by Mike B. Good
She shook her head, then pointed at her own giant mud boots. “Like these.”
These weren’t your form-fitted, calf-leather boots imported from Italy that stylish city women wear to look cool when it’s not raining. These were the floppy, ugly, generic rubber clown shoes sold in the Watanabe Store’s high fashion department between the rat poison and kerosene. The same kind Lizardo wore, only larger. To be fair, any unibrowed girl wearing a shapeless poncho, floppy hat, and sporting a mustache had to be pretty hot to rock a pair of mud boots. Agonia couldn’t quite pull it off.
There I was, stuck in the Volcano rain with no mud boots till Lizardo came to get me. This was definitely not the Hawaii I’d spent months daydreaming about. I decided to make the most of the situation by coming up with a fun revenge plan. Meanwhile, I did the hospitable thing and lit up a joint. I’d show her I was cool before easing into the whole pot-growing thing.
I held the doobie out to her. “We might as well catch a killer buzz for the big tour. Calm us down so the exhilarating slog through the veggies doesn’t burst our hearts.”
She scowled at the joint. Then at me. “Wrong.”
“Wrong? Whaddaya mean, wrong? You want your heart to burst?”
“Not exactly.”
“Then what’s the problem? How come you don’t get high? What are you, a Republican?”
“Give me a break.”
“Sorry.”
“But I am a Jehovah’s Witness and I don’t approve of hard drugs.”
“Hard drugs? This is pakalolo, Aggie. It’s da kine Kona Gold.”
“My name is Agonia. I don’t believe in nicknames.”
“Trust me, they exist. You’d be surprised. In fact, I’ve got a few myself.”
She gave me a look suggesting she could think of a few more. I tried not to be judgmental.
“You don’t smoke pot, but I hope you’re sane enough to grow a bunch.”
“Drugs are the devil’s work.”
“So, avoiding the question with bullshit, huh?”
Just like the wily Ray on Oahu. Evidently, pot growers were a wary group.
“I get it, Agonia, you’re probably worried I’m a narc. You need to have a toke. And then a bunch more. That’ll lighten you up.”
Making the sign of the cross, she hissed and backed away.
“Hey, I’m a stoner, not a vampire.”
“I prefer vampires.”
“Others prefer the poop.”
“What?”
“I know; it takes all kinds. Still, no way I’m biting your neck.”
Lizardo must die. The question was how long to draw it out.
“Come on. I’ll show you around.”
My flip flops were no match for the muck, so I went barefoot. Waddling like a duck, I was adapting, the new webs on my feet serving me as nature intended. As I scouted for secret places where Agonia had hidden her pakalolo, I had to admire my dedication to changing the world. After all, this was no fun at all. I suppose I knew all along there might be some impediments. Nothing worthwhile is totally easy. As it turned out, there’d be more of them than I’d ever dreamed.
Agonia led the way, pointing at crops, mumbling crucial information. “Those tall things? Those are corn plants. That stuff there is spinach. That’s a row of lettuce.”
Reaching down with her knife, she started to harvest one.
Throwing my voice, I had the lettuce cry in anguish, “Let go of my head, lady, you’re killing me.”
“Good!” snapped Agonia to the lettuce. Then decapitated the poor thing.
“Lettuce alone, you hideous fiend,” pleaded a chorus of paranoid neighboring heads.
Kicking the talkative heads like soccer balls, knocking them across the garden with her mighty feet, she snarled, “I hate puns. Also, complainers and crummy ventriloquists.”
Made me feel bad for the vegetables, which, hoping not to be next, had promptly shut the hell up. I also felt a little bad for myself. As a complainer and a crummy ventriloquist, I decided not to bitch about it. Not while she held that knife. We continued the merry stroll, squishing through the thick mud.
I had a nice treat in mind for Lizardo. “Hey, Agonia, where are the toadstools?”
She pointed at a well-tended patch of deformed mushrooms with pride. “Help yourself. The warty ones work fastest.”
I shooed some irritated amphibians off their perches and grabbed a handful.
Agonia became more life-like when we got to the exciting root crop section. “We’ve got turnips, parsnips, onions, jicama, potatoes, carrots, beets. . .”
“Oh great, beets. My favorite.” I hated ‘em. I think. As a picky kid, I’d always refused to eat them, so I couldn’t be sure. “Beets, they can’t be. . .”
“Do not finish that sentence,” she demanded, “or I might beat you.”
“It’s okay for you to make stupid puns, but not me?”
She showed me the knife.
“Like I was saying, of course it is.”
“It’s good you like beets so much.”
“Why is that?” I asked, sensing bad news.
Yanking a beet out of the muddy ground, she grinned like a sadist. “That’ll be your lunch.”
