The Collector

Sally Partridge

 

Bennie wouldn’t call himself an old soul. Retro, maybe. Retro was okay. Retro was making a comeback in a big way. These days everyone was listening to Lazerhawk, wearing vintage Seiko digital watches and tweeting about Stranger Things. Retro was something Bennie felt comfortable with. He hated the phrase “safe space”, but in a literal, non-SJW way, those two words summed it up. Truth is he never really felt comfortable out in the world since leaving his parent’s home in the northern suburbs—the wrong side of the boerewors curtain, as the guys at work like to say. He had a good job as a security guard at an apartment complex in Century City. Apart from the occasional baiting, the other guys were all right. The residents were uptight though. You couldn’t just say hello to a pretty girl who walked through the gate anymore, even if you were just being polite. Even if you really just wanted to ask her out for a burger. Women didn’t want you to talk to them unless it was strictly business.

Which way is Block C?

Fourth building on your right.

Excuse, where do I pay for parking?

At the gate, Ma’am.

Hey, Bennie, there’s a homeless guy sleeping in the visitor’s parking bay. Won’t you sort it out?

Sure, Dr Moodley.

He stopped talking to the residents after a while, in case he said the wrong thing about the Jews or working mothers, even though at school everyone always said what was on their mind and it was okay to laugh when someone made fun of the Chinese. Things were better when people weren’t so easily offended. The last straw was when Jackie at the complex laundromat reported him to his supervisor for being inappropriate towards her. All he said was that she looked good. She’d lost some weight. Women liked it when you noticed things like that, or so he thought. His ma always lost her temper when no-one commented on how well her diet was going. Turns out both Bennie and his ma were wrong about women. So now he’d nod, say as little as possible, smile, but not in a way that could be misinterpreted. It wasn’t so much a fine line as an invisible one. Well, he certainly couldn’t see it.

When his shift ended he kept to himself. He liked to play old-school games on Steam. Games like Neon Drive. It made him realise how much he missed the eighties. Rewatching Blade Runner and The Terminator made him feel a whole lot better about his life. No-one really understood that. It was like taking a trip to the past, where all the heroes were tough guys and the women liked them for it. Bennie was a tough guy. But these days women didn’t want saving. He didn’t understand the world anymore. Collecting memorabilia was a natural progression. DVDs, movie posters, figurines. Predator and Terminator action figures were easy to come by online. Car boot sales and comic book conventions were a great place to find old He-Man collectables. He even found a life-size Gizmo at a hospice charity shop that gurgled when you pressed its belly. He liked his little slice of the past. His ‘safe space’—everything arranged in such a way so he could always be reminded of his childhood wherever he looked. That’s why he liked working nights at Century City. Driving to work down that lit-up, palm-lined stretch at night felt like he was going back to a better place. It calmed him down. Made him forget the present. He liked the way the lights of the petrol station reflected off the glass buildings, bathing everything in neon. It was like starring in his own movie.

 

 

Working nights meant he slept late, but he always got up early on Saturday mornings to hit Milnerton Market. He dressed meticulously in his black jeans and hi-tops, his logo t-shirt stretched over his muscled arms. Unlike the hipster and artisan markets in the city centre and the gentrified parts of Salt River, the people that set up their stalls on the dusty stretch of lot between the fish factories and the train tracks were from a different time. It was a place far removed from postcard perfect Cape Town, where Table Mountain looked the other way and giant cement dolosse jutted out at odd angles, obscuring the sea view. These people had no idea the value of what they were selling. They just needed the money. It was where he found the best figurines. Bennie liked to amble with his hands in his jeans pockets, past the faded beach umbrellas, plastic tables and yawning car boots, just looking. Most of it was junk. Plastic kitchen sets and scratched vinyl records, stolen car radios and Mad Magazines without front covers. But there were a few diamonds hidden amongst the coal.

Towards the end of a dusty row, near an oxbow of kombis selling boerewors rolls and slap chips, he spotted a wooden table covered with plastic Tupperware containers heaped with toys. A tiny woman in her fifties with the manic eyes of someone on too many over-the-counter pills smiled as he approached. “Hello,” she said, “looking for something for your kids? I have a garage-full of toys, you know. My daughter’s too old now you see. She’s a journalist in Johannesburg. Married to her job, ha ha. No hope for grandchildren, so why not sell the lot I said.” She wrung her graying ponytail as she spoke.

