Breaking Good

by Mike B. Good

  Crash rolled his eyes and took another toke.

  “So, what’s the farm’s name? I bet it’s creative, too.”

  “Da Farm,” said a smirking Molly.

  “Oh. That’s really. . . Well, it’s almost a name.”

  When Ray passed the tasty doobie back, I inhaled like a Shop-Vac. “Mango,” I squeaked, to show how cool I was.

  Then my lungs exploded and I almost choked to death. Not so cool. Still, I was smoking da kine again. Well worth it. I learned Ray ran the organic farm out in the country while Crash ran the restaurant. As the son of spies, I had a strong hunch Ray grew more than veggies out there.

  “Hey, Ray, you mind if I check out those flowertops?”

  Molly let out a big sigh, tapped her foot, and made a point at looking at the watch she didn’t wear. Few people did. In Hawaii, where things often didn’t happen on the scheduled day, let alone the minute, knowing the exact time seemed pointless. Thoughtful, I prolonged her wait for the wild sex. Soon enough, she’d see someone in a hurry. I had a feeling she wouldn’t think it was so great anymore.

  “Go ahead, man,” said Ray, passing the rolling bowl.

  The buds looked sugar-coated.

  “Is this what marijuana is supposed to look like? Or did you guys spray some glitter on this?”

  I’d never seen unseeded green-colored buds before, let alone tops covered with shiny crystals. Lizardo’s Kona Gold joints had been pre-rolled. The imports were always brown. . .or worse. While my naïveté earned laughter, an idea popped into my pointy head. If Lizardo’s scene in Kona didn’t work out, maybe I could work with Ray and better-looking alter ego at the organic farm. A potential Plan B.

  Subtly, I approached the subject. “Your farm sounds groovy. I wanna grow some pot there.”

  “Who wouldn’t?” replied Ray.

  “You mean, you’re not?”

  “Oh, I’d like to take credit for what is probably the best pot on the planet. . .ahem. . .” He paused there, as if waiting for validation.

  “He really would,” said Crash.

  “Shut up, Crash,” snapped Ray. “As I was saying, someone I admire for his good looks and brilliance. . .”

  Molly threw in, “No kidding.”

  “Quiet, Molly. Suffice it to say, a terrific grower is responsible for this phenomenal stuff. For discretion’s sake, I’ll mention no names. And who knows where this genius grew it?”

  All right, maybe Ray was a little full of himself, but jeez, the guy had the buds. I wanted to be the unassuming egomaniac with the buds. First, I needed a place to grow them. Unable to reach Lizardo, Plan A, growing pakalolo in Kona, was starting to seem sketchy. I should’ve known. Almost anything involving Lizardo was sketchy. My newly hatched Plan B, growing pot at the organic farm, didn’t look much better. Especially if Ray wasn’t lying. I hoped he was—I might need to reply on his dishonesty. In a rare moment of reflection, I wondered if I’d made a rash decision coming to Hawaii with hardly any money and no sure-fire place to go.

  An irritating little voice said: You bet your ass, Mister. It sounded a lot like Dad.

  I slept with Molly up at the Kaimuki House, letting Becky have a lonely night to wonder where I’d gone. The reunion sex would be that much hotter.

  Molly seemed thrilled to see me in the morning. “Aw, Jesus, you still here?”

  Wow, I’d given her a religious experience.

  “Actually, it’s just me, Mike, but thanks.”

  “Who?”

  Molly might not have been great with names, but what a sweetie. Favoring her with some gnarly morning breath, I murmured, “Ready for another go?”

  “Always.”

  “All righty, then.”

  “I didn’t mean with you.”

  Probably for the best. I didn’t wanna spoil her. After the traditional morning doobie on the lanai and some breakfast smoothies, a couple of the commune guys, Happy the Spaceman and Cool Gino, invited me to go hiking up in Manoa Valley. The University had a botanical garden there, and beyond that, you could hike right into the rainforest, walk under huge-canopied trees, cruise alongside a stream, and jump in freshwater pools. Surrounded by gorgeous scenery, feeling refreshed, my spirits lifted. Honolulu wasn’t so bad—once you got out of it. Inspired by our hike, I imagined a cool little farm out in the lush countryside where Ray’s handsome friend grew that great pot. And me right next to him.

