YD6~17 Sun Yellow Mercedes Departure Relationship, not a Currency of Choices

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I’m discovering Aetheria’s consciousness by keeping a journal, her 10-year odyssey until birth, when the infant communicated to me, her wish: Call me, “Sunshine.” Over Sunshine’s first two years, and at nine-month intervals, she’s resuscitated under particular conditions, Aetheria’s puppeteering through a hostile milieu, persistent under Intensive Care Unit challenges. After Sunshine’s mother packed and left home, the witches and wizards volatilized, to lead a healthier life.

 I dithered on the edge of my chair, persistent self-repeating. ‘_Now! I’m off for home_.’ Sentient factory machinery on pause. The industrial zone drained workforces, dawns an evening chill, arousing isolation from staff emptied administrative offices. Out the crack to double doors, figures the slender Afrikaner, to hold his long stride. In a mere pirouette, pause beside my desk. ‘_You have no executive Rights_’ Saying, “I’m locking up!” After my confirming gaze in the man’s eyes. The logistic manager tears away, as I rise from my seat, fingers piano the keyboard, I’m fixated on the IBM PC’s monitor, in dread — a false key can lead to discover booting up the next morning discovering morsel files, or entire clusters of input data gone missing.

I step, leaning after my index finger, reaching the far flank industrial switch. While I’m watchful over the Hard Disk drive flickering the saving light, assuring my transition out of the niche, ends with a smooth database and spreadsheet pages flush a blue screen, and prompts “C:/” To flick the switch. I straightened with a leg, pushing back the wooden kitchen chair. Turned the corner, tracked the ghostly logistic manager into the ante-room to the paired doors, fumbling keys in my trouser’s hip pocket, imagining meeting my Mercedes outdoors, pick the door lock, turn the ignition, to drive away on a routine Western Bypass home.

As my hand released, the door lever’s hydraulic hinging open constraint, I pace into a dreadful, deserted hallway. The receptionists’ night-desertion to glim chilly hatch-windows shadowing the shallow room. But the Afrikaner’s conscious trailed behind the logistic wing’s hidden doors without the shadow of closing but telling his imminent return. With the closing door behind, I’m scouting the opposing wing’s weekend drain through the opening into the narrow corridor’s bleak depths. A fluttering shadow arousing from Eidelstein’s doorway. Unlike the old-man, rushing by Tobianski transom spilling light, figuring in the approach, the mechanic to egresses. with spins to an abrupt halt, blocks my way to descend the entrance doors’ walk-up. His hand reaches into his back pocket, returns opens his palm, riffling open a wade of banknotes. With finger flicks, the mechanic counts out load a hundred Rand bills, and handover, saying. “One — two — three. . .” Then says with a sigh. “Seven thousand Rand.”

The mechanic reaches for his other back pocket, his free fingers to fold an origamic butterfly. He turns away. Walks with the fluttering white pages, toward the familiar glass gloom portrait, He spreads the sheets on the hatch’s narrow wooden framing. With a hand’s heel, ironing the creases on the sill, while the official Department of Motor Vehicles’ wrinkles creep over the corner across the edging glazed, beading, to the reveal. He resorts to pinning the bottom of the page flat on the sill, as a magic ballpoint pen fidgeted into my fingers. I’m signing away, “FRL 060 T.” Which warranted a change of relationship, and I’m telling. ‘_Sorry, my girl, for driving you so hard. But the Mercedes mechanic is more adept than I am, having you at heart_.’

The Chief mechanic’s papers fluttered at hand, as I sidestepped to a pause. Amid facing the exit doors to the street behind the mechanic. I tweak the soft Mercedes key grip from the ring, handing to the chief mechanic. As he spearheads into the narrow evanescent corridor. My pity extending to the mechanic, I turned away from walking out, liberating my conscience. ‘_After all, he is a mechanic?_’

Pocket my thinned keyring, I pulled the hydraulic resistant door, stepping into the anteroom. Blind to the edge of a cliff ahead, I'm emerging from the passage. Swing my way through the pool of vacant desks, toward the middle doorway to marginalize glazed partitioned offices. I approached Hilton’s head, neck and shoulders, behind the glaze above the wainscot. As he figured, hunched over his close by the door desk, with Chandoo emerging from a blind spot. Chandoo’s ghostly figure emanated from the midst of desks, the far in the window's light. I step back, from clashing invisible to Chandoo. Hilton has driven the junior accountant, wearing heavy spectacles, a breeze riffling papers at hand, weighing hunched shoulders. 