Bennie nodded politely and let her finish. He picked up a pink My Little Pony with green hair and four-leaf clovers on the rump that was in pretty good shape. Right time period too. Some collectors could get as much as one hundred dollars for one of these on eBay, if it was rare enough. He turned the pony over a couple of times, admiring the care that went into the colouring and the detailed artwork, the kind you didn’t see much of anymore. Vintage Hasbro. He held it under his nose. It even smelled like the eighties, like the inflatable plastic pools of his childhood. He felt himself relaxing, his mind already blurring everything else out so that it was an effort to pull himself back into the present. “Got any more of these?”

“Yes! A carrier bag full, let me get them.” She disappeared under the table and popped up a minute later rustling a yellow Shoprite bag, bulging with plastic legs and snouts. She focused her wild eyes on him. “Is it for your daughter?” she asked.

“Sure.” He glanced inside the bag and counted about twenty figures in the same condition, their cartoon eyes staring in every direction. Usually little kids brushed the curls out of the hair, leaving behind a matted, static clump. These had their shiny manes intact. In the memorabilia trade, they’d do well. He smiled to himself. “How much you want for these?” he asked.

“Oh, you know, I don’t want to rip you off. A hundred? Tell you what. I’ll give you a discount since they’re so old. New toys cost so much nowadays, don’t they? How about we say fifty for the lot.”

He kept his face expressionless. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

 

 

At home in his flat without palm trees or neon signs, he googled his new acquisitions. Yum Yum, with its scratch’n’sniff rump and candy cane motif, was worth 14 dollars. He searched each one meticulously on eBay. Twenty dollars. Ten dollars. Sixteen dollars. He had purchased them all for fifty rand. That wasn’t even the equivalent of four dollars. He was sitting on a potential fortune. Merriweather Rainbows went for around eight dollars. Barnacle Big Brother, ten. Posy, two. Mountain Boy Ice Crystal, one hundred dollars.

“Jackpot,” said Bennie, leaning back in his wheeled office chair. He eyed the ponies arranged in a neat row in front of him. He liked the look of them on his desk, underneath his laminated Enter the Dragon poster. Pity to sell them really.

Starglow was worth sixty dollars. He reached for the slightly translucent green pony covered in stars. The hair still retained its out-the-box curl, as if the previous owner hadn’t played with it at all. Maybe the girl had been more into books since she was a big-time journalist now. He could sell it for one hundred dollars. Easy. Hell, he might even keep it. He liked the smell.

He spent the rest of the evening cleaning them meticulously, like an archaeologist unearthing a dinosaur skeleton from the dirt one brushstroke at a time. Mitch Murder played from his computer speakers, one of his latest retrowave discoveries. He’d finish off by photographing the ponies and updating his catalogue.

 

 

The security office at the entrance to the complex overlooked a courtyard where Uber drivers waited for their passengers and pizza delivery men rested against their scooters, their faces illuminated by smartphone screens. The block was access controlled, so residents came in through their own gate via access card. Bennie’s job was to take down the details of the cars that pulled into the visitor’s entrance. He recognised the boyfriends and girlfriends, brothers and friends that left red-eyed or slurring hours later.

It was a slow night. He watched a group of girls with feathered hair and animal print coats giggle and woo as they manoeuvred their heeled bare legs into the back of an Uber.

His colleague, Wessel, elbowed him in the belly. “Tin Roof you reckon? Or Aces and Spades. Girls like that always end up at Aces and Spades.”

Bennie made a neutral sound through his nose.

It didn’t deter Wessel. “What you reckon? After work? See if we run into them?”

Bennie managed a smile. “And what must I say when your wife calls?”

“Tell her I fell off Tin Roof.” Wessel snorted with laughter.