  I got back to Becky and Lisa’s that afternoon, hoping Lizardo had called by then. When I learned he hadn’t, I tried the Watanabe Store again. The chatty Mr. Watanabe hung up as soon as he heard my repulsive voice. I’d have to spend another night in Honolulu. I didn’t wanna over-indulge Molly. Especially since she’d kicked me out. Like a losing game show contestant, she’d rewarded me parting gifts—a copy of the Kama Sutra and a court order demanding I study hard. The Kama Sutra (perhaps the world’s most ancient porn) was chock full of insane sexual positions with funny names. I planned to begin my studies with Becky. Hopefully, by twisting her into a pretzel while doing something with my lingam to her yoni (whatever the hell those were), it would make up for the last time.

  Around bedtime, Becky admitted she’d missed me. “When you didn’t show up last night, I figured you’d been abducted by those crazy vegetarians. At least I hoped so.”

  I showed her my copy of the Kama Sutra, told her about the lessons. I felt like Don Juan, every night a new beauty. How could Becky resist my charms? I couldn’t believe how many ways. The girl knew judo, tae kwon do, karate, kung fu. . .

  “Let’s lie down and get more comfortable,” I suggested.

  She seemed hesitant, so I went into seduction mode, ripping off my clothes and tying myself in a painfully sexy knot. “This position is called the agonized badger entices the turtle dove.”

  Becky’s sigh barely concealed her excitement. “First let me slip out of this skimpy halter top and these short shorts.”

  She came out of the bathroom wearing nothing—except p.j.s featuring dozens of jowly Nixon faces leering at me. It’s impossible to feel horny looking at that mug. Not while your back is spasming, anyway. As if that wasn’t erotic enough, sexy Becky rocked a beguiling chastity belt, rollers in her hair, and a coating of green facial gunk.

  Swallowing the key to her belt, she said, “There. Now I’m more comfortable.”

  Two hours of pleading later, it was clear I’d hit a road-block, and getting to third base (but only with myself) just wasn’t cutting it. Meanwhile, in the next room, Lisa was getting it on like a mink. Or was that a wolverine? Hearing the berserk screams, the intense howling, and the laughably loud orgasms through the thin wall drove me crazy. Also, gave me blue balls.

  “Come on, Becky, help me out. I can’t sleep through that.”

  “They invited you to join them.”

  “Yeah, but. . .”

  “What’s wrong? You said you’d like a threesome.”

  “With you and Lisa, not with sex-crazed Butch. You see all the earrings on that guy?”

  “For a hippie, you don’t seem very open-minded.”

  “I’m not the one wearing a chastity belt. Where’d you get that thing, anyway?”

  “Had it made after your thoughtful warning call. By the way, where are you staying tomorrow? Not that I care.”

  Lisa’s next orgasm involved thirty seconds of shrieking and art falling off the wall. That got Becky’s attention

  “Feeling horny now, aren’t ya?”

  “I sure am.”.

  I said, “Finally!” Then, “Hey, where you going?”

  “Where do you think?”

  “Aw, man, at least untie me first. Becky? Becky?”

  Twisted into a knot, incredibly sexy or not, I spent the night alone, frustrated, and hoping Lizardo would call soon.

  Chapter 8

  Volcano

  The next morning found me sitting on the lanai with an ice pack in my lap. Although the beach was a dr
ive and chip shot away, busy developers had hidden it well. Four stories beneath the lanai, jousting garbage trucks battering dumpsters replaced the lovely murmur of the surf. As did the raucous sounds of taxi horns blaring at jaywalkers. Appreciating the warnings, the jaywalkers screamed obscenities at the cabbies.

  There were all these pigeons pooping on the lanais. I would’ve thought seagulls, being right next to the ocean, but no, these were pigeons. Deformed pigeons. Most of them only had one foot. Some of them had a second foot, but it was always mutated and weird. I saw a pigeon fall out of the sky. Then another. I wondered if they needed two healthy feet to fly.

  That didn’t make sense. I had two feet, both of them healthy, and I couldn’t fly. Then I noticed an article in the Honolulu Advertiser. Seems that two weeks earlier Mayor Grapht had initiated a brilliant plan to poison the burgeoning pigeon population because the storm of turds raining down upon Waikiki Beach bothered tourists. Now Mayor Grapht announced the cancellation of the brilliant plan to kamikaze horrified tourists with dead birds.

  As a visitor from California told Channel 5’s ReActionNews at Five, “We prefer the poop!”

  Soon t-shirts with the catchy if ambiguous slogan appeared at the ubiquitous ABC Stores. They became a sensation with tourists—tourists with a lot of explaining to do when they wore those back home.