“What will you be having?”
“Maybe I’ll have something a little later.”
I knew it. That was code for eating my corpse. No way I was touching those beets. Disconsolate, I smoked a restorative doobie on her porch, watching rain fill in the craters where our feet had recently sunk, knowing that Agonia and her farm would never do. Any pakalolo growing around there would have drowned. I spent a few minutes practicing the lengthy profane rants Lizardo would hear while he died from the poisonous mushrooms. It cheered me up a bit.
My hostess interrupted my raving to hand me a stack of Watchtowers. “Here. Read through these so we’ll have something polarizing to talk about.”
A few minutes later, Chef Agonia handed me a plate with a boiled beet and chopsticks on it, calling my bluff. Given her cannibal inclinations and the level of rapport we’d established, I needed an out. Somewhere to hide the deadly beet. I noticed an empty dog bowl saying Lucky and a leash hanging lonely from a hook.
“Where’s good ol’ Lucky?” Not that I wanted to poison the poor pup.
“Why?”
“Just making pleasant conversation. I love dogs. For some reason, I feel compelled to pet yours. Make sure he’s okay; find a distraction.”
“Well, you can’t.”
“Thought so. No offense, Agonia, but Jesus, does everything around here die of poisoning?”
“Pretty much,” she admitted with a shrug.
“How come you’re still alive? That doesn’t seem fair.”
“I’ve developed tolerances.”
“You may be a fiend, but at least you’re honest.”
“You haven’t touched your lunch.”
I poked my beet with the chopsticks. They started dissolving.
Running out of romantic patter, we practiced scowling across the table.
She twirled her mustache, and asked, “So, have you declared the Lord Jesus Christ as your savior?”
Chapter 10
A Call Home
Hearing Lizardo’s Jeep splashing up her driveway, I said, “Sounds like fun, but I gotta run.”
“You haven’t touched your beet. . .”
While she went to get doggy bag, I sprinted like a bank robber to Lizardo’s getaway Jeep, pounded the dashboard, and screamed, “Go, go, go, go!”
He chuckled as he drove off through the puddles, ignoring that my life was in danger. As was his. From me.
“Lizardo, no offense, but I’m gonna have to kill you. Here, eat these toadstools.”
He laughed some more.
“What’s so amusing?”
“You’re funny when you’re angry.”
“Couldn’t you live somewhere the sun shines? Somewhere the ladi
es are tan, wear bikinis, and appear on calendars? Instead of a gray place where women wear Bozo-sized mud boots and appear, well, hideous?”
“Man, are you finicky. I’m getting the idea you didn’t hit it off with ol’ what’s-her-name. What happened? You’re not cool enough for her?”
“That is not the point.”
“That’s what you always say.”
“She tried to kill me.”
“That’s interesting.”
“Interesting?”
“Well, yeah. Usually it takes longer for your girlfriends to attempt murder.”
“That’s true, but also not the point.”
“What did you do to piss her off?”
“Nothing.”
“Then why would she try to kill you?”
“Evidently, she acquired a taste for human flesh after poisoning her husband.”
“She tried to get you with the mushrooms, huh?” He nodded sagely. “Always a classic. . .”
“No, man, with poisoned beets.”
“Yeck. . .”
“I know, right? And given how bad beets probably are, the poison was redundant. Just ask her dead dog, Lucky. He’d tell you if he only could.”
“You, I can understand. But her dog? Man, that sucks.”
“You won’t believe this part, Lizardo. She doesn’t even get high, let alone grow pakalolo.”
That really got to him. “You’ve gotta be exaggerating.”
“She’s a maniac. I’ve got the proof.”
“At least an insane theory.”
“Which part am I exaggerating? You already knew about the husband.”
“She killed him with toadstools, not beets.”
“Again, not the point. By the way, you haven’t touched yours.”
“Maybe later.”
“You should’ve seen how she treated a talking head of lettuce.”
“I’ve told you, Mikey, no one likes ventriloquism.”
“Maybe so, but they don’t usually commit murder over it.”
“Then how come you don’t see more ventriloquists around?”
“Hmm. . .you might to be on to something.” I made a note in my little book: No more ventriloquism. I was still angry at my buddy. “What kind of friend would suggest I live there?”
“Take it easy, man. You’re getting all emotional. Here, smoke this.”
“I will, but I’m not passing it back.”
I bogarted that joint, mumbling derisive things about Lizardo and Vicky and Agonia and the ceaseless rain in Volcano. For fun, I even threw in his grouchy landlords, the Watanabes.
