Rani Patel In Full Effect

by Sonia Patel

  But, slowly and steadily, the trade winds of seclusion have been eroding our rocky foundation. And Dad’s deceit started a landslide.

  I rubbed my eyes. Must. Not. Cry. After all, I’d been looking forward to Kanemitsu’s all week. Couldn’t show up puffy-eyed. I cranked the stereo cassette player. Queen Latifah was rapping about the Evil That Men Do, a track I’d had on rewind for a couple of weeks. As I listened, I pretended she was the big sis I never had. Her supreme vocal presence soothed me.

  Womaned up, I pulled out of the gravel parking lot.

  KANEMITSU’S

  The single lane “highway” between Maunaloa and Kaunakakai was pitch black—nothing new because there aren’t any street lamps. No stop signs or traffic lights either. Nothing to break the tedium of the twenty-five minute drive. Most nights I don’t pass any cars.

  A while back, Pono told me something that still kinda freaks me out every time I’m driving back from Maunaloa. He said that at sunset or sunrise I should be wary of huaka’i po, particularly near the sacred Kapuaiwa Coconut Grove that’s one mile before Kaunakakai. Makai of the highway. When I’m driving alone in the dark, even if it’s way past sunset, I get scared I’ll hear the drums of the ‘oi’o. And they’ll be chanting and marching near me. If you look the ghosts of the departed warriors in the eye, you’ll die. No thanks!

  But thankfully my rumbling tummy directed my attention to images that weren’t frightening: Kanemitsu’s famous hot bread slathered with melting, gooey cream cheese and sweet and tart liliko’i jelly. Wiping the drool from my lips, I swerved a bit. Driving was a challenge when all you could see was fresh bread.

  Finally I saw the Chevron. I slowed down and turned left onto Ala Malama Avenue, the main street in Kaunakakai. Everyone on Moloka’i calls Kaunakakai “town.” Most people on the island live in town, in small, single-wall construction homes spreading out in a three-to-four mile radius of the main street.

  Technically that makes the short strip of one-or two-story business buildings on Ala Malama Avenue “downtown.” Downtown’s got the two best-stocked grocery stores on the island: Friendly Market and Misaki’s. It’s got the only pharmacy. It’s got a couple of restaurants and banks. A library. A post office. The police station. A fire station. A few other retail stores. Some state and county offices. And of course, Kanemitsu’s Bakery & Coffee Shop.

  Kanemitsu’s was jumping. I counted ten trucks and cars already out in front. Instead of hanging out with friends, my weekly Saturday night social reality has been standing in line with a bunch of people I only sort of know. Together we wait for a delicious late night treat.

  It’s an adventure that only locals know about. The bakery’s storefront is actually closed this late at night. To get the prized loaves, you have to walk to the back door that’s tucked away from the main street. Every time I make my way down the shadowy alley to get there, I hear Duran Duran’s A View to a Kill play in my mind’s boombox. I’m always alone on the stealth walk so I pretend it’s dangerous. Like I’m heading to some big drug deal. Not that I’ve ever used drugs. Or alcohol. Or even cigarettes. Although I am kind of an underage dealer since I sell booze and smokes on the daily at the store.

  I parked next to a Moloka’i Ranch flatbed.

  Is that who I think it is?

  If Mark was in line, that would take the night to a whole new level. I pulled my hair into a high ponytail and did an appearance check in the rearview mirror.

  Ok, somewhat passable.

  I quickly sniffed my pits.

  Uh-oh, barely passable.

  I shrugged and hopped out of the truck. Girl’s gotta eat.

  The prospect of seeing Mark in line distracted me from making my usual 007 jaunt down the alley. Before I knew it, I was queued up behind twelve other hungry souls. The lady at the front of the line knocked on the dilapidated wooden door. Then she stepped back to wait for the mysterious bearer of bread—a curiously odd, delicate man with a raspy voice—to take her order.

  Marky Mark—sans the Funky Bunch—was the last in line. Oh yeah. I welcomed the Good Vibrations.

