8

 

The hours roll on endlessly on the parade ground.

That boy is cute, I wonder if he’s gay. Guess I’ll never know. The sun is so hot. I wonder if I’ll burn a frown that will make me look older. My polish is nearly finished. Has Mom changed? Has everything at home changed? I want to buy a panel van, turn it into a surfer-cabby. Would I be able to afford it on army pay? I’ll make a plan; re-design it. Yes, I like that, think it through really well; plan every detail. I’ll build it myself, and then fit a fridge, stove, gas and a wood-strip ceiling. I’ll plan a trip. Who will I take with me? Maybe that boy, where is he from? We’ll do a trip around the country. I must stand next to him in the lunch queue. We’ll sleep in the back, just the two of us . . . Don’t go there, can’t march with a boner. Shit, this is boring. This is so fucking boring. Can’t they march? Don’t they have any rhythm? Frankie’s face . . . Frankie, I miss you, I miss you, my brother. Hope PT is easy. Hate pole PT and buddy PT. I know this afternoon during PT I’ll pick him. He seems light, lean and sexy. Think of our first house in Welge­moed. I was so happy at first. Second house in Welgemoed, then Banhoek, Bob Dylan, Joni Mitchell, Black Sabbath, AC/DC, Led Zeppelin. Don’t listen to that music, it’s evil, devil-music, it’s from Satan. Midnight Express, Rocky Horror, Jaws. ‘Platooooon, halt two-three . . . bang . . .’

Will I still be able to draw after two years?

‘Leeeeeft turn . . .’

Will I be accepted into Art College? I miss Anne. Travel, travel. New York. We are lost. Think of the first house in Welgemoed. I do know what happiness is. I did . . . until that day—when everything changed.