After I pursued Chandoo absent-minded, I stepped into the aisle to the freed spot soldering Hilton. As Hilton raises eyesight, from swimming in the scattered papers, I’m saying. “Hilton, I need a car. You would have one to lend me?”

Hilton’s gaze falls, pulling the desk top drawer alongside his pants’ thigh, fingers fumbling keys, picking a light reflecting SU profiled VW key. Eyed short of the window filtering light — His mind’s Hydra raises its head stretching a neck outdoors, crossing the street, into the fenced yard to the Volkswagen Beetle. Hilton succumbs to a hesitation. He returns the key to the bottom of the draw, onto fumbling in the opposite corner, bringing to light a set of keys dangling at his fingertip, saying. “It’s for the Mercedes.”

I turned away, after thanking Hilton, to head for the ante-room’s doors, and across the hallway to the walk-up, out to the street. I began searching for the car, through the screen along the open gates. In the yard enclosure, the sun yellow hue beckoned, to find my Mercedes little sister, and a hearty glimmering “280 SE.” on the trunk lid. I picked the door lock, stepped by the swing, to sit behind the steering wheel, tweaked the ignition key, to the engine purr, scouting for the differences. Fingers toggle the gear knob into reverse. Driving away along an oily dirt driveway toward the open flimsy gates, setting my course on the asphalt.

My mind aerating, Aetheria’s wrap, while before me, I’m on a mere routine track to the highway. As I’m cruising, amid a hypnotic traffic drip on a concrete band, cosmic orchestration rhymes to mind. ‘_Where are you going to…_’ When the Western Bypass reaches the Buccleuch Pretoria-Johannesburg interchange, awaking by a metal rhythm. ‘_I'm leaving on a jet plane. . ._’ To concentrate on the ramp-off, to weave home to the Knowler’s house.

After thinking out, my course to the travel agency at opening doors. I rose from the bed. Glanced through the cottage window’s sashes and top fanlights, a driving Northern hue sky over Kelvin rooftop. I slipped into a shirt. Pulled up my pants, concerned, awakening. ‘_My walks out Thursdays from Barclays Bank, with the week’s wages, until enveloped, handed Friday on construction sites’ crews_’ The bundled banknotes weighing around my hip pockets, as a reminder that I’m not immune to robbers, I stepped into my shoes, to emerge from the room. Head downstairs and descend into the architectural conversation pit.

I’m loitering over my “IBM PC.” booting “CPU” and pedestal to the monitor, prompting “C:/” in the top-left corner. Off the corner of my desk, I’m bringing along to sit, Eidelstein son’s given diskette. Introduced the blank label diskette into the “CPU’s” slotted fascia, my fingers piano the keyboard, at exerting patience, downloading, swapping diskettes, until the third bringing to screen side-by-side window frames prompting, parallel, “C:/” embedded in the top bar. 

My mind blasted by the Norton Commander blue panels, plastered listing of each drive’s folders and files, hiding the operation letter and number, ‘_But?_’ I’ve played, bringing “A:/” drive to the right pane, with an immediate advantage, from typing MS-Dos, typed “CMD,” commands. As I’m figuring out this monster, hiding behind the panes and a menu in a row beneath. I’m exerting patience, procrastinate further files back-up, for diskettes in rotation. As files and updated programs fast nibbled Bytes, gobbling the 20 Mega-Bytes Hard Disk Drive. Overwhelmed, Though my IBM PC’s greater capacity than the earlier 10 Mega-Bytes HD at Duro? Test time is up, to  rise from my chair, estimating my arrival for retailers opening doors. 

I drive to the ground floor garage entrance, beating Saturday’s rush. With a bushwhacking eyesight midst sleek undulation scattered cars’ undergrowth through a forest of concrete column. Until my hand’s heel spins around the steering wheel, pulling in to stall. With a pinky hook, I step from the door swing, glancing back ahead through the foursome plate-glass portal into the deserted fluorescent passage. Emerge in the mall, I’m tracking the agency’s moved from Rivonia village, two years earlier, landing me In Brussels, fetched by de P’pa and de M’ma from the Airport. haphazard since, I crossed the agency, with a vague recollection, as off left, I’m borrowing the escalator to a level below. 

In a far corner, arouse the Luminescent fascia, to drop my eyesight, to a fruit and vegetable hues to glossy magazines semi-close window display. As I near the storefront’s door’s crack, when overhead, to my surprise, spelled out, “Sandton Travel Agency.” I rest my strides, before fracturing the door, to two women off right inland display alternate lined-up desks. 

