He was a busker, I guess, and I used to see him down by the point.
Walking under the coconut palms around the boardwalk with his flat-tuned guitar which he’d seldomly strum for a few seconds before getting distracted by something.
I could hear him shouting from afar, his mad belly laughs and then outbursts of agony as if getting branded by a cattle prod or childhood flashbacks of getting his bottom smacked by his fat grandmother.
I saw him catch a glimpse of me – Hey – his reflective John Lennon sunnies were looking at me, two white circles upon his dark skin, like an inverse skull, with mouth ajar.
“Ey, daddy” he shouted at the top of his voice.
“Hey, you doin a great job. I’m prouda ya, mon. Daddy, argh [pain] come here. Daddy! Aha argh you doin a great jawb.” Jawb echoing into the coconut groves.
What was remarkable in all of this was that it came from a deep place. He meant it. It didn’t come across as disingenuous. Not too many people call me daddy, but it seemed like he was proud of me.
It was good to get the gratitude. Like a bio-hack of instant mood elevation. You can tell when it’s disingenuous or a tactical recipricate-prompting compliment.
I sometimes wonder whether, on the teams I’ve worked with, the main value I had was actually thanking people for their efforts. To lean into the gratitude and mean it.
To transcend any cultural norms or politicking, to appreciate and mean it, unrestrained, like a madman on a tropical island shouting out gratitude followed by outbursts of agony or delight.
Remember to thank the team. We’re both proud o ya.