Breaking Good

by Mike B. Good

  “You guys wait here,” he said, then skulked away towards the Return Cars Here sign.

  When a van full of Japanese tourists pulled in, Stan thrust his head through the startled driver’s window and yelled, “Aloha! My name is, uh. . .” Shrugging with embarrassment, he glanced at his nametag. “Scully.”

  “Scurry?” mimicked the Japanese driver.

  “Close enough. Thanks for using Avis. I hope your vacation was a groovy one.”

  All six passengers pulled out cameras to take a series of identical Scurry-san shots, each photobug smiling, saying, “Gloovy?”

  Stan smiled and gave them two thumbs up. More photos recorded the magic moment.

  “Maharo,” said the driver, offering a thank you in Hawaiian. Sort of. Feeling extra polite, he threw in a, “Domo arigato.”

  “Sure, whatever,” said Stan, “same to you. You cats can pay me right here. Save yourselves the trouble of going into the office.”

  “Maharo,” repeated the driver, likewise understanding not a word, but putting his wallet into Stan’s outstretched hand.

  Stan indicated with fingers rubbing together that there were numerous surcharges: insurance, road tax, union dues, business lunches, fringe benefits, etc., which required additional greenbacks and credit cards from the other passengers.

  Once he’d cleaned them out, Scully-san helped the bewildered tourists out of the van. “It’s been a pleasure to serve you. Be sure to choose Avis next time you need a car. Sayonara.”

  The tourists, finally recognizing a word, smiled as one and took more pictures. After some mutual bowing, the visitors shuffled away, baffled yet broke.

  Screeching the van over to us, Stunt Driver Stan pulled one of those exciting 180’s. “Jump in!”

  I felt like the A-Team. A moment later, as we squealed out of the parking lot, a red-faced manager came flying out of the Avis office. He was yelling bloody murder, stomping his feet, and waving his arms at the back of the van.

  “Stan, what’s with your uptight boss?” I asked, waving back, even though no one else bothered.

  “Aw, you know how it is. Bosses. . .pfft.”

  “Are they worse than college professors?”

  “He just didn’t want me to drive you into town.”

  “What’s he got against me?”

  Stan took a guess. “You must have rubbed him the wrong way.”

  This was before they elevated the freeway, and we drove through the unappealing industrial section surrounding the Nimitz Highway, a route sure to make any sticker-shocked tourist think: Jesus Christ, I could have seen eyesores like this back home for free.

  Twenty red lights later, we reached the giant Ala Moana shopping center and the big beach park across from it. No longer flanked by Third World-looking warehouses, I could appreciate the blues of the ocean and the greens of the inland mountain ranges. It was then that we heard the sirens. Stan floored the van, and just for kicks, steered across all four eastbound lanes of Ala Moana Boulevard and skidded into the big parking lot at the beach park. He topped it off with a thrilling 360-degree flourish. Evidently, he couldn’t wait to get in the water.

  “Driving is exciting here,” I said. “You’d get a ticket for that in California.”

  “Here, too.”

  “In that case,” I joked, “I hope those sirens aren’t for us.”

  “Me, too,” said Stan, as he and his friends tore off in different directions, not even bothering to shut the doors. Or go swimming.

  I shrugged it off. I’d seen erratic behavior like that before and figured it for a bad drug reaction. Grabbing my pack and guitar, I walked to the shore, stepped out of my flip flops, took off my aloha shirt, and waded right in. Feeling the soothing warmth of Hawaiian waters for the first time, my junk (always fearful of the chilly ocean in California) went ahead and celebrated. I basked in the tropical sun, feeling ebullient. Not to mention, proud of my outstanding water-boner. A minute later, clouds blocked the sun and a police car blew into the parking lot. Feeling self-conscious, I had to wonder: Are hard-ons this impressive illegal in Hawaii? Only in the state a few minutes, and I’d already run afoul of the authorities. Even for me, that was quick. I pictured the headlines: New Sex Fiend in Town!

  The wahines would be smashing down my door.

  After screeching to a halt, two enormous cops jumped out of their car and surrounded the empty van. They challenged the invisible people inside to come out or be shot to pieces. When none of the people not there cooperated, the police opened fire, emptying both guns into the van and wounding each other in the process. True professionals, they looked around for witnesses and spotted the priapic, gape-mouthed hippie.