  According to reporter Kent Watanabe, the diplomatic Mayor Grapht responded by saying, “Damn these tourists; you just can’t please the bastards.”

  Waikiki was overwhelmed with traffic, both vehicular and pedestrian. Along the sidewalks: a corpulent sea of matching polyester muumuus and aloha shirts. Also, a subset of smaller, humbler people swarming in large groups. They were armed with cameras, goofy smiles, and wearing “We prefer the poop!” t-shirts. The camera-toting mob seemed amazed by everything they saw. The larger tourists seemed disappointed by everything they saw. Some of the passersby spotted me sitting up there Buddha-like above the mayhem.

  The ones in polyester liked to yell, “Hey, hippie, get a job.”

  The ones who preferred poop demanded, “Smire.”

  Waikiki, though noisy, crowded, and bizarre, fell short of my tropical daydreams.

  A few minutes later, when Lisa held out the phone, I grabbed it like a life preserver. “Lizardo? I thought you’d never call.”

  “You sound stressed.”

  “It’s just that I’m in Waikiki. . .”

  “I can dig it, man, say no more. Oahu sucks. Get your ass on a flight to Hilo and I’ll pick you up. Not much stress going on here.” He paused for a moment, then added, “Not much of anything going on here.”

  He didn’t sound all that excited about it.

  “Hilo? Wait a second, doesn’t Kona have an airport?”

  “Sure it does. But I’m in Volcano.”

  “Oh. Taking a little trip around the island?”

  “No, man, I, uh. . .” He paused again, let out a big sigh. “I sorta moved here.”

  “Moved? What happened to your groovy coffee shack in Kona? The one with the guest house and da kine in the back yard. The one where I’m gonna hit the ground running.”

  “It’s a long story. An ironic one, anyway. I’ll explain when you get here.”

  I didn’t like the sound of that, but maybe I read too much into his despondent groan. I sure hoped so. Convinced that Volcano had to be better than friendly Waikiki, I jumped on an Aloha flight to the Big Island. It’s not like I had a realm of options. Once in the air, watching Honolulu disappear, my sunny spirits bounced back. In fact, I got excited seeing the gem-like ocean hues, the verdant jungles, the jagged volcanoes, and the puffy white clouds from the low-flying plane. I put a magazine over my lap so as not to freak out the guy next to me.

  The informative Captain announced, “If you’ll—squawk—the windows on your left, you’ll see the island of—squelch.”

  I checked. According to the map, the island should have been Molokai.

  The smug guy next to me clarified things. “Molokai is Hawaiian for squelch.”

  Some irritating know-it-all corrected him. “According to my Crowded Planet guidebook it’s just the island’s name. . .”

  “Shut up, hippie. No one likes nerds.”

  “And out of the right side windows, you’ll see the island of Maui,” mumbled the laconic pilot. As if the exciting view was putting him to sleep.

  Squashed amidst a bulky tour group from Chicago, I gawked at the extraordinary Haleakala Crater with the best of them.

  “By the way, folks,” added our captain, “since so many of you ask—mahalo means—squelch—squawk—garbage can.”

  A lady across the aisle said, “What a mysterious non sequitur.”

  By then, I knew mahalo meant “Tanks, brah,” but tourists around me argued about possible translations.

  “Didn’t you hear the captain? Mahalo means garbage can,” shouted a drunken visitor in my ear.

  “Well, I’m just as sure it means patio,” yelled an elderly woman across the aisle.

  “If mahalo doesn’t mean garbage can, lady,” the drunk demanded, “why do they write it on them?”

  Amused by the flawless logic, someone chuckled.

  “What’s so funny, hippie?”

  I sighed and looked out the window. The Big Island looked gigantic from the tiny plane windows—to the discerning philanthropist’s eye, like a jillion square miles of potential pakalolo plantation. Enough room to change the world. I got excited again.

  The tourist/linguist next to me said, “What the hell is wrong with you?”

  Compared to the other islands, Hawaii was gigantic. Mauna Kea and Mauna Loa dominated the scene. Mauna Kea, just under 14,000 feet high, is the tallest mountain on the planet, taller even than Everest. But only if you start counting from the sea floor. Not an easy task, so I took the guidebook’s word for it. Mauna Loa isn’t much shorter. Both are wide-bodied. Perhaps they provided the incentive for the natives to become the world’s largest people. There was also ten thousand-foot Hualalai jutting up behind Kona, dwarfed by the others, but just as tall as massive Haleakala on Maui.

