Mele Kalikimaka

by Noah Willoughby

  Micah got no response, but that wasn’t unusual. Uncle wasn’t the talkative type.

  After parking his bike, Micah pulled out a steak bone from the bag and gave it to Poi. The dog perked up right away, took the bone, and moved a few feet away from the men as if to protect it from anyone who might try to take it.

  Micah sat down on the bench next to Uncle and handed him the container of leftovers. Uncle held it for the longest time, staring at it but not saying a word. Micah stared out at the water and breathed in the cool air, enjoying the scenery and tranquility before another bout of craziness at work. But the lights along the Ala Wai and the bright moon revealed something else when Micah looked up—dark clouds looming in the distance over the mountains. He couldn’t help but worry about being caught in the rain on his bike.

  “Make sure you get some shelter,” Micah said as he got up to leave. “Looks like rain. Take care, Uncle. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Micah patted the older man on the back and got back on his bike.

  Another couple of miles would take Micah downtown and back home. The ride was peaceful, with not too many cars to worry about. It was nearing midnight, and that meant he had a few hours to crash before waking up for job number two. Luckily, job number two was in the very building where Micah lived.

  THREE

  COACH.

  Chandler had heard the term “flying coach.”

  He’d never understood what it meant, though.

  Not until today. Tonight.

  And if there was a hell on earth, or in the air, it was flying coach.

  What malicious man or woman had ever thought up something so evil?

  Whoever it was should be boiled with his own pudding and buried with a stake of Christmas-fucking-holly through his heart, Chandler thought.

  Chandler’s knees were touching the seat in front of him. And had been for hours. Especially since the person in front of him had decided he needed to lean his seat so far back his bald head was practically resting on Chandler’s shoulder.

  And the lady—and he used that term lightly—next to him wouldn’t shut up!

  She was knitting. A baby blanket. Pink. For her impending seventh grandchild. Named Anastasia, and “wasn’t that a lovely name?” Seventh? There were already six grandchildren? Did this woman need to be the source of more children in the world? Did the world need that?

  “They live in Hawaii! Can you imagine? Living in paradise? This is my third time going. Her husband—my daughter Cassie’s husband, that is—pays my way. Every time! Isn’t that wonderful? Special?” She leaned in even closer, and it was all Chandler could do not to lean away just as far. He might have if it weren’t for the sleeping teenager to his left (whose iPod was turned loud enough that Chandler could hear the pulsing beat of the kid’s horrible music). Chandler was stuck in the middle seat. Further hell.

  “He makes a hundred and thirty-five thousand a year,” she whispered—then winked—then smiled—then leaned back and continued knitting. Or crocheting. Or whatever she was doing.

  “A hundred and thirty-five thousand what?” Chandler asked before realizing quite suddenly what she meant. A hundred and thirty-five thousand dollars? A year? “And he and his wife and six kids can live on that?” he blurted.

  She shook her head. “Oh no!” She laughed. “They don’t have six kids!” Apparently missing the fact that he was in shock over her son-in-law’s income. “They only have three.

  “This time we’re going to that beach with the black sand. It’s black because of the volcanos, I hear, although I’m not sure what that means. Was it burned?”

  “Burned?” Chandler couldn’t help but ask—although God knew he didn’t want to.

  “The sand.” She knitted. Or whatever. “Did the volcano burn it?”

  “I think it is volcanic minerals and fragments of lava,” he said.

  “Really?” Surprised enough to stop knitting. Or whatever. She smiled. “What a delightful boy!” she exclaimed. “It’s a pleasure to talk to you, my buck!”

  A fresh new hell came next.

  Dinner.

  Something that was supposed to be teriyaki chicken with rice, although like none he had ever seen in his life. The “chicken” was about the size of the palm of his hand and presliced, and the rice was… well. Something. Certainly not basmati. The entire meal came in a plastic rectangular container about the size of a greeting card envelope.

  “What’s this?” he asked the flight attendant, holding up a small packet of some kind of orange fluid between thumb and forefinger.

