Lucky Strike
The day I got hit by lightning
was swelteringly tropical hot, my brain slowly stewing inside my overheated
skull. When it gets like this even breathing seems like such hard work. Downstairs,
in the shared swimming pool, I still sweat from the heat.
I share the pool with a few
hundred residents, in theory at least. Less than a dozen use it regularly. I am
one of them. I swim most days in a vain attempt to curb the inversion of the triangular
torso of my youth. I’m fighting a losing battle against the combined effects of
gravity, middle age and rich Malaysian food. When the rain comes the security
guards come too. Nice chaps, all Nepali. I spent a few months in their country
once and know enough words to make them smile. I argue that I am wet already
and rainfall won’t make me wetter. They point fingers to the dark clouds.
Fingers that make descending zigzags. Very dangerous, they say. I laugh, but
get out to humour them and towel myself dry.
The day of the lightening strike
my sweat soaked shirt stuck to my skin. I pack a bag and drive an overheated
hour to a waterfall near Rawang.
Fully clothed children splash in
the little stream, floating improvised Styrofoam boats fashioned from discarded
takeaway boxes. One even has a satay-stick mast and a pink plastic bag sail. It
all ends up downstream anyway. The shade is cooler under the trees. The
sunlight never hits the forest floor. If there were more trees in my
neighbourhood it would be cooler too. Instead the concrete soaks up the sunlight
and seeps it back late into the night. If there were more trees and more shade
in the city then my car might be less like an oven. I’m a pink-faced slow-cooked
pot-roast.
I follow the trail under the
trees and reach the waterfall at last. I put my bag down on the rocks. Local
teenagers with motorbike helmets are taking an illicit break from school. They
eat fishy smelling rice from more Styrofoam. They straw-sip lurid coloured
liquids from tied up plastic bags. They share hand-cupped cigarettes and try
hard not to cough. I sarong slip into my swimming shorts.
In the pool below the waterfall
are a few smiling young men. Dark-skinned big-boned fellows sitting waist deep
in the water. Their big hands clutch small glasses. A bottle of whiskey on the
rocks. The water is cold at first, but my body quickly adapts. The young men
offer me a drink. I politely refuse. They are local boys, Malaysians, but call
themselves Indian.
I float on my back and see clouds
coming. The blue soon fades to grey, and greyer still. I surface dive in the
deepest part. I hold a rock and hold my breath, half bobbing with my eyes
closed in the quiet dark coolness. When I resurface it is raining. Raindrops
dimple and pockmark the surface of the pool. Concentric circle ripples spread. I lift
my face to the sky and let the rain run down my face. Irish rain is soft, but
cold. Tropical rain falls in warm heavy drops. The rain gets heavier, agitates
the water even more. Thunder rumbles, like a heavy laden truck. I like a good
storm. It clears and cools the air.The hissing rainfall whitenoise, the
electrical buzz in the air, make my mind sharp and alert and calm.
Forked lightning flash-bangs
nearby. My heart leaps. Adrenaline surges through my body. The school kids are
gone. The Indian men clamber unsteadily from the pool. I let the strongest part
of the waterfall beat down upon my shoulders. I swim to the pool’s edge and then
I get out too.
The water turns yellow-brown from
washed off soil upstream. I join the Indians in the shelter of a small open hut. The
downpour batters a frenetic beat upon the sloped tin roof. We are wet and
standing in a puddle, waiting for the rain to stop. The men’s eyes are bloodshot,
their grins lopsided now. The whiskey bottle lies empty. They clink glasses for
last round. They clink glasses and thunder cracks. Loud, just overhead. We all
jump and laugh surprised at the conjunction of clink and thunderclap. For a
moment they are Olympian gods. Then just drunk young men.
Lightning flashes with a
simultaneous bang. Loud like an explosion. We all jump and howl. Massive
electric shock. I’ve tripped the mains before, but nothing near like this. 220
volts is a finger flick against this knockout punch. I’m blinded for a moment
then vision returns. I check to see if my feet are still there. They feel as though
they’ve been ripped off. My mind panics and my heart is sore. I remind myself
to breathe and climb up on the concrete bench. Little baby Marc wants to cry. The
Indians are quiet too. Shocked into sobriety, they look close to tears as well.
We bite our lips and rub our legs and avoid each other’s eyes.
The rain begins to ease off to a
gentle soothing hiss. The water dimples fade and there’s sunlight once again. I
say goodbye to my companions. Shaken hands and shoulder slaps. We are bound by
electricity. I pull a towel over my head and hobble to the car. Frightened, but
rejoicing I turn my face up to the sky. I let the storm’s last raindrops wash away
my tears. When death comes that close it reminds you how this fragile life is
sweet.
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Thanks
Marc