  He was standing with Stan Lee, a newbie at the Ranch. Stan recently moved here from Honolulu, so I don’t know much about him. Except what I could see. That he’s full Korean and about twenty-four. A couple of weeks ago, Mark and Stan Lee came into the store after work, engrossed in a conversation. I overheard Stan Lee saying something about his mom’s batu-smoking boyfriend beating her up again. Stan Lee said he felt guilty because he’d been out when it happened. I wonder if he moved to Moloka’i to protect his mom.

  So there I was, standing behind them in the bread line. I heard Stan Lee speaking all hush-hush to Mark. For a second I considered staying quiet, thinking I should let them go on with their convo. But I changed my mind. I decided a loud clearing of my throat was the most logical way to interrupt. Mark whisked around at the sound.

  “Hey Rani, howzit?” His speech and smile told me that he was well into the cold pack he bought earlier.

  I lifted up my glasses by their corners. “Oh hey, Mark. I didn’t expect you here.” Hoping my speech and smile didn’t tell him that I was well into thinking about the six pack I knew he had under that shirt. “Just finished work. I’m starving,” I added, as lukewarm as possible to douse the heat rising in me.

  “Yeah, us too. We’re going down to the wharf to eat. Come hang out,” Mark suggested.

  Butterflies.

  Stan turned his back to me at that point. I swear I heard him let out a small grunt, a mixture of an annoyed sigh and a half-whispered fuck. I was about to say yes to Mark when I heard my dad’s laugh behind me. My head swiveled around at the sound. Even though it was dark, I could make out his tall thin build and Indro. He was walking with some woman down the alley. Dad skyscraped over her. They sauntered arm-in-arm. When they got near the only faint light fixture, I saw him chatting away and gazing down at her. She was looking up at him, all bright-eyed, like a fascinated student. The way I used to look at him. They stopped for a second and he leaned in for a kiss.

  My thoughts sprinted.

  Fight or flight? Fight, then flight.

  What happened next was a blur of tears, confusion, jealousy, and contention.

  I charged towards them. My arms moved purposefully, strictly in sync with my steps. As if someone ordered me to do a military quick march.

  Dad’s never walked arm-in-arm with Mom.

  I stopped.

  Dad’s never talked with Mom like this. And he hasn’t confided in me since the end of last school year.

  I took a second to knuckle up, then bolted forward again.

  Dad’s never kissed Mom in public. Come to think of it, I’ve NEVER seen him kiss her. But he’s kissed…

  My body was paralyzed at that point. It was as if I was standing on a track and a train was charging at me. I could see the conductor and he sounded the whistle. But I couldn’t move. I was about to be bulldozed when in an instant the train took a detour. I was face-to-face with my dad.

  Dad folded his arms and gave me a look. The look. The one where he rolls his eyes and sighs in exasperation. Like I did something to let him down, to frustrate him.

  The hussy smiled. Yep. She stood there and smiled at me.

  “What the heck, Dad?” I asked. Half yelling. Half crying.

  “Shhhh. Keep it down, Rani,” my dad whispered firmly, pressing his straightened index finger on his lips. Then he put his arm around the slut and said, “You know Wendy. Wendy Nagaoki.”

  That’s right. I remembered where I’d seen her. Misaki Market. Wendy the checkout girl who never smiles at customers. Word on the street is that Wendy was addicted to batu the year after she graduated from Moloka’i High & Intermediate School. I think she got her MHIS diploma in ‘87.

  That makes her about 21. Yuck!

  But then her mom gave her some straight up tough love and threatened to kick her out of the house. I guess Wendy got herself together. Somehow she must’ve managed to get off the
stuff. I’m betting there’s more to the story than that. I don’t care because she’s obviously stolen my dad.

  I’m thinking Dad met her at Misaki’s. I could see it. Deadpan Wendy. Ringing up customers. Dad next in line. He makes some witty remark and her lips curve up. Then she laughs. And that was that.

  I think about how young she is.

  Ugh.

  And she’s not all that good-looking. Short. Short black bob. Lackluster eyes. Baggy grandma shorts and flowery blouse. No flava. Still she was the one smiling. Not me. I exhaled loudly, agitated. I envisioned getting up in her face and screaming something venomous. Instead, I kept my eyes and head lowered and muttered, “Skeeze.”