  “The teriyaki sauce,” she replied cheerfully. “It’s kept separate to keep the food from getting soggy.”

  “How thoughtful,” he said, voice thick with sarcasm and not a little bit of disgust.

  “Isn’t it?” replied Mrs. Knitting.

  Chandler opened the packet and found it barely covered half the chicken, let alone any of the rice. Then he picked up the plastic fork (how quaint) and only because his stomach was rumbling, took a bite.

  It wasn’t the worst thing he’d ever had in his life.

  It didn’t kill him.

  But God.

  He decided he needed something to drink. Something with the ability to make this tin tube that he was hurtling through the sky in a little more bearable. Maybe he could relax.

  Yeah. Sure.

  The flight attendant was excited about the mai tai, and while that wasn’t exactly what he wanted—pure whiskey, perhaps?—he gave her the go-ahead. He was on his way to Hawaii after all.

  It came in a plastic cup.

  It only got worse from there.

  FOUR

  MICAH WOKE to the sound of the mynah birds right outside his window, chirping away and greeting the early morning. It was a far more pleasant sound than his blaring alarm that was set to go off in another few minutes. The clock read 3:50 a.m., and Micah wasn’t ready for another full shift of work.

  Ordinarily, a cup of cheap store-bought coffee was enough to give Micah that morning boost. But on back-to-back work shifts like today, he needed something stronger. From the cupboard, he pulled out a half-full bag of Kope Farms–brand Kona coffee and inhaled the deep, strong aroma. It was about the only luxury item he allowed himself, and that was only because his cousin worked on the coffee farm and was able to get it to Micah for a good price.

  While the coffee brewed, Micah sat down to a breakfast of leftover rice and chicken from the restaurant. It wasn’t the best or most nutritious meal, but at least he wasn’t starving. He had food in his stomach, clothes on his back, and a roof over his head. Micah considered himself lucky.

  After breakfast and a quick shower, Micah got in the elevator, toting an extra-large thermos of coffee. He braced himself as the elevator started with a hard jolt. Micah and most of the other long-time residents accepted this as normal, even though Micah had told Todd Bates, the building manager, about it several times. The building was over thirty years old—older than Micah—and in need of repairs from the basement to the penthouses. But, it seemed like Bates was more interested in keeping everything looking pretty than in how things ran.

  “First impressions are very important.” Bates always gave the same kind of pep talk in the morning before Micah and the other maintenance workers started their shift. As a former real estate agent, Bates knew how to sell an apartment in the building but had no clue how the building functioned. “People coming to Hawaii for the first time want that famous ‘aloha spirit.’ We want to make their experience unforgettable.”

  Micah would shake his head.

  Bates, a transplant from Chicago or some damn place on the mainland, didn’t know the first thing about aloha spirit or anything truly Hawaii. Bates thought that everyone in Hawaii wore bright aloha shirts and leis and did the hula all day long. Or at least that was the commercialized image of Hawaii he wanted to spread to the tourists and renters in the building. It was bad enough the employees had to wear insanely bright blue flowery shirts that
were uncomfortable and retained the heat. At least they didn’t have to wear the plastic leis that Bates had proposed.

  After Bates’s meeting about the busy holiday season and news of more tourists arriving, he made sure they all knew—as if he hadn’t told them already at least a hundred times—to greet the guests with “aloha!” Micah rolled his eyes and could almost feel the other guys doing the same. The other workers had found a sneaky way to avoid it by speaking rapid-fire Filipino and pretending not to know any English.

  Flashy Hawaiian shirts always gave tourists away, especially the ones who were visiting for the first time. They had that excited gleam in their eyes, and while Micah was usually happy for them, his enjoyment quickly waned when they showed their ignorance and privileged attitude.

  But, Micah knew tourism was the lifeblood of Hawaii. And not all tourists were like that. Most were friendly, even if a little uninformed, and wanted to know more about Hawaii—the history, the culture, the language—and not where to find the best surf spot or mai tai.

