by Mike B. Good
It was the kind of place tourists would look at sideways and say, “How quaint. A rustic Hawaiian dog house.”
A place a bemused guest might sleep in and ask, “Are all these giant bugs venomous? Or just the ones biting my neck?”
Where Lizardo might reply, “Don’t be silly, those are bats.”
“Whaddaya think, Mikey?” asked Lizardo. “Nice and downhome, huh?”
“Dreary, too. Who lived here before you? Edgar Allen Poe?”
“Well, it isn’t much, but generous Mr. Watanabe won’t charge me a lot to fix it up. If I put a couple g’s into the place? It’ll be,” he shrugged, “somewhat better.”
“What a great landlord.” With enough work, the shed could become a shack. Then Lizardo’s rent would go up. I steered the conversation to something more important. “Aren’t you afraid your pakalolo will freeze to death?”
“Come on, man, it’s not that cold.” A sly one, he’d skirted the issue with a lie. Then he added, “You’d have loved the groovy coffee farm I had in Kona even more.”
I narrowed my eyes, gave him a look. “Hard to believe.”
“It’s true. Sunshine every day, ocean views out front, mountains out back. Coffee and fruit trees in the yard. Not to mention the pakalolo.” His eyes glazed over. “Aw, Mikey, it was so far out there.”
“That’s the place you invited me to live, right? The one you never mentioned was no longer available?”
“Yeah, it was outtasight,” he said, too full of self-pity to notice my angst. “You’d have gone nuts.”
“I am going nuts.”
“Always with the jokes.”
He’d just described my dream. The place I’d planned to start my mission. And by bringing me to water-logged Volcano, he’d just crushed it.
“I need you to get that house back, Lizardo. I’ve got a world to change.”
He uttered a huge sigh. “Believe me, I would, but it’s too late.”
“You’re killing me. Why’d you split from Kona?”
“A chick named Vicky.”
“Aw, man, not that Vicky chick. No offense, Lizardo, but are you insane?”
“You don’t even know her.”
“Doesn’t matter. What happened?”
“Long story short, I moved here to be near her. Soon as I did, she moved back to Kona. With her new boyfriend. To my old coffee shack.”
“What?” The irony seemed cruel. “Jesus, Lizardo, that sucks. You must feel horrible. Like some kind of idiot.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Well, if the mud boot fits,” I added with all the sympathy I could muster.” Then, feeling generous, I decided to give my friend a break, let him make it up to me by having a great growing scene in Volcano. “So, how’s the pakalolo grow around here?”
“Who knows? I’m not growing any.”
“Unbelievable. . .”
“Jeez, take it easy. I’ve only been here a few days.”
“So, what’s the problem, you slacker? You should already have some seeds in the ground by now. Have you even found a plot?”
“No, man, it hasn’t stopped raining since I got here.”
I digested that for a minute. “You think you could call Vicky and see if my guest house is still available?” Lizardo gave me a baleful look. “Just asking.”
“Well, don’t. It’s a sore subject.”
“I get it. You feel terrible about doing something so moronic. No one can blame you for that. Actually, I can.”
“You’re not cheering me up.”
“Look, just give me the number. If it’ll cheer you up, I’ll call her myself.”
Instead of cooperating, he groaned some more. Even thinking about the deceitful Vicky put him in a funk.
As a good pal, I had to bolster his spirits. I started with a bold-faced lie. “It’s a good thing you moved to Volcano.”
He grimaced with dubious hope. “It is?”
“See? Already your attitude is better.” I made some subliminal suggestions. “Now you’re happy as a Swede in winter. Don’t let that record-setting suicide rate fool ya.”
“Don’t worry, I’m not gonna kill myself.”
“That’s good, ‘cause then you’d really be messing me up. I don’t know anybody else on this island.”
“Thanks for all the empathy.”
“You got it, good buddy. But I’m still mad at you for moving. That was selfish.”
“Pursuing my happiness was inconsiderate of your feelings?”
“Now you remember. I wish you’d have thought of that before you screwed up.”
“You might not believe it, but when the sun comes out, Volcano is beautiful.”
“You sure about that?”
“According to rumors. But, hey, dig how lush it is around here.”
“When’s the sun come out?”
“Summertime.”
It was well into June. “I see. When’s summer start on this part of the island?”
“Far as I can tell,” he shrugged, “never.” He grabbed a bottle of tequila from behind the seat. “Maybe those Swedes are on to something.”
I checked my Crowded Planet, which told me that Volcano got about a hundred inches of rain per year. It seemed like that much had fallen since I got there. When it told me that June was the driest month, I stopped reading. Their research was clearly faulty.
Tiny Volcano was far from the beach. Aside from the Watanabe store, a tiny gas station, a coffee stand/bakery, the Volcano House lodge, and a scattering of greenhouses full of exotic flowers, Volcano was a blink of the eye. Not a lot of apparent attractions for the adventure traveler. Maybe I was missing something. I decided to find out.
“What is there to do around here?”
“I bake stuff for the coffee shop.”
The guy thought only of himself.
“I mean, for me.”