  The smaller giant, about the size of Herman Munster, shook off the flesh wounds, and pointed his gun. “Watchu got dere, brah?”

  “Sorry, I didn’t catch that. Are you grunting at me?”

  “Yeah, you wit da little ting.” I couldn’t understand the insulting words, but I got the gist.

  “It’s a war injury from ‘Nam. It used to be huge.”

  “Sure, brah.”

  I sensed my ebullient mood fading. That’s not all. Trust me, it’s hard to stay impressive while a giant cop is aiming a gun at your crotch.

  His partner grumbled, “You spock da buggas snatch dis van?”

  What the hell was he saying? Not only were the words different, the whole cadence of speech was odd. Sometimes all sing-songy, other times, guttural grunts. And often as not, incomprehensible.

  I shrugged. “Sorry, Sgt. Frankenstein, I only speak English. And some Spanish. Buenas tardes.” No reaction. I snapped my fingers like a flamenco dancer, did a few lightning-fast dance steps. “Ole!”

  No luck, just a homophobic look.

  “Hippie weirdo,” snarled the Sarge. “He don’ know nuttin’.”

  “Oh, yeah? Ask me to spell something or count really high. I’m also good with rock ‘n’ roll trivia, sports, geography, and obscure facts gleaned from the World Atlas.”

  The smaller one, who’d stunted out at a mere six-foot-four and couldn’t have weighed more than three hundred pounds, seemed unimpressed with my intellectual skills.

  He offered a suggestion to his partner. “Maybe we should beef da bugga.”

  Who knew Hawaiians were so hospitable?

  “Nice of you to offer, but I don’t eat meat.” I tossed in a joke. “Or with pigs.” They forgot to laugh. Always the diplomat, I added, “No offense. Just a little insult humor to break the ice.”

  Their scowls grew darker.

  I pointed out, “Cops love it when hippies poke fun at them, right? Please say yes.”

  “You call us peegs, brah?”

  More of the words were making sense. And unless I missed my guess, I’d already pissed them off. I had no idea what it could have been. Perhaps shooting each other had made them edgy. Officer Munster offered me a ride in the back seat of his car, but Sgt. Frankenstein made him put me down before the fun started. They had car thieves to locate, transfusions to take.

  Since arriving in Hawaii, I’d been kneed in the nuts, mobbed by dancing lunatics, involved in a felony, and humiliated by police. An exciting start to my adventure, but not exactly how I’d envisioned things.

  Chapter 7

  Waikiki

  I’d called Becky and Lisa from the airport. They were thrilled to hear I was on my way, and after negotiating for some hash, they finally gave me directions. My destination: An apartment on Lewers, just a block up from Kalakaua, the main drag. Right in the congested heart of Waikiki and not where I wanted to begin my Hawaiian adventure. But I had a positive attitude and after reminding myself I was in Hawaii, not stuck in California, my enthusiasm rebounded. Until I saw Waikiki.

  The over-developed area was crowded, mostly with Japanese tour groups, but hordes of American and Canadian tourists added to the mob. They were the pale-legged, pudgy ones with the frowns, polyester uniforms, and bright red sun
burns. Seeing me on the street, a porcine woman in her voluminous muumuu and her sneering husband in matching shirt and shorts, found me worthy of contempt. They seemed irritated I wasn’t wearing the correct outfit.

  Still, they were happy to take a moment out of their vacation to block the sidewalk and say, “Get a haircut, you stinking hippie.”

  The Japanese were less belligerent, but no less bothersome, unable to enjoy their vacation without stopping me for a picture.

  “Aroha, hippie-san. Smire.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Smire, you molon.”

  Everyone seemed so nice. Must be that aloha spirit I’d heard about. I couldn’t complain about the weather, but for a nature lover, Honolulu sucked. No wonder Lizardo lived on an outer island. As I rode the elevator to the girls’ apartment, I thought about getting it on with Becky again. For the few moments it lasted, the sex a few months earlier had been great. For me, anyway.

  “How do you like Hawaii so far, Mikey?” asked Lisa.

