recently rewarded with a metallic blue stapler to commemorate our 2 year anniversary. (I believe it's referred to as the Wax Paper Anniversary)

I had just ripped the note from my flesh, and was trying to stem the subsequent bleeding, when I heard someone call out in pidgin English - "Excuse me, sir". I ignored it at first, as I often hear voices in pidgin English since I stopped taking my medication, but he proved to be a persistent bugger and jumped in my path, causing me to shriek in a lady-like manner.

"What the f**k do you want from me?" I requested, once I had composed myself and stopped sobbing. I had a vivid flashback of an evil charity volunteer, and wasn't ready for another encounter.

The man, a wild eyed gentleman who looked as if he had spent his formative years rolling around in dirt and broken dreams, explained that his car had run out of gas, and that he needed "just a few odds for petrol in order to get his wife and baby home." They were seated in his car, which was CONVENIENTLY parked on the very top level whilst we were in the basement.

I had heard this story a few years before, outside the FNB in Claremont one Friday night. I was pretty hammered then, and on that occasion was talked into giving the guy R70, after promising to call me and arrange repayment as soon as he dropped his wife and baby at home (they were seated in the car around the corner).

Obviously I never heard from him again, and had to spend the rest of that week selling Big Issue vendors to Big Issue, in order to get by and make my rent. Since then, I had learnt my lesson - and vowed never to be taken for a ride again - and so the thought of telling off this chancer excited me greatly, giving me a bit of a semi in the process, which probably unsettled him a little as I was wearing skimpy shorts - the shiny ones that were quite popular in the 80's, and which I was now trying to revive.

"So, meneer" I began respectfully, "you're saying you have NO petrol to make it home?"

"Ja, man" he replied, "I have NO petrol to make it home."

I found it annoying that he virtually repeated me word for word, but I carried on nonetheless, preparing to deliver the coup de grace, as they say in Fresnaye.

"What then," I mused, "are you doing in a shopping mall? Shouldn't you be at a garage?"

"Huh?" he said, as he realised his story held no water.

"Shouldn't you be at a garage?" I continued.

"Huh?" he said again.

"Shouldn't you be at a garage?" I continued.

"Huh?" he said again.

"Shouldn't you be at a garage?" I continued.

"Huh?" he said again.

"Shouldn't you be at a garage?" I pressed.

"...Huh?" he said once more.

"Hiiiyaaa!" I said, as I launched a flying kick to his head, knocking him several feet back.

"That will teach you to try and con people out of money, you...you... con artist!" I shrieked in a lady-like manner again, only this time I didn't sob.

"What are you doing?!?" screamed his wife, who had just turned the corner with their baby. "Why did you fly kick my husband in the head?"

...

...

Ha, that would have been funny. But no, he just rolled around a couple of times, then got up and ran for the hills. Lavender Hills. There was no wife and baby. He was just a con artist, looking for money. And I had fly kicked him in the head.



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