  In actuality, Micah didn’t mind talking with the guests. He liked finding out about where they came from and how their homes differed from his own. It made him wonder about the different places he might be lucky enough to visit one day. He dreamed about exploring famous places and seeing landmarks he had only seen in pictures and movies. Micah had never left the islands and wanted to explore the rest of the country, even the world. He would love to experience the changing of seasons—see the colors of the leaves in fall, experience snow for the first time, see spring flowers break through the earth. In Hawaii, it was sort of a constant season with periods of hot and not-so-hot during the year.

  Micah knew it was still a long way off.

  But he was getting there.

  You fulfilled your dreams one step at a time.

  FIVE

  THOUGH THEY were all called maintenance men, Micah was one of the only two workers who did any actual maintenance, and the other was more his assistant than anything else. All the others were considered landscapers at most—mowing the lawn, tending the plants, trimming bushes, planting flowers. Appearance came first at Pono Towers. And Micah was essentially stuck being the building’s main electrician, plumber, mechanic, and, at times, tech support.

  The day began with a list compiled by the night watchman while doing his rounds and/or collected by Todd Bates’s secretary, Launa, from calls from tenants. The tasks included everything from changing a lightbulb in a stairwell to fixing Mrs. Kawamoto’s broken garbage disposal or Mr. Palakiko’s leaky faucet. Throughout the day, Launa would page Micah with another task to add to the list. At times, the tenants who knew Micah would come directly to him, and there’d be yet another job for him to do. He didn’t mind doing the extra work. Keeping busy made the day go by faster, and he liked helping his neighbors.

  Micah was installing new wooden trim along one of the hallways on the twelfth floor when he heard his name.

  “Micah!” He turned to see an elderly woman waving wildly from the end of the hall. “Micah!”

  Micah went to her, smiling. “What’s wrong, Mrs. Gamboa?”

  “My toilet,” she said. “It won’t flush. But it sounds like there’s water flowing in it.”

  “I’ll take a look,” said Micah with a nod. “No worries.”

  Micah tried the toilet, and sure enough, it barely gave any kind of a flush—it simply made the water swirl around. He lifted the lid to the tank and, peering in, saw that it was empty even though water was still flowing from the fill tube. That’s when he noticed the chain was caught in the flapper, preventing it from closing completely and leaving the tank unable to fill. The chain was old, rusted, and clearly about ready to snap.

  “Do you have any dental floss?” Micah asked.

  Mrs. Gamboa raised her eyebrows, went to her medicine cabinet, and handed Micah a small pack of floss. He cut off a piece matching the length of the chain and threaded it from the flapper to the handle arm. The flapper closed at the bottom and the tank began to fill. When the water stopped flowing, Micah tried the handle.

  “Oh,” Mrs. Gamboa squealed with delight as the toilet flushed.

  Micah replaced the lid to the tank. “This is just temporary. I’ll go down to the maintenance room and get you a new chain.”

  “Thank you so much, sweet boy,” she said, reaching out and patting his cheek.

  Micah blushed. “Ah, it’s nothing really. It’s an easy fix.”

  “Maybe for you it was. Not for an old lady like me!”

  Micah smiled. “I’ll be right back with the chain.”

  He was about ready to leave when Mrs. Gamboa dug into her pocket and then held out a five-dollar bill. “This is for your hard work. Not just now, but always.”

  “I appreciate that, Mrs. Gamboa.” He held up his hands. “But, I can’t take this. Building policy.”

  “Oh, nonsense!” she said as she stuffed the bill into Micah’s shirt pocket. “Nobody has to know.”

  Micah was about ready to insist when he remembered how insistent she could be. She wanted to give him the money, and it would be insulting to refuse. And he could use the money.

  “Thank you very much, Mrs. Gamboa.”

  “No, thank you, Micah.”

  With that he left her apartment, which was small but easily twice the size of his own, and returned to his long list.

