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“I did! Did you go?”
“Yeah. I didn’t see you.”
“There were a lot of people there, weren’t there? I think the Foos are the GOAT. It’s the second time I’ve seen them.”
“Me too, I saw them in Auckland. I went to see Crowded House as well.”
“Oh, I love Neil Finn. What were they like?”
“Amazing. So many great songs. I came out hoarse.”
I laugh. “Yeah, I know what you mean. I saw the ABBA tribute band and I didn’t stop singing once. Oh, and I saw Kendrick Lamar just before Christmas. He was fantastic, too.”
I thought that after an initial polite conversation he’d turn to his phone or laptop and hardly talk to me again, but he shows no indication of being bored. We talk for a while about other concerts we’ve been to, both here in New Zealand and in Australia, and after that we chat for a bit about movies and TV series we’ve seen. I discover that our tastes are similar—we both enjoy good TV, and we’ve seen a lot of the same shows. We both adoreThe Grand Tour, and we discuss our favorite episodes, and what cars we’ve seen on there that we’d love to drive.
We get ourselves another cup of coffee, and then, as it’s nearly six p.m., we both choose a chicken burger with fries. While we eat and talk, the ferry heads slowly through the Strait toward the South Island. It’s still an hour from sunset, but the sun is heading toward the horizon, and the sea is a deep purple, with the peaks of the waves brushed with copper. I know it’s only twenty-two kilometers or fourteen miles wide at its narrowest point, but it always surprises me that it takes three and a half hours to traverse. It has strong, unpredictable currents, and the sea is growing choppy in the brisk breeze. People around us are beginning to feel the swell. Some are gravitating to the windows where they can watch the horizon, while others disappear to the cabins.
“You feeling okay?” Damon asks me when yet another person stumbles past us, clutching hold of chairs and tables as they totter from side to side.
“Yeah, I don’t tend to get seasick. You?”
“Nah. Son of a sailor’s son.” He grins. “Okay, come on then. You said you were working when you’re not studying. What job are you doing?” His eyes are filled with curiosity.
“Do you promise not to laugh?”
“I can promise to try.”
“I guess that’ll have to do. Okay. Here goes. I’m a street magician.”
His brows rise again, this time with astonishment. “Seriously?”
“Mm-hmm.”
His lips curve up into a smile. “I remember you doing magic tricks as a kid. You did a show in front of everyone when you were eight.”
“Yeah, I’ve always been into it. I’ve improved since then, though.”
“I do seem to remember cards falling out of your sleeves,” he says, and I grin. “So you actually go out into Wellington and do tricks on the street?” he asks.
“Yep.”
“Whereabouts?”
“Everywhere. Usually Cuba Street, but also Courtenay Place, the train station… anywhere lots of people congregate.”
“Is it legal? Do you ever get moved on?”
“Yes, it’s legal—I’ve got a busking license. You’re allowed to busk for up to ninety minutes per location, per day. I don’t usually get asked to move. I suppose I draw business in, more than anything.”
“It’s amazing. It must have taken a lot of courage to perform that first time. Cool that you can fit it around your studies, though. So what’s your routine like? What kind of tricks do you do?”
I flush, thrilled that he’s not mocking me, and that he seems interested. I usually make light of it if I do happen to tell people, almost as if I’m trying to preempt their disdain, but privately I love what I do, and I’d do it all the time given half the chance.
“I do mostly card tricks on the street,” I reply, “all the basic ones: the Two-card Monte, Here Then There, Ambitious Card, the Biddle trick, Twisting the Aces, that sort of thing. They’re all kinda basic, and you can do them without a table. I also do children’s parties.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah, and at those I tend to have a few more props. I’m always sending away for new stuff. I’m a member of the Wellington and the Christchurch Magic Society, and the Magic Circle in London.”
