Bless me Father

Chapter 7

58 Chapter 7 While working as branch manager at Swannees gents’ clothing store in Wynberg, I would often sit at my desk and write poems, between my normal duties of managing staff and serving customers. One Friday evening, after five, I was entertaining a few clients, prospective clients, and friends, in the store. I had a budget from head office to entertain customers at least once a month, although there were always more friends than customers. I bought beer, brandy and good whiskies, and served snacks and dips. There were always a few girls too. A very good customer, who spent a lot of money each month and was a nice guy, said he’d heard from our receptionist that I wrote poetry. He asked if he could borrow some poems to read over the weekend. On the following Monday morning, I arrived at the store to open up, and the same man was waiting for me. He said he wanted to have a cup of coffee with me and talk about my poems, which he liked very much. ‘What the fuck are you doing working as a clothing salesman?’ he asked as I was opening the doors. ‘What else?’ I replied, looking for the right three keys on the bunch. ‘You should be a copywriter,’ he said. ‘You sell better and write better than any of the copywriters at the agency that does my advertising.’ We entered the store. He explained that he was the marketing director of the Wool Board. 59 I thought copyright was a legal term. I had no idea that there was a career for people who could write and sell. I never read newspapers, only books. I never listened to the radio, only records and tapes. When I watched movies and saw those Brylcream ads, I thought they were made in America. It had never occurred to me that I could in fact earn a living writing advertisements. My awareness did not extend to the media – life was a jol. Parties, women, friends, red wine and ganja. And, of course, wives and children. By now, I was married for the second time and had three children, two boys and a baby girl. I was 26 years old. Like all writers, I had always harboured the secret dream. Mario D’Offizi, famous poet. Respected short story writer. Being a novelist never really attracted me – I knew I didn’t have the attention span to write more than a few thousand words. The dream had barely moved into consciousness, though, and now I was being challenged to pursue a career as a copywriter. I thanked the customer profusely for his compliments and assured him that I would look into the possibilities. He promised to nag me until I did so. And then, things got in the way. Like military service. I wasn’t really happy selling clothes – it simply paid the bills. I wasn’t happily married either. I heard from some of my mates that they were being called up for a military camp of indefinite length – unlike the compulsory one-month, once-a-year camps that dragged on for ten years. I was in the same regiment and had not received a call-up, so I got on the phone to my regiment and enquired why I was not being called up. Did they not need me? Had they overlooked my rank (private) and number? Whoever was on duty put me on hold, so he could investigate. He returned to our conversation. ‘No’, he said to me in a flat, grumpy voice, ‘you have not been 60 called up because we don’t know where you are. The Military Police and the South African Police have been looking for you for years.’ ‘But I informed the regiment of my change of address,’ I protested. There was silence at the end of the line. And then, ‘Get the fuck to Wingfield by such-an-such-a-date.’ ‘Thank you,’ I replied politely. ‘Thank you,’ I muttered again to myself. Freedom. Escape from an unhappy situation. I reported to the Wingfield base in two days. I had spent three months in Walvis Bay during my last three months of military service. Since completing my military service seven years earlier I had completely lost interest in Southern African geo-politics. I had attended my first call-up, a one night induction into my regiment, situated...