We get robbed by car guards daily

Car guard. Those two words and the encounters they imply elicit a maelstrom of knee-jerk responses in me, some of which negative and some, well, less negative. Fortuitously for purposes of my venting here, these responses appear to follow a fairly easy to map progression, in a fashion I liken to an inverted three-phase traffic light.

Firstly there’s a twitch, which depending on my mood is either a slight blip on my internal radar or something manifested outwardly as a full-blown nervous tic. This is the red phase, unsettling my peace. Secondly there’s the yellow phase, which often includes lengthy introspection. As with an actual yellow traffic light, it brings a lot of “should I or shouldn’t I?” questions. “Should I stop?” “Should I gap it?” This is the second reaction phase. Then thirdly and thankfully, there’s the green phase. Depending on how my figurative timing is set, this phase can take a painfully long time to come. But when it does it’s met with open arms. Possibly even squealing and smoke too. This is the coping phase, something often done best with humour.

Our responses to the issue of car guards do admittedly vary, but for the most part a uniformly (sadly, the grubby, yellow vests half-heartedly tied around their torso barely qualifies the usage of “uniformly” as a double entendre) begrudging acceptance shows itself in our society, as testament to how this relatively new South African meme has bludgeoned its way into our subconscious. We give in mostly, on a daily basis, to agreements so incomparable to conventional business agreements that the word “agreement” is rendered superfluous. By “conventional business agreement” I mean the following: a service option is presented to you for you to make a decision as to whether you need that service or not. If you decide you do in fact want the service, remuneration is mutually agreed upon with the provider.

This is of course as opposed to: not being aware of the need for your car to be guarded by a pushy vagrant with a luminous bib when you are ten metres away, for five minutes, and can clearly see the car yourself. Not wanting the offered “service”. Not agreeing on remuneration. Then being sneered at when after caving in to the pressure of a guilt-inducing stare that would make even the most hardened KGB interrogation officer wilt, you only hand over a R2 coin, instead of the presumably owed R20 note. Add to this not being convinced that the car guard in question has super powers and can use his X-ray vision to watch your car through two full city blocks (although granted, the speed at which they appear to collect their “dues” is a compelling argument for powers of teleportation). Any bitterness attributed to the tone of the above example is of course pure projection on the part of the reader. I’m not bitter. Confound the thought.

Now and then though, one is confronted with a refreshing degree of honesty, that almost makes up for the aggressive invasion of one’s personal space. OK, admittedly this has only happened to me once. But I live in hope of a repeat. A while back a friend and I were parking in town central. The street looked a little suspect, so I agreed to pay the “car guard” for his services. On walking away from the car the friendly chap called after us and asked ever so nicely if we “couldn’t please take some of the stuff off the back seat” because “there’s no way he can stop anybody from breaking into the car” and it would “make his job easier”. I paid him, perhaps not in spite of but because of this brazen honesty. And then nearly wet myself.