The rest of the guys lounging around the office joined in. Bennie didn’t mind too much. They knew not to push him too far. He shook his head and took a look outside. It was a clear night. He could make out the silhouettes of the palm trees against the tall pink apartment buildings. Hundreds of flatscreen TVs glowed in the high windows. He could tell by the sporadic vibrations in his pocket that his auctions were going well. He could already taste that bottle of Johnny Walker Black Label he planned to buy when the first proceeds came in. He felt a pang of pity at the thought of parting with them, but he shook the thought away. Trading memorabilia was a new venture. The idea had come to him while comparing prices online for a GI Joe action figure. He reckoned he could sell some items at a mark up to pay for the figures he really wanted. It seemed like good business sense.

His walkie talkie crackled at his belt.

Bennie. Bennie do you read me?

Roger that. Bennie here. Over.

Noise complaint on D block. Seventh floor.

Roger that. On my way.

So much for a quiet night.

Wessel craned his head. “It’s probably that laaitie that pumps his rave music every night. Boy needs a solid klap.”

“Bennie will sort him out. Everyone’s scared of Bennie,” said Masimba.

“Knock his head against the door, Bennie.”

“Give him one of those death stares.”

Bennie grabbed his torch. “I’ll be back,” he said.

Hoots of laughter followed. They loved it when the big guy channelled Arnie.

 

 

As he walked past the towering residential blocks, Bennie withdrew his phone from his pocket. He was already almost seventy dollars up. He scrolled through the bids and spotted an email notification flashing on the corner of his screen. He had doubled up some of his listings on Gumtree, thinking he could save on postage costs if he made the sale locally.

 

Re: Rare MLP Twilight Unicorn Collectible

Dear Sir. I saw your listing and nearly jumped out my skin. I must have this item for my collection. Can I EFT you to reserve it? I’m willing to meet tonight to secure immediate sale.

Please advise urgently.

Jet

 

It was an easy six hundred rand. He made the arrangements to meet up after his shift. He had to deal with the kid in D block first. Usually all it took was the sight of him to get residents to toe the line. Bennie was the guy you called when there was trouble. All that lifting had crafted him into a formidable figure. It made people think twice, which was useful for someone who just wanted to be left alone.

The door opened, blasting the passage in the bass-heavy doof doof house music. The kid was about twenty and wore a white t-shirt over boxer shorts. He had to crane his head up to meet Bennie’s gaze.

“Too loud?” asked the kid.

Bennie said nothing and tapped his digital watch.

“I know. I know. No loud music after ten. I’ll turn it down.” His Adam’s apple jerked nervously.

The music was off before Bennie had even reached the lift.

He read the message again. He liked the sophistication of the language. “Dear Sir”. It made him feel like part of an elite club. A group that understood the meaning behind these items.

 

 

He waited with his arm resting out the open window of his double cab. At this time of night, the petrol station was fairly deserted. The attendants huddled in their office, the sound of a soccer match and a thousand vuvuzelas drifted from the open door. Bennie watched cars come and go. Most of the drivers rushed into the garage shop for bread or firewood or condoms and disappeared again in a flash of rear lights. Bennie drummed his fingers on his car door and waited.

He saw a hooded figure turn the corner and watched his progress. The guy wore a grey hooded sweatshirt under a black leather jacket with the hood up over the collar and a pair of black skinny jeans. Bennie watched as he looked left and right, like he was searching for someone.

He got out the car and whistled.

“Bennie?” the figure inquired, hurrying over.

“Yeah. You must be Jet?”

“Yeah, that’s me. Jet from Gumtree.” He spoke quickly and cast furtive glances around.

Bennie noticed he wore white Adidas Superstars with black stripes. Expensive. “Well here’s the figure. Mint condition as you can see. It comes with the matching brush.”

Jet nodded urgently and made a grab for the bag. “My daughter will love it,” he said.

Bennie held the bag out of reach. “I thought you were a collector?”

“Yeah, but she loves my dolls, you know how they are at that age. What’s yours is mine. Six hundred, right? I’m transferring you the money right now.”

Jet navigated his thumbs at lightning speed across the phone screen. “Done. You should get a notification.”

Bennie’s phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out and glanced at the screen. “Money’s in,” he said.

“Nice doing business with you,” said Jet, making a grab for the packet. Bennie hesitated, but it was too late. Jet had already looped the handles safely over his elbow.

