Roofiesby Themba Kriger / 18.01.2012
Stepping out of the tiny lift in a nondescript building on Loop Street, Amy was surprised to be in, what appeared to be someone’s lounge, complete with couches and coffee table. The room was small with the lift and a door to her right, being the only obvious points of exit. She felt as if she was stuck inside of a surreal, text-based video game from the 80s.
You find yourself in a room. There are couches to the north, a door to the east, a lift to the south and a window to the west. There is a torch on the floor, but you can’t feel your face. You hear music.
A motherly looking figure, sitting on one of the couches, looked up from her book and noting her slight distress, smiled gently and directed her to a small set of stairs just around a corner which Amy had missed when scanning her surroundings. Amy smiled awkwardly and hurried around the corner and up the stairs towards the music.
The stairs led to a doorway, which opened up onto the dancefloor, with the bar in one corner and the DJ booth in the other. Beyond the tent which covers this area, a large matt of astroturf transforms the ground into an area where small groups of friends are sitting, even though the sun is beating down mercilessly. Impeccably dressed urban youths aka stylish black kids, make up the majority. “Guess I’m the token white girl” Amy laughs to herself. There is a stall selling quirky and colourful jewellery set up in the far corner of the roof. A tall man with short dreadlocks is showing a Scandinavian girl no mercy at the foosball table. Despite having never attended a rooftop party, Amy was sure this is the way they were meant to be.
Returning to the dancefloor to escape the heat, Amy heads over to the DJ booth in order to check out the boxes of vinyl stacked around it. The DJ, called Cross Colours, as she would find out later, was dancing behind the decks, pausing only to cue up and mix in the next record, and put its sleeve on display, dropping a mixture of old school funk and soul. Too shy to dance sober, Amy heads to the bathroom for a line. She doesnn’t really enjoy boozing and so resorts to narcotics when she needs some social lubrication. Probably cut with a lot of crystal, it wasn’t the best, but the coke was good enough to get Amy on the dancefloor.
By 6pm, Amy had spent most of the afternoon on the dancefloor, stopping only for a fruit smoothie and a few booster bumps. The roof top had filled up substantially, as had the dancefloor. She was dancing contently, looking good in her little high-waist short shorts and a low slung blouse tied together to show off her belly button ring. Suddenly, the urgent need to fart surprised her. Stimulants often made her stomach churn, so she didn’t think twice before cocking her ass, clenching her sphincter and slowly letting the gas out. Although, unknown to Amy, the coke had been cut with both teething powder and a mild laxative, as well as the pre-requisite crystal and a dose of regulation Columbian, and the tomatoes in the felafel she’d eaten from the street vendor the night before had given her a slight dose of the salmonella belly. These factors coalesced to create the perfect storm in her colon.
A look, which the other patrons would later laughingly describe as “sheer terror” crossed her face as she felt a dribble of hot liquid shit escape her anus, followed almost immediately by a cutting stench.
Amy could feel a thousand eyes staring at the spreading brown mark at the base of her shorts. Tears of embarrassment ran down her face, as she shuffled determinedly to the bathroom.
Having witnessed the whole scene from the foosball table, the tall man with short dreads turned to his Scandinavian friend and smiled. “I told you this party was the shit!”
*All images © Themba Kriger.