  “With weather like this and a sky like that, what’s not to like?” I pointed towards the ocean. “The water right over there on Waikiki Beach is. . .wait a second. There is a beach behind those hotels, isn’t there?”

  “Yes,” hissed Becky.

  “I’ll take your word for it. I will say the water at Ala Moana is sweet.”

  “No, it’s not,” objected the brainy cocktail waitress/marine biologist. “I happen to know it tastes salty.”

  “I stand corrected.” Giving up on the hotel-occluded ocean view, I pointed out back through the sliding doors. “I love those mountains, all craggy and lush, so primordial-looking. Like the kind of place King Kong would hang out.”

  “They killed him, Mikey,” explained Lisa.

  “There’s so much about Hawaii you girls could teach me.” I spread my arms. “If you ignore the city, this island is gorgeous.”

  “Yeah, sure, if you like nature,” said Becky, who apparently didn’t. “How about the people?”

  I thought about my recent encounters. “They’re the best.”

  She missed the sarcasm. “I know. Isn’t Waikiki wonderful?”

  “Are you nuts? What kind of maniac would want to live here?”

  The girls gave me a hurt look. “Well, we like it.”

  I cleaned things up with a compliment. “Well, you girls are maniacs. How could you not?”

  Dirty looks from the maniacs. Why were girls so hard to talk to?

  “Can I borrow your phone?”

  My positive attitude could only take so much. I had to get the hell out of there, pretty Becky, wonderful people, or not. I dialed Lizardo’s contact number.

  A gruff voice snarled a greeting. “Hai.” Like he was mad I’d called.

  “Hi right back at ya. Is this the friendly Mr. Watanabe?”

  “Hai. Watchu wan’?”

  “Ah, good. So, you do speak English. Lizardo must have been kidding.”

  “No Engrish,” he barked.

  “But. . .”

  He cut me off with a growl. “I said no Engrish.”

  I might as well have called an Akita. “Jeez, take it easy.”

  “I hang up now.”

  “I hope you realize you were just speaking English—hello? Hello?”

  “That was a short call,” observed Lisa.

  “No kidding. Usually it takes a little longer before people hang up on me.”

  “Not that it does any good,” grumbled Becky under her breath.

  I scratched my lumpy head. “Must have been a bad connection.”

  “Try again. And don’t be such a dick,” suggested Becky.

  “I didn’t really have much time to be a dick.”

  “I meant in general.”

  “Oh. Hey, either of you girls speak Japanese? No? Why not?” They gave me a look. “That doesn’t help.”

  Another look, even less helpful. I redialed and crossed my fingers, hoping someone else would answer.

  “Hai.”

  Shit. It was him. In my least offensive voice, I said, “Hi.”

  Offended, he snarled, “I hang up now.”

  “Wait, don’t hang up,” I pleaded, then said as fast as I could, “please tell Lizardo his friend Mike called.”

  He replied with silence.

  “Did you get that?”

  He grunted.

  “That seems ambiguous.”

  He grunted again to.

  “Right. Well, in case that’s a yes, here’s the number. Could you repeat it?”

  Yet another intolerant grunt.

  “Actually, I meant the phone number.”

  Nothing.

  “Hello? Hello?”

  “Try it in Japanese,” suggested Becky.

  “Herro?”

  Still nothing, then click.

  “Any luck?”

  “Who knows?”

  Looked like I had time to kill in Honolulu. I’d use some of it to eat. After a sumptuous airplane meal (two macadamia nuts sealed in an appropriate scrotum-shaped package), I needed nourishment.

  “You girls got anything to munch on?”

  “Look in the fridge.”

  Inside: Stolichnaya vodka and something green and evil. When it lurched my way, I slammed the door.

  Prankster Lisa laughed. “Gets ‘em every time!”

  “Funny,” I lied. “Any cool vegetarian places nearby?”

  The girls cracked up. As if any vegetarian place could possibly be cool.

  “Well, there’s the Omni Boogie,” said Lisa.

  “What’s an Omni Boogie?”

  “A little health food place downstairs. They sell sandwiches and smoothies. It’s run by the Omni Boogie people.”

  “The Omni Boogie people? Are they some kind of cult?”

  “Ya think?” asked Becky.