  The smaller but more famous Kilauea, was sleeping back then so I missed out on the aerial view of lava flowing into the ocean. The little town of Volcano slept as well, not far from Kilauea’s crater. I tried to spot it as we neared Hilo but suddenly, the island disappeared beneath a universe of clouds. My guidebook bragged: In Hilo, the sun rarely comes out. It added a Fun Fact: Hilo enjoys 272 rainy days per year. More than any other city in the northern hemisphere. Which sounded, well, like a soggy challenge to my sunny disposition. Like Honolulu, Hilo was not the Hawaii I’d been dreaming of. But I shook it off, because I knew the sun-loving Lizardo wouldn’t let me down. That was me, always thinking positive, often wrong.

  Outside the terminal, a mud-covered Jeep veered sharply. I don’t know why, unless it was to splash a puddle all over me. When I heard crazed laugher, I knew it was. Ah, the famous aloha spirit again. The wild-eyed maniac who hopped out wore a floppy rain hat and an Army surplus slicker over his t-shirt and shorts. Stylish green mud boots showcased his feet. He looked like someone out of the swamp. I would’ve told him off, but his size reminded me what a pacifist I was.

  “Howzit, Mikey!” yelled the prankster.

  “Lizardo? Jesus. . . Is that really you?”

  “Hop in, man, you’ll get all wet out there.” Since he’d grown far too muscular to kill, I settled for giving him an intimidating look to laugh at. “Welcome to Hawaii, brah. Hey, you slob, you’re getting mud on the seat.”

  “The least I could do.” I showed off most of my Hawaiian in one phrase. “Mahalo, brah. Doesn’t mean garbage can, you know.”

  He laughed at my astuteness and took me to lunch at the big health food store downtown. We sat outside under a canopy munching avo sandwiches while watching steady rain drench dour Hilo residents. Honolulu sucked, but at least the sun shined there.

  Tr
ying to regain a sense of optimism, I pleaded, “Please tell me it’s nicer in Volcano.”

  “Volcano is, well, you’ll see. . .”

  After splashing our way out of Hilo, we headed up the slopes of Kilauea through lush rainforest. The types of trees and shrubs changed along the way, but stayed thick and green as we climbed. Having left dowdy Hilo behind, I began to cheer up, feel better about my adventure. I knew my positive attitude would fully recharge as soon as we climbed through the clouds. To hasten it along, I prayed for the weather to change. And it did. From hot and rainy to cool and rainy. I didn’t find it an improvement and stopped with the praying. Volcano was perched at 4,000 feet and by the time we reached Lizardo’s, the temperature had plummeted fifteen degrees. It was still around seventy, but in comparison to the sunny weather I required, it felt cold. Stoic, I decided not to complain. Yet. I’d wait a full minute first so as not to seem bitchy. All right, I wasn’t growing da kine in Kona, but on the bright side, I’d made it to the Big Island. Sure, people went out of their way to splatter me with mud, but no one had yelled at me to cut my hair.

  Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. “Jesus, Lizardo, it’s freezing up here.”

  “Complaining already? We’ve only been here a minute.”

  He wasn’t the least impressed by how long I’d waited. I wondered why I even bothered. “Who’s complaining? This feels great. I love shivering in the tropics.”

  He ignored the sarcasm. “Good. You came to the right place.”

  We’d parked in front of what looked like a tool shed. But why? Bewildered, I looked around. “So, uh, where’s your house?”

  “Whaddaya mean?”

  “I mean the place you live. Whaddaya call them over here?”

  “I know what a house is.”

  “Then why did my question stump you?”

  He groaned. “This is it, man.”

  I squinted through the driving rain. The place, hidden by dense foliage, covered in moss, and lacking paint, couldn’t have been more than six hundred square feet. Including the front deck. As I’d see, the funky wooden affair had only three rooms, all of them dark and smelling of mildew. Outside, gorgeous Hawaiian tree ferns with orchids growing from their trunks surrounded the hut. So did red-flowered, lichen-covered lehua ohia trees, pink gingers, white gingers, red torch gingers, red and pink anthirium flowers, trippy heliconias, multi-colored ti plants, and a wild profusion of impatiens. The yard was a mini-botanical garden, the kind of place artists under umbrellas sketched for the prints they sold at Volcano House and the Watanabe Store.