  “Rani, let’s talk about…” she started to say.

  But I wasn’t about to stay and jabber with this plain-Jane-Dad-thief. I ran past them back to the truck. My gut was tight, my chest empty and aching. I fumbled with my keys and finally got the truck door open. I grabbed the steering wheel and hauled my sorry ass onto the seat. I put the pedal to the metal and gassed it all the way home, doing sixty in a thirty-five. Windows down. Warm air blowing through my vagrun var for the last time. Because I knew full well what I was going to do as soon as I got home.

  That was last night.

  This morning I’m sweeping up the tangled spread of my hair on the deck. I use a small brush to coax it into a trash bag. Then I walk to the railing and prop my elbows on the wide top cap. The Pacific is pacific. So is my mood. My eyes turn to the east. I run my palm over my scalp.

  And me and my bald head marvel at the spectacular Sunday—September 8th—sunrise.

  GUILT

  “Hey, Patel,” La’akea calls out as she cruises to the back of the store. Her eyes are fixed on the beer chilling in the fridge. She grabs a six-pack of Bud Light and strides to the checkout counter. I don’t realize that I’m gawking at her with a ridiculous grin on my face. Not until she says, “Patel! Why you all da kine l’dat?”

  “Huh? Oh. La’akea. Howzit?” I ask, blinking my eyes several times to shake myself out of my lovesick thoughts. Mark left an hour ago. I was in the middle of going over a blow-by-blow of our convo. I was just getting to the part I hadn’t quite figured out, the part after I read him my slam poem.

  “I like one pack Marlboro Lights,” La’akea says.

  I give her a fake smile as I reach for the cigarettes. I’m kinda annoyed that she interrupted my daydreams. I study her a minute. She looks like a raisin. The dark brown skin on her face is wrinkled and full of sores. She appears years older even though I know she’s only twenty-two. Her teeth resemble short, rusty nails.

  She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a shoddy plastic baggy full of pennies, nickels, and dimes. She drops it onto the counter.

  La’akea’s an occasional customer at our store. All I know about her is that she lives in Maunaloa with her uncle and aunt. That she’s more than seventy-five percent Native Hawaiian. That she’s unemployed. And that she never buys anything here besides her toxins of choice. I’ve heard whispers about her and batu, but that’s hearsay.

  Is this what batu does?

  So now I’m staring at her. I cover my mouth with my hand to keep in the ewww sound that wants to escape. La’akea is staring back at my bald head. Neither of us says anything. I’m remembering the first time I saw her a couple of years ago. It was the way she held herself that was unforgettable. She had perfect posture, carrying her strong body the way I imagined an ali’i would’ve back in the day. But it was more than that. Her aura was sublime. It felt like I was in the presence of someone almost divine. But today she looks like she stepped out of a casket that’s been buried for fifty years.

  I dump the coins onto the counter and start counting. Sadness whizzes about in my head. Guilt too. It’s not like I’m Captain Cook or Lorrin Thurston. And I haven’t directly stolen La’akea’s land. Or killed her family. Or given her a deadly disease. But here I am maxin at the store, thinking about Mark or when I can write my next rap, and all the while she’s been scrounging for coins to buy substances that’ll probably kill her from the looks of it. She destroys herself by buying things from our store while we make money.

  But I didn’t ask to move here. I didn’t ask to work here. Thanks a bunch, Dad.

  I’m about halfway through counting the pennies and my mind wanders. I think about what Pono and I were talking about on Friday after Hawaiian history class. About how most people on Moloka’i have an understanding of Native Hawaiian issues that goes beyond the textbooks and classrooms. Pono was born and raised on Moloka’i and his parents are active in the Native Hawaiian sovereignty movement. And since I’ve been to many activist meetings with my dad, I’ve heard the perspectives of Native Hawaiians on the island with regards to land, water, culture, and history. It isn’t all hula girls, tikis, grass shacks, and mai tais. It’s about a people that prior to foreign contact were a highly structured and refined society. It’s about how the Native Hawaiian culture was all but wiped out by the negative impacts of colonialism. The depopulating. The heisting of land and health. The educational, economic, and political powerlessness.