Shaking his head, Bennie returned to his car and drove home, playing Mega Drive loudly while he sped past the avenue of palm trees. He didn’t want to think about some kid ruining Twilight Unicorn’s perfect mane and destroying its value. Besides, it was nearly six-am. The world would wake up soon, and he needed to get a few hours in before his next shift.
It was just a pony. Not his problem anymore.

 

 

On the way to work he stopped in at Pick n Pay Liquors to pick up his celebratory bottle.

“I’m sorry, sir, your card has been declined.”

Bennie blinked at the woman behind the till. His whiskey waited in a paper bag on the counter. “That’s impossible, try it again. There’s definitely money in there.”

She swiped the card through the machine with a loud smack. Bennie could feel the queue snaking behind him shift with impatience. “Nope. Declined.”

He exhaled sharply and pulled out his emergency credit card. “Here. Use this. But if the machine is broken, it probably won’t work either.”

“It’s approved,” she said, with just a hint of eyeroll.

He checked his phone in the car. The message definitely said the money was through. He logged into his internet banking and stared at the negative balance, then checked his message folder again, noticing for the first time that the number linked to the transaction notification was different to the one his bank usually used.

“Those bliksems.”It wasan old scam. He should have picked it up.

He opened his contact list and searched the names of his carefully curated connections. “Hello, Gert. You still an inspector at Mowbray? I need a favour, man. Can you trace a number for me? Dankie. Yeah, just message me. I owe you a beer.”

The palm trees laughed at Bennie as he drove past. The wind raised their serrated leaves in the air. He ground his teeth. Bennie had been a security guard for nearly fifteen years. He had cut his teeth in ADT patrol, hopping walls and chasing down crooks in his heavy combat boots. The criminals were getting craftier by the minute, but he had always prided himself on knowing all the tricks. But that was another lifetime. There was a reason he had chosen the quieter, residential beat. Nowadays you couldn’t just klap someone. There were rules, public opinion to consider.

No one greeted him when he entered the security office and they all hurried to get on with various tasks. He had caught a glimpse of his own reflection in the rear view mirror. The guys were wise to stay away.

Twilight Unicorn. He had been duped over a fucking plastic pony. But worse than that. They had hit him in a soft spot and breached his hidden private world.

He checked his Seiko watch. He could wait a few hours.

It appeared Jet was a fan of nostalgia himself. With his connection’s help, Bennie had followed him to the ground floor of Stadium on Main, to the bowling alley and arcade. From behind a pillar, he watched Jet battle it out on an old Duke Nukem arcade machine. Bennie waited for a father and his small son to finish at the basketball hoop game before making his approach. For a large man, he could be remarkably silent.

Jet noticed his reflection in the screen and spun round. “Vok. What do you want?”

“Where’s the pony?”

“What pony, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

A quick glance confirmed that the woman behind the token counter was gone. They were alone. Bennie closed his fist and cracked his knuckles one hand at a time, made himself look bigger. “You don’t even have a kid, do you?”

Jet appraised his pursuer and glanced around the deserted arcade. He swallowed. “Listen man, call the bank. I’m sure it was just a simple mistake.”

“Don’t insult my intelligence. You tried to scam me. You got caught. Now you have to deal with me.”

Jet started to sweat. He licked his lips. “I know it looks bad, but I’m just trying to make a living. I’m not even the one you want. I’m just the delivery guy. The collector I work for doesn’t even ask questions. He doesn’t care where the merch comes from.”

Bennie waited while Jet vomited all the details he needed. His anger at being ripped off was one thing. The knock his pride had taken was another matter entirely. He wouldn’t dupe another collector like that.

Bennie let Jet go. He had what he needed. He knew he wouldn’t allow himself a moment’s peace until that pony was back on his desk.

 

 

He parked in a side street behind the historic Labia theatre with its neon pink hearts and fairy lights blinking in the art-deco windows. He noticed that there was some kind of film festival happening, and young people in oversized jerseys and tight leggings smoked cigarettes in the parking lot and chatted over glasses of wine. No one looked up as Bennie stalked past.