“Oh, lots of stuff, man. Read. Take naps. Walk in the rain, reminisce about the sun. Watch the mildew spread and then scrape it off your skin.”
“Hmm. . . Any other highlights?”
“I guess we could go see the volcano.”
“Well, all right, the volcano! I’ve always wanted to check one out up close. Roast some marshmallows, get some great photos like the National Geographic guys. That’s gotta be far out, right?”
He shrugged. “You’d think so, wouldn’t ya?”
But when we got there, the darn thing wasn’t exploding. Or even visible.
“Another let down, Lizardo? What is it with you?”
“You act like it’s my fault.”
“You gotta start accepting some responsibility, man.”
A thick cloud blanketed the volcano. We couldn’t see twenty feet. We’d parked next to a confusing sign. It said: Scenic Point!? There were arrows pointing in a few different directions, as if to cover all bases. One of them pointed straight up. They’d installed a perimeter railing that hinted at the location of the crater, but it didn’t make for a great photo opportunity.
My tour guide added commentary. “I’ve been here five times now and I’ve never seen the crater.”
I peered over the rail into the mist. “So you’d actually have to jump into the volcano if you wanted to enjoy it?”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“But, hey, just before you burned up, what a killer view.”
“Oh, you wouldn’t burn up.”
“I’m fire-proof? Cool. When did that happen?”
“How should I know? Not that it matters.”
“It does to me.”
“Don’t worry about it. With any luck, you’ll die from the fall.”
“If I’m fire proof, how do you know I can’t fly?”
“Feel free to give it a try.”
An hour in the Volcano rain, and we were getting along like an old married couple. Despite the excitement-packed days of reading Michener’s plodding Hawaii, napping, mold
-scraping, and walking in the rain, I became bored. Nice as it might be for lichens, fungi, and moss, Volcano wasn’t my dream spot—whether my only friend in the state lived there or not. Clearly, he’d lost his mind. Not content with derailing my Plan A, prankster Lizardo played an unforgivable practical joke on me.
Chapter 9
Agonia
To be fair to Volcano, on those rare occasions when the sun made a brief appearance, a kaleidoscope’s worth of colorful flowers, came alive. I know because the bakery we huddled in sold historic postcards taken on one of those rare moments. They looked like Ted Turner had colorized the place. Lizardo knew I’d been thinking about the Omni Boogie’s organic farm on sunny Oahu, but only because I grumped non-stop about the rain and irritating lack of pakalolo being grown by my lovelorn host. Although heavily involved with depleting his stash of Kona Gold, I’d begun stressing out. The inactivity sorely tested my usually unassailable coolness. As we drank coffee and ate cinnamon rolls at the bakery, we watched the rain pour down.
“Wish there was something to do,” groaned Lizardo.
I thought of something. “How about giving me a ride to the airport?”
“Don’t go to Oahu, Mikey. That island sucks.”
“Oahu’s not all like Honolulu, Lizardo. The organic farm is way out in the country.”
“Have you seen it?”
“Well, no, but I’m sure it’s a beautiful scene.”
A lush image popped into my head: waterfalls, swimming hole, Miss June and her squad of bikini-clad wahines cavorting about.
“You wanna learn organic farming, I know a place.”
“Actually, I wanna learn pot growing and hang at the beach with the wahines. The organic farming part is incidental, not required.”
“You’re really jonesing to get started growing da kine, aren’t you?”
“Hell, yeah. Haven’t you paid any attention to my ranting?”
“Not really.”
“I can’t just sit around peeling mold all day. I need to do something productive. At least go to the beach.”
“Why bother? It’s raining there, too.”
“Not in Kona.”
“Aarrgh. . .”
I hated to see a grown man cry. Especially two of them. I had to do something. Inspired and desperate, I reached into my pack.
“Check it out, Lizardo, I brought over a bag of those stony Guatemalan Gold seeds.”
Growing a batch of da kine would be something to do, a productive way to cheer the both of us up. After all, that’s why we’d moved to Hawaii.
Looking at the bag, Lizardo cracked up. I’d finally said something to make him smile. Ironically, it made me frown.
“What’s so funny? I got that pot from you.”
“I just made that name up so I could charge you more.”
“You lied to me?”
“At least I’m honest about it.”
“So, what was that stuff?”
It wasn’t Kona Gold, but it had been the best kilo I’d ever scored. Although the buds were more brown than gold, I’d gullibly accepted the name. No other pot had spaced me to where I didn’t recognize my own street. After getting lost while driving past my house, twice, I felt like a moron. Naturally, I thought: Now that’s some good weed! Just as naturally, I wanted to grow some, share it with the world.
Lizardo waved his hand. “Who knows what it was? Anything but Guatemalan Gold.”
“Would the organic farm you mentioned happen to be in Kona? Or is it anywhere but Kona?”
“Actually, it’s just a few minutes from here.”
“That’s what I was afraid of. I think I’ll pass.”
“You should at least check it out. The chick who owns it needs help. Think about it, man. You could have a cool place to live.”
“You mean a cold place to live, don’t ya?”
“Heh heh. But, hey, you’d have home-cooked vegetarian meals.”
