Tuesday 7 October 2014

Stingray

I'm at Krakatoa, the hipster cafe in Golden Hill, drinking a decaf, iced, almond milk latte, when Krista tells me that Richard is sitting in the back.
Richard owns a company that sets up tours for rich American tourists who want to go Italy on holiday and I want to get his details for my ex girlfriend who wants to rent her castle to rich American tourists who want to go to Italy on holiday.
'Hi Richard,' I say, 'how are you?'
'Just got back from Kalani,' he says, 'you know Kalani, don't you?'
It takes me a moment to think what it is, but eventually I say yes, that I know what Kalani, whose tagline is 'Find yourself here' is.
It's a retreat on the big island of Hawaii.
'Was it nice?' I ask Richard, who has a mohawk-style haircut, smokes a lot and has a very big peaceful white hound, the sort of dog I imagine Jesus would have with him in heaven, if he was to have one.
'Did you go to the warm ponds?' I ask him.
Richard tells me no, because his wife got bitten by a stingray.
On the foot.
'Shit,' I say, 'that's bad luck,'
Then he begins to tell me how painful her foot was, that it was bandaged, that she could hardly walk.
I'm saying things like 'oh' and 'shit' and nodding my head, when suddenly, from next to me, a man with long grey hair and wire-rimmed purple sunglasses, like John Lennon might have worn, starts calling out about his friend who has been bitten by a stingray.
'My friend was bitten and she said that the pain was like no other pain, ever. She said it radiated up her leg. And it didn't seem to correspond with her heart beat. She said it was like being smashed in the leg by a sledgehammer,'
'A friend of mine was bitten on holiday in Cabo,' Richard calls back, 'He said the pain was like being hit with a sledgehammer, too, but in the testicles,'
At the word 'testicles', both Richard and the grey-haired man begin to laugh, long and hard.
'My friend said it was worse than childbirth,' calls the grey-haired man from my left.
'Yeh,' says Richard, who I then turn to look at again while he volleys his story back, 'giving birth while being smashed in the testicles with a sledgehammer,
Richard and they grey-haired man laugh long and hard again.
Feeling compelled to join in, and being Australian, I mention my only stingray story, which isn't even mine, but that of Steve Irwin's stingray barb through the heart.
But when I do there is silence.
So, to break the silence, I say - 'He was a bit of a tormentor of animals, did you ever see that photograph of him holding his baby under one arm while teasing a leaping alligator with a chicken?'
Then there's silence again until Richard breaks it by saying, 'yeh, well we shouldn't really talk about that,' as if I am giving away state secrets or talking about an ex girlfriend who has driven herself off a cliff.
And there's silence again until I ask Richard for his email address, put it into my phone, say thank you, and get on my bicycle to leave.
'Ride safe.' Richard calls out.
'I will,' I call back, waving and wondering.





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