I’m passing the glazed door swing clear fluorescent skies, amid a continuing shingled display splashing a panoply of a euphoric world of resorts. I couldn’t imagine my restless body sunbathing on golden beaches by turquoise waters, but I paced up with the far woman’s eyes raising an inviting gaze. I step up to her desk, but reluctant to obey her eye-leading me to relax in a visitor's chair. In need to stay focused, I'm saying. “_’Lady, It’s simple_’ — I just need a flight.”

The saleslady insists. “Have a seat.” Leading me to discomfort, I resisted with a stance by the pointed corner of her desk. She asks. “Where would you like to go?” With a keen undertone, offering a mere flight. Without another word, the saleslady leads me thinking about worldly cities, I hadn’t thought through the challenge facing me. Lowered myself to sit on the chair’s corner, at an angle of sight of the saleswoman behind her screen, to shame my imminent exit. 

I’m whining to myself. ‘_I just want to fly off in an aircraft_.’ The idea soars to mind, but I couldn’t imagine landing, foreseeing to further construction projects. The saleslady’s gazes, for a response, befell on me to question her. ‘_what prices are we talking about? _’ The only certain landing, for a reflective. I conceded to her fixation, saying. “Brussels.”

The saleslady tilts her head, diverging her eyes to fix the monitor, fingers - tick, tick, tick. . . - the keyboard key, saying. “Brussels — We have flights with Sabena — Thursday.”

‘_That is just in a week's time_?’ I’m startled. ‘_Wait! I have to wrap up my affairs here?_’ Saying. “That’s too soon!”

The saleslady’s next departure date, she mentioned in the following month. To imagine myself turn into circles, twiddling thumbs, I reply. “That’s too far away.” I’m driven to realizing, I’m most effective with a tight schedule, I turned to my task by the Englishman — A father by suspicious circumstances fled from his wife and son — Clearing my office. Be rid of the Knowle’s pampered maid, begrudging me. Which niggled to mind, I must have brushed past, a quick greeting, Because, the beautiful and slender native woman, didn’t seem to befit a kitchen, and enterprising evening meals dished up in our laps seated in the television room? 

I wiggle shifting back to comfort on the chair, as the saleslady resorted to speaking out loud a few airlines, departure dates and time, shifting eyesight, imagined plotting a calendar grid on the screen, ceased mention of the month. Drives me, hearing her out, rattle dates and times my concentration to tatters. She stumbles on a day the following week, at a loss of significance, filters through to my mind as she mentions the cheapest ticket, with an emphatic resonance, saying. “It’s an open date return ticket — within the year.” 

The saleslady paused. gazing me in the yes. ‘_Is that final?_’ I’m reluctant to affirm. Her eyes break my reticence, ‘_Is that an OK!_’ Saying. “OK?” Her eyes huffs. She drops into my lap, a date and time, and although my mind isn’t catching the air ball, a spade of fingers dig in my trousers’ pocket. Pulled out a wad of banknotes, and like the chief mechanic before me. I flick one-hundred Rand bills through my fingers, handing her in lumps over the desktop, a second wad, third, and in part, a fourth to pocket the rest, while she stacks her bundles to her desk side drawer. She leans over to her opposite side, after her hands reaching out for the laser printer whining, warming up.

As the printer quietened, the mechanism spills out a sheet of paper, the saleslady hands across her desk. Baffled, I search through the printed text for digital keys, fixated until I’m assured the departure date was printed in my mind, to raise from the chair. I bend the paper corners up and together, pinch a half fold, running slight fingers along, and again nail pinched the crease, turning away from the lady. At my pace toward the exit door, I’m folding again the doubled sheet in half, and again until small enough and thick to fit into my Seven-Star wallet, returned to my back pocket. I pace along the mall, without looking back, to a sudden anxious grip, asking myself. ‘_What have you done?_’ 

I’m on a roller coaster ride, up the escalator, to cross the fluorescent tunnel toward the dark plate-glass door. Step out to columns, slab and floor sandwich a bare concrete chill, located the sun yellow Mercedes. I pick the door lock, by the swing of the door, I step inside. Tweak the ignition key, the engine to a purr, toggle in reverse gear, with a glance through the rear window. I back up in the lane, uncoil to drive away, contour a field of fluorescent tubes sleek striated parked cars, to swerve clear for the rising boom, slot my ticket, to emerge into sunlight, to abandon the reared city from the grasslands, crying for my boys. ‘_How am I going to tell, Lionel and Gavin — I’m leaving?_’