Hmm, maybe I should take a look. Here was an opportunity and Plan B on Oahu was far from certain.
“Is she single? Or is her old man just really lazy?”
“Lucky for you, her old man died in a mushroom accident.”
“Mushroom accident? What happened? He fall on a pointy one?”
“From what I heard, she cooked him a questionable omelet.”
“She poisoned him? On purpose?”
Lizardo shrugged. “It might have been an accident. Unless it was murder. Who’s to say?”
I reconsidered the home-cooked meals.
Ignoring the farming widow might be a murderess, Lizardo added, “Who knows, Mikey, you two hit it off, you can grow your pakalolo right there. We’ll be neighbors. How groovy is that?”
That sparked a little more interest. I felt my spirits boosting. After all, with June the driest month, summer had to be right around the corner. Or else, never coming at all. Still, here was opportunity knocking and I had to start somewhere.
There was still one important question. “What’s she look like?”
“What are you? Superficial?”
“What kind of crazy question is that? Of course I’m superficial.”
“She’s got—a face. And she’s—well, she’s single. Just go check it out, man.”
Naïve yet desperate, I thought: What the hell? I’m bored; it can’t hurt to at least check it out. Also: Lizardo wouldn’t let me down. Wait a second, was I nuts? Of course he would. He did it all the time. I asked about the serial down-letting.
“Let you down? Come on, Mikey, don’t be a dick.”
“It almost seems like you’re dodging the question.”
“Doesn’t it?”
Not wanting to be a dick, I let my ambiguous pal drive me over. I got out of the Jeep. Then sank ankle deep in the mud.
“Well, good luck,” said Lizardo, still inside the Jeep and getting ready to split. One look at the unsmiling American Gothic model standing in the rain with her pitchfork and I wanted to leave with him. Her frown of hospitality went well with the Army surplus poncho and granny dress. Duct-taped black plastic glasses framed her unibrow, and under her prodigious honker, she sported a thin but well-groomed mustache. She’d bound, gagged, and pinned her tortured hair under a floppy plastic rain hat in dull green. She’d color-coordinated with green mud boots. I hoped she was some sort of immigrant labor the foxy farm owner had hired.
Always polite, I forced a smile. Not as polite, she scowled.
I broke the ice with a friendly, “Howzit!”
Except for a snarl, she gave no response. Just stared. Maybe she didn’t speak English.
I tried again. “Is your sexy mistress around?” I threw in some confusing sign language to help her understand.
She turned to Lizardo. “He doesn’t look like Robert Redford.”
Affronted, I looked at Lizardo. “Robert Redford?” I was more the Paul Newman type.
“So sue me for lying,” he replied. “I was just trying to build you up.”
About then, I’d realized something horrible: there was no sexy mistress.
“So, what’s your name?” I asked the scary lady. Not that I cared, but I’d been raised with manners.
“Agonia.”
“Agonia? What kind of name is that?”
“It’s Hungarian. Means bringer of despair.”
I wanted to say something nice. “It’s fitting.”
“Well, I hate it. It’s too festive.”
“Aha!” said Lizardo, snapping his fingers. “You’re Hungarian. That explains those stinky feet.”
“Aw, man. I was wondering what that was. Wait a second—are you saying all Hungarians have stinky feet?”
“Far as I know, although Agonia here is the only one I’ve met.”
“It’s true,” said Agonia with a resigned shrug. “My twin sisters are even worse.”
“Jesus. . .” said Lizardo. “That’s hard to believe.”
Ignoring
his charming comment, Agonia muttered, “How come Gulicia and Naushia got the prettier names? Does that seem fair to you?”
I made a note to myself: Never go to Hungary.
We’d been there two minutes, and I was ready to split. Lizardo had the same idea. In fact, he was already pulling away.
I yelled at the back of his Jeep. “Hey, man, where you going?”
“I gotta go bake some stuff.”
Running behind, I shouted, “Wait up, I’ll help.”
He slowed down, but not enough that I could catch him. “You don’t know how to bake.”
“Not the point.”
Stepping on the gas, the playful Lizardo splattered me with mud. “Ha! Gotcha again.”
“Damnit, Lizardo. . .”
“Don’t worry, you slob, the rain will wash it off.”
“Still. . .”
“I’ll be back in a couple hours. Give you plenty of time to get acquainted.”
I turned back to my hostess and flinched. To put it mildly, Agonia was not a fine-looking woman.
As if reading my thoughts, she said, “I’m not into glamour.”
“No kidding,” I agreed, chuckling politely at her joke.
“You calling me repulsive?”
“I guess you must hear that a lot.” When she gave me an ugly look, I lied. “Not that I agree.” Somehow, I managed to keep a straight face.
She backed off with a growl, no doubt charmed by my mesmeric repartee. I cursed Lizardo, vowing to get even in a heinous way.
We glared at each other a moment, then she shrugged. “Oh well, I guess I should take you on a tour. Wait a second, where are your mud boots?”
“Mud boots?” I asked, looking down at my slop-encrusted flip flops. They must have weighed five pounds each.