  “Mikey’s right. I’ve always wondered about them,” said a suspicious Lisa. Turning to me, she ordered, “Find out what they’re really up to and report back to us.”

  “Okay. I’ll see if I can infiltrate their restaurant.”

  “But be careful,” cautioned Becky.

  “Of a sandwich shop?”

  “You might wake up on a spaceship. Not that I’d mind.”

  Throwing caution to the wind, I checked out the Omni Boogie. As I learned, the pod-bound crazies the girls feared were really just a commune’s worth of hippies with no particular ideals aside from vegetarianism and a love for sex, drugs, and rock ‘n’ roll. As long as they weren’t pissed off at someone, they had no religious dogma apart from treating each other well. Which seemed reasonable. My kind of cultists. Not just restaurateurs, they also had an organic farm out in the country somewhere. My antennae twitching, I wondered if they grew pakalolo out there.

  An emphatic little voice asked: How could they not?

  The tiny restaurant, with only a few sets of plastic tables and chairs on the sidewalk, specialized in impossibly-delicious grilled cheese/avocado sandwiches (the secret ingredients: sautéed mushrooms and onions). A pretty redhead named Molly took my order. She had a nice smile, a sexy vibe, and really knew her way around a sandwich. My kind of girl. I flirted like a madman until she invited me to the commune’s big house in Kaimuki.

  A tree in the front yard was full of mangoes. I gulped one down. My first ever. Loving the taste, my mouth had an orgasm. A lot of drool, anyway. Something only another mango could cure. The living room held vases loaded with fragrant cut flowers: Tahitian gardenias, plumerias, and tuberoses. The kitchen was loaded with bowls of aromatic fresh fruit: mangoes, papayas, bananas, starfruit, pineapples, cherimoyas, passion fruit. It smelled of fresh-baked banana bread. The hippies living there, well, they were just loaded. They smelled like. . .hippies. Speaking of loaded, my nostrils detected pakalolo burning on the back lanai.

  “Jesus, Molly, your house smells delicious.”

  “Wish you did, too.”

  Distract
ed by the herbal essence, I replied, “Thanks.”

  After a confused look, my seductress pointed at a guest house. “My room’s in there. We might as well get this over with.”

  “Just a second,” I said, following my nose towards the lanai.

  “You guys are all alike.”

  Two hippies in their late twenties sat on rattan chairs passing a joint. They waved us over.

  “Howzit, brah,” said a medium-sized guy with shoulder length wavy black hair and a full-yet-scraggly beard. He wore a Panama hat with a pheasant-feather hatband, along with a khaki shirt and shorts. A Buck knife was strapped to his belt. For some crazy reason, his shirt had epaulets. He looked like an explorer who’d been lost for a long time.

  Busy rolling a joint, he asked, “Wanna get high?”

  “If I must,” I answered, always polite.

  Impatient with lackluster desire, Molly sighed and introduced everybody. “Crash and Ray here are the ones who started the commune, Mark.”

  “It’s Mike.”

  “Who’s Mike?” asked Molly.

  “I am.”

  Ray passed me the doobie. While I took a toke and coughed like an arson victim, he asked, “Then who’s Mark?”

  Stumped, Molly looked around. “He was right here.”

  I always had a thing for the brainy ones. “By the way, guys, groovy name for the restaurant.”

  “Thanks, brah,” said easy-going Crash. He wore a hat with a shaka sign on it and a t-shirt advising: Hang Loose, Mongoose. Also, long curly blond hair and a bushy Wild Bill Hickok mustache.

  “Didn’t I see you in Easy Rider?”

  “Everyone says that.”

  “Feel free to pass that around, man,” encouraged Ray.

  “Whoops, sorry. It’s just that it tastes so good.”

  “Mahalo, brah,” said modest Ray, reaching around to pat himself on the back.

  “You grew this?”

  Crash laughed, but Ray said, “Uh, no, man. A good friend of mine grows it.”

  “I just asked ‘cause of the eager way you said ‘thanks’ and how your hat swelled up.”

  “You’re perceptive, aren’t you?”

  “Thanks.”

  “Not a compliment. But you’re right, Sherlock, I did take pride. For my friend. I’ll pass your compliment along next time I see his handsome face.”