The apartment block was a modern square building in Orange Street. Like every complex in Cape Town, it was access controlled by security and guests had to sign in and out by the CCTV-monitored gate. Bennie scouted the perimeter for a blind spot and hopped the wall undetected. The Collector lived on the top floor penthouse, its mirrored windows aimed towards Devil’s Peak and Table Mountain, the busy golden lights of the city reflected in the glass panes. Bennie wasn’t surprised by the absence of a Trellidor, since the complex was heavily guarded. Very few of the apartments in his block had them. He picked the front door lock with ease and used his empty debit card to pry it open. He would scare the guy. Take back his property. Rich fucks like this one needed to be taught a lesson, that’s all.
As the door opened, overhead ceiling lights cast a soft glow on the carpeted hallway. Vintage movie posters hung on the walls in glass frames.

 

 

He padded in soundlessly on the fluffy white carpet and picked up a familiar plastic scent. Someone was watching TV upstairs. A porn by the sound of it. He moved into the living room, which seemed larger because of all the glass cabinets lining the walls. Each cabinet was filled with faces from the past. Bobba Fett. Spock. She-Ra. Alfred E Neuman. Hundreds of pristine figures, like the apartment was some kind of museum. Momentarily forgetting why he was there, he ran his fingers over a glass door. Inside was Luke Skywalker standing beside Han Solo trapped in carbonite with Greedo right behind, still in their unopened cardboard packaging. He smiled as he remembered the age-old who-shot-first debate. The plastic smell seeped through the glass. He closed his eyes for a second and took a deep whiff as his mind was transported back to a sunny day long ago, where he brandished a broomstick like a lightsabre in his parents’ back yard.

“Who the fuck are you?”

Bennie tore his gaze from the treasures and turned around slowly.

A tall, bald man with black-framed glasses stood on the spiral staircase in a white plush gown. His bare feet and ankles peeked out underneath. With his hand on the rail, Bennie could see a gold pinkie ring inset with a large red stone. He said nothing, but drew himself up to his full height.

The man on the stairs didn’t flinch. “I asked you a question, asshole.”

“You stole from me,” said Bennie.

“The fuck I did, I’m calling security.”

“I am security. Stay where you are.”

“Fuck you,” he said, turning around to go back upstairs.

“Find anything new recently on Gumtree? Or do you have so many figurines that one doesn’t matter?”

The Collector span around on the stairs. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

Bennie began moving slowly. “Vintage My Little Pony. Generation one. Circa 1985. You sent your goon to steal it from me.”

“What goon?”

“Jet. I tracked him down earlier. Said the pony was for you.”

The Collector blinked in confusion, then slowly opened his mouth as he remembered. He held up his hands, palms forward. “I pay Jet to track down memorabilia for me. You say he stole something from you? If he did, I’m sorry. But I didn’t tell him to do that. He has a mind of his own. You want it back? Is that why you’re here?”

Bennie ground his teeth. He wasn’t even a blip on this guy’s radar. “You can’t just walk through life on the backs of other people. How many others like me did you rip off to get all this?”

The Collector dropped his arms and his voice took on a harder timbre. “You want to call the police, be my guest. This is business. People sometimes get the rough end of the deal. Look, I’ll be happy to pay you for whatever he took. Email me the details. Just get the fuck out of my flat. Call my lawyer. Whatever.”

Bennie continued moving forward, his eyes taking in the hundreds of detailed gazes trained on him. Heroes from his childhood. He imagined it all in his own apartment, lining his shelves, his desk. He could build a whole new glass case for them all, arrange them by genre…

Somewhere outside himself, the guy was still talking, “You like what you see? Take anything you want. I’ve got the key right here. It’s all insured.”

Bennie said nothing. He remembered that time as a kid he took his best friend’s Mr T figure because he had been teased about how little he had. Because he could.

“Hey… What are you doing? Stay back. Don’t come any closer.”

In another room above them, a small dog yapped. The Collector ran up the stairs, tripping over his gown on the last step.

Bennie wasn’t a violent guy. But the Collector was weak. Poorly made. He wouldn’t be much trouble. He took a last sniff of the deep plastic smell before heading up the stairs.

This was business. Like the guy said, sometimes people got the rough end of the deal.

It just wasn’t going to be Bennie.

Not this time.