Moxyland - Lauren Beukes [44]
I mention this to camera-chick when she comes clipping back in. 'Oh yeah,' she says, 'absolutely!' and hustles me out onto the balcony, buffered with sliding glass panels to keep the wind at bay.
The red bead of the camera winks steadily, for the record, recording, recording. 'So, is that why you became a photographer? To capture life? Do you feel like you don't have a hold on it otherwise?'
'I'm not exactly a professional.'
'Don't be humble, honey. And can you do me a favour? Can you start your sentences with "I became a photographer because blah blah blah…" Otherwise it's a nightmare in the edit. Fragmented sentences. You've no idea. So what do you like about photography? What about it moves you, that…'
'Hits me in the gut?'
She's unapologetic. 'Yeah.'
'The immediacy. Sorry, sorry. What resonates with me about photography is the sense of immediacy. Catching the transitive before it slips away.'
'So why'd you get into it?'
'Easier than real art?'
'That's great. That's funny. Self-deprecating is good. Now, can you do it again in a whole sentence?'
'I became a photographer because it seemed easier than real art. And I can't draw.'
But really, it was because I'm terrified of losing anything.
I get off at Salt River Station to pick up printing paper at an arts store at the Neighbourhood market that imports small orders specially for me. I'm about to cross Sir Lowry Road, when I'm distracted by a commotion outside the bottle store. It shouldn't be a bigtime deal, a woman having a seizure on the pavement, and normally, I wouldn't pay much attention to a defuse, but it's like something is pulling me over to gawk. I'm not the only one. An Aito is loping up and down on the kerb beside her, whining impatiently and yipping in excitement. There's no sign of his operator.
'What? Never seen a robbery in progress, honey?' the liquor-store owner snaps at me, watching from his door, arms folded. I haven't actually, although I've seen plenty of defusings, but that's not why I stopped. Maybe it's a leftover I'm still dealing with from the pool hall, but it's like I'm compelled to be here.
'Move along, chicklet. This is nothing to do with you.'
'Okay,' I say, but I don't move. The woman's ravaged face and clothes mark her as street. She's as scrawny as a sparrow. Harmless, surely?
The defuse seems to be tailing off. The manic tempo of her dirty bare feet drumming the concrete is slowing down, and this seems to calm the Aito a little. It stands quivering in excitement, shoulders hunched, ears pricked forward, intent on her. More like cat than dog. Although who knows what goes on in that re-engineered brain?
More people have gathered to rubberneck, passing shoppers and a crew of street kids.
'Nothing to see. Move along. Get going! You want I should have you crisped too?' The shoppers shuffle off indignantly, but the street kids stick around, just far away enough that they're out of the Aito's immediate reach, but not far enough for the shoppie, who flaps his arms at them in disgust.
The defuse tails off and the woman lies there gasping, her eyes scrunched up. The Aito raises a proprietary paw and puts it on her chest, lightly, just enough to claim her. Despite myself, I step forward. The Aito raises its head, instantly alert, and its snout twitches as if to peel back its black lips in a snarl. But then it meets my eyes, gives a dismissive little whuff, and turns its full attention back to the woman.
'You and this doggie got something going on, lady?' drawls the shoppie, to the delight of the street kids, who howl with laughter and catcall, slapping their thighs as if to call the dog – or me – over. I sink down next to the woman on the street, ignoring the filth. There is a Chappies gum wrapper crumpled in the gutter, and some unidentifiable mulch,