  I finish counting the loose change. As usual, La’akea has the exact amount. “Exact to the penny. Thanks,” I say under my breath.

  I force myself to look at her. To try to really see her. I peer into her raven eyes. I’m surprised by the hope spilling from her dark brown irises. It seems at odds with the devastation of her body. It demands acknowledgement and drags a half smile from my lips. A little louder I say, “Take care, La’akea.”

  She gives me a crooked smile back and says, “Later, Patel.” Then she throws me a raised shaka and heads out of the store.

  My brain is about to self-combust with guilt when Omar Ellis steps into the store. He and La’akea give each other a strong chin-up as they pass near the entrance. Omar’s strutting. I’m talking Aerosmith and Run DMC Walk This Way strutting. And like that rock and rap collaboration, Omar is a cultural collaboration. He’s half African American, a quarter Hawaiian, and a quarter Samoan. His hair towers in the most incredibly tight hi-top fade. It’s almost as high as Kid from Kid ‘n Play. Today he’s sporting some baggy jeans slung low. A black t-shirt under a black and white flannel shirt. Both oversized. And a pair of white-on-white Air Force 1’s. His head-to-toe hip hop style is undeniable. Impressed as always, I give him a subtle chin-up.

  Like me, Omar’s sixteen. We’re both young seniors. Our birthdays are actually only one day apart. He lives in Maunaloa with his mom and comes to the store all the time. But I didn’t meet him here. I met him at school in ’87. He’s the first person who talked to me. For some reason he took me under his wing. Maybe he felt sorry for me, watching me struggle to understand pidgin initially. He called me “IH,” Indian haole, for weeks. He’s been teasing me ever since.

  Omar usually greets me by throwing his arm around my shoulder and asking “Howzit my sistah from anotha mistah?” Omar hasn’t seen his mistah since he was five years old. His dad’s been in prison on the mainland for murder. From what Omar’s told me it was someone else’s drug deal gone bad. And his dad got framed. Rotten naseeb, I guess. Although I think that qualifies as a particularly tragic fate. Totally cruel. I mean his dad never touched drugs or alcohol. Omar likes to talk about how his dad treated his mom. I swear he puffs out his chest whenever he brings it up because he’s super proud of his honorable role model. Omar says that even from prison his dad shows how much he respects his mom. Whether it’s over the phone or in letters, his dad treats his mom like royalty. And his mom is committed to being supportive to his dad throughout the imprisonment.

  I’m in awe of his parents. The way they act towards each other is the exact opposite of my parents.

  Anyway, I know Omar’s only joking when he says the whole “sistah from anotha mistah” thing. And even though most of our other verbal exchanges also involve him teasing me and me trying to keep up with the repartee, I know he cares. He’s the closest thing to a frie
nd I have.

  Omar’s preoccupied today, presumably by my homage to Sinead O’Connor. He’s standing in front of me at the counter, gouging out a hole on my bare head with his keen pupils. “For the first time in my life, I’m speechless,” he murmurs. Then he snaps out of his daze and chuckles. “Nah nah, Rani girl. You look fly.”

  I don’t say a word. Instead I form a biting smile and use my middle finger to slowly, very slowly, push the bridge of my glasses up my nose. My sarcastic gratitude. Omar raises an eyebrow. Then our eyes meet in confrontation. Neither of us can hold out for very long and we end up cracking up after less than a minute. We cool out and then Omar glimpses around the store to confirm it’s empty. He says, “Hey Rani, I wanna hear all about your voyage into baldness, but I’m here on urgent business. And it ain’t because my mom and I are out of milk. Let’s go talk on the porch.”

  For Omar and me, the porch is our sober watering hole. Pretty often we hang out there and chitchat about this and that. But never about urgent business. Needless to say, I’m curious.

  “Shoots,” I say, stepping out from behind the counter. Then I add, “Hold up.” I run to the chill and grab two cans of guava nectar.

  “Tanks eh.” He shakes the can but then puts it down on the bench next to him without opening it. His head drops and he starts some accelerated foot tapping. Like he’s digging some ultra quick beat.