TO THE GLORIOUS DEAD

They died, like most things, by small degrees, their use gradually restricted by the decay accrued over months of faithful service. An irony that the more diligent the service rendered the more rapidly the point reached at which service can no longer be satisfactorily given. They served faithfully and long, carrying me over molten car park tarmac and scorching beach sands. They were dusted by the terra rossa of my home and the golden sands of Coogee. The volcanic grit of Piha Beach and the hard packed dirt from the trails of Queen Charlotte Sound fell beneath them. They were tested on the filthy grey streets of London and the desert sands of Wadi Rum. They passed. They were not so much my possessions as a part of me, an extension of myself, like an arm or a leg, doing my bidding and asking nothing in return. I danced in them, I ran for busses, I climbed mountains, I stepped out in the rain to scamper for milk and wine. They were always there. Now they are gone.

The forward plug on my right thong pulled free on the first day of the trip and the left shuddered. His fate inextricably tied to his brother’s he knew what was to come. But after some cursory repairs the right fought gamely on across the weeks and I, as they had been faithful servants, forgave the failures, even when their frequency made others wince. Their end came in much the same way as it had for my dog Pongo ten years earlier. Nearly 14 years old at the time and increasingly rheumatic Pongo’s rear hipbone would occasionally pull free from its socket, leaving him painfully and debiletatingly lame. At first the dislocations were infrequent and short lived, his hip would somehow work its way back into the socket of its own accord and for weeks on end Pongo would become his usual effervescent self again, refusing to obey commands, digging up the garden and sneaking onto the tennis court to take a crap any time the opportunity presented itself. We took him to the vet but there was nothing to be done. The degeneration of his aging sinews could not be reversed. We just had to take good care of him and hope his condition didn’t deteriorate too quickly.

Pongo’s illness coincided with me spending increasingly less time at home. I’d received my driving license the year before and I had graduated from highschool and bought a car. The idea of doing any activity that didn’t involve me driving there lacked appeal, so I spent most of my time anywhere but home. Also, due to Pongo’s general disobedience, his predilection for running off any time you took him out of the backyard and his monumental output of crap my dog didn’t figure much in my social plans that Summer. We drifted apart like primary school friends who end up at different high schools; still pals but the next time you see each other the dynamic has shifted. Then one hot day in January I arrived back home after a heavy night to find the old boy stranded in the middle of the back lawn, his useless hind quarters pathetically folded beneath him and his parched tongue lolling from the side of his mouth. As I walked through the back door he let out a faint whimper and gave me an almost human look of helplessness. I picked him up, carried him to the kennel he never used and lay him down in the shade next to his water bowl. Two days later we put him down. The decision was mine.

Reading that back I’m not sure retiring a pair of flip-flops really is that much like putting your dog down, even if they were bloody good thongs. That said, it was a sad moment for me when I finally succumbed to the inevitable and forked over three dollars for a new set of jandals. But the number of strap breaches eventually reached a frequency that even I could not ignore and when my bare right foot was exposed to the damp floor of a particularly unpleasant Turkish commode I knew the time had come to do the humane thing. Still, they’d managed to fight on for three weeks longer than I had expected and, even if they did malfunction any time I walked on a damp surface, veered to the left or lifted them more than six inches off the ground I miss them. And even thought I had to develop a new, round legged walking technique in order to avoid blowouts they’ll always hold a special place in my heart. But there you go. I still have much to be thankful for and, in the spirit of funeral cliché, I’ll celebrate the good times rather than mourn the passing of what was a magnificent pair of footwear. They died as they lived - like princes – and it was fitting that when their end did come it came on the same stretch of land where Hector and Archillies so valiantly perished. My thongs shared their fate, commended to the Gods on a pyre of flames. The brightest always burn fastest. It has been a few days since I wrote the above and my feelings toward my old thongs have not yet diminished. My new thongs just aren’t the same. They don’t conform to the contours of my feet and they make an unfeasibly loud squeaking noise with each step when they get wet. In stark contrast, my old thongs had virtual stealth mode. Also the new ones just don’t look as good. The old pair were white and had an outline of a surfer stencilled onto the base in dark blue. On account of the fact that Turkish men don’t wear flip-flops I’ve been forced to select a pair that are decorated with pictures of flowers. The straps are iridescent green. It was the most manly pair I could find and the only in my size.

There is however hope. I purchased my recently deceased favourites from the Bondi Junction Target in the January sales for $5. They came with a free second pair, identical to the first except the colour of the thong and the artwork had been reversed. Due to a shortage of packing space I left that pair at home. I can only hope they are still there.

That is all,

Dale Atkinson