  SIX

  AFTER THE plane trip, the apartment building—Pono Towers—wasn’t nearly as bad as Chandler had begun to imagine this whole adventure would be. He’d been quite surprised when the taxi brought him there and he saw his new home. It was actually rather pretty, and he found his mind racing with possibilities. It was such an unusual building. Diagonally cutoff corners, balconies, what looked like full-length windows, and from the cab ride around the building, no two sides alike. There was even a totally rounded one, as if a tower had somehow married into the mix. A tower with no windows. Now what could that be about? He liked the colors too—beiges and tans, rose and sand.

  Possibilities.

  Chandler grinned. He didn’t even care that his explorations meant he had to lug the huge, ugly green military bag Tim had loaned him around with him. Not that Tim had ever been in the military. But it served Chandler’s purpose, even if he did find himself longing a little bit for his suitcases and their little wheels.

  Screw it! He wanted to walk around. See where his life had taken him, even if it was only for a while.

  And the grounds around the building, the grass and trees, while not Buckingham estate, were quite lovely. There were palm trees (of course) and plumerias (with their gorgeous distinctive pink and white and yellow flowers). The hibiscus (these in pink and fuchsia and cream) were immense. With the constant warm weather, they had grown into trees so much bigger than anything that could grow in Kansas City. And there were so many other tropical plants. With leaves far bigger than he was—imagine! What was that big twisted tree with its warped branches and yellow flowers? It almost looked like something that would grow in the desert. And not a pine tree in sight. Especially a decorated one.

  And the pool!

  He stopped, leaning the big canvas bag against the wrought-iron fence, and looked through the bars at the big kidney-shaped pool. Saw that in its inner curve, there was also a hot tub. Nice. Lovely. And not too many people, considering the time of day. He couldn’t wait to get in. And dammit, he’d make sure he had a real mai tai.

  A thrill raced through Chandler.

  He was on his own.

  Really on his own.

  For some reason, this was better than college, better even than the year in England.

  Because no one knew where he was. That was it! No one but Tim, of course.

  God, did his mother even know he was gone yet? He had no idea. Was she having a fit? Was she throwing things? Was it too soon for that? She did throw things, although never at work. Never where people could see. She bought dishes just so she could throw them. Ha!

  She p
robably figured he was up to one of his “shenanigans.” He’d disappeared for a day or long weekend or even a whole week here and there for the last ten years when he was pissed and wanted to piss his parents off as well. So if she had noticed he was gone (surely she had; he was supposed to be at work today), she’d think he was pouting, wouldn’t she? Throwing a tantrum. Think he was having what she liked to call his “hissy fits.”

  Screw her. He deserved his bouts of anger. Deserved to champ at the Buckingham bit. The chains and shackles. The fierce control the family exerted over him was far from fair. So he did what he could do. Disappeared. For a little bit. Long enough to let them know he could do what he wanted.

  Get away.

  Maybe get laid. Because a hot man and a great orgasm or ten always helped.

  Do a few things that Buckinghams weren’t supposed to do.

  At least for a week.

  And before, a weekend in Tijuana or P-town usually did it. Allowed him to calm down and sigh before (basically) giving up and returning to the fold.

  But did Mom suspect he was gone gone?

  Not that it would be forever. Chandler didn’t plan anything that crazy. Just long enough to get into the new year and show her that he would not be made to do anything. Get past this stupid Christmas thing. The Buckingham-Hicks-Woodgate Charity Christmas Gala. Thrown by people who understood the Christmas spirit no more than his parents. All fake and plastic and pretend and insincere. Commercial. He hated it all. Just like Charlie Brown in that special from before time began.

  “Think we’ll have a white Christmas?” his sister was prone to ask.

  “Of course,” his mother/father would always answer. “It wouldn’t be Christmas without snow.” As if the Buckinghams could order snow if need be.

  They probably could!

  Had it always been like that? Because he could remember when the holidays were fun. Exciting. Magical.

  But then it all began to unravel.