To be fair to my tour guide, my time on the Big Island wasn’t all bad. We did some day tripping, exploring the Hamakua Coast and the jungle around Puna. Even drove around the island and spent a couple days with his grower buddies in Kona. Though the Big Island’s views were glorious, the scenic drives bummed me out. A jillion square miles of inviting land and us not growing on it? That drove the philanthropist in me up the wall.
_ _ _
The annual 4th of July fireworks show in Hilo was cancelled for the tenth year in a row when the fireworks proved too soggy to explode. After three weeks on the Big Island, I had to admit, Plan A was a flop. Time to implement Plan B. Surely, Ray and Crash and Molly wanted me to join their commune. Molly, especially. She’d require more of that hot and steamy sex. After a couple minutes with me, not to boast, I left the girls screaming for more. At least screaming. Just as surely, the devious Ray would want to mentor me in the secrets of growing da kine. No way he didn’t grow that great pakalolo himself. No one had a friend that fantastic.
The bummer of a holiday reminded me of something scary: Dad’s birthday. I pictured him there in the CIA’s Secret Weapons Lab in his Uncle Sam outfit, staring at a map of the world, deciding which country to blow up in celebration. Reluctantly, I gave the folks a call from the Watanabe Store.
“Hey, Dad, happy birthday.”
“Thanks, son.” In that ominous voice of his, he added, “I’m glad you called.”
“I hate to ask why.”
“Well, I’ll tell you anyway—it’s time to pre-register for law school.”
“Pre-register? Is that really a thing?”
“Something special just for you.”
“Uh. . .I’m kinda busy here, Dad,” I lied. “I don’t think I can make it.”
Mom, on the extension, butted in. “Why is that, honey?” Master interrogator for the CIA, she couldn’t help herself. “Are you doing something important?”
Peeling off some mold, I said, “You wouldn’t believe it.”
“You’re damn right I don’t believe it,” said Dad. “Quit your lollygagging, straighten up, and fly right.”
“Dad’s right, Mikey, you’ve had enough goofing around in the sun for one lifetime.”
“Who’s goofing around in the sun?”
“That’s the spirit, Mister,” said Dad, misunderstanding.
“Can’t you guys just send that pre-registration form in for me?”
“Of course we can, but what would be the point?”
“I’d get to have some fun while changing the world.”
Soon as I got away from Volcano.
“Fun is highly over-rated.”
Mom relented a bit. “Oh, let’s humor him, dear. After all, once he starts law school. . .”
Getting the picture, Dad filled in the blanks. “He’ll be living the American Dream and done with fun forever.”
I pictured myself in court with short hair, a stifling suit, and uncomfortable shoes, defending Nixon against war crimes. Then out of court, hated and scorned by all right-thinking people. Dad was right. That would not be fun. Ever. I made a vow: Plan B must not fail.
Chapter 11
Don’t You Remember Me?
Back on Oahu, eager to start my dream career, I dodged my way through a series of well-wishers. “Get a haircut.” “Hare Krishna.” “Spare change?” “Smire.”
Compared to the relaxed Big Island, the hectic Honolulu airport felt like LAX. Worse, I’d have to venture into Waikiki to pursue my goals. I paused to take a deep breath, find my inner peace.
Someone yelled, “Hey, you can’t smoke that here.”
I wanted to ignore him, but he was the size of an NFL tackle, wearing a blue uniform, and pointing a gun. I disappeared behind a mountain of polyester just in from Canada and lost myself in the crowd. Outside the terminal, I had to admit, things weren’t going exactly as planned. I’d left Hilo feeling down, wondering if my mission to change the world would fail before it ever started. Almost a month in Hawaii, and I hadn’t even planted a seed. And now the police were after me.
Lucky for the world, I was intrepid. Lucky for me, the giant cop was out of shape and out of breath, and with the Honolulu sun shining brightly, my spirits picked right up. In fact, after the exhilarating chase, I felt feisty. Also, hungry.
First step of my three-part plan: Head straight to the Omni Boogie for a sandwich and a smoothie. Next: Use my charms on pretty sandwich merchant Molly to wrangle an invitation to the Kaimuki house for a night of wild sex and a talk with Ray. After that: Change the world. Simple.
Meanwhile, with my cash getting low, a rental car or taxi was out. Hitchhiking was the economical move, but they had laws against it in Hawaii. Thumbing, anyway. Instead, I stood there like a moron on the side of the Nimitz Highway. No one stopped, but many were kind enough to slow down and yell insults. After a bit of that, I remembered my lesson from Scully-san. With a little entrepreneurial spirit, I could earn some extra cash while grabbing transportation into town.
Scully was right, the irate Avis manager did not like me. I ditched the rent-a-car in a hotel parking lot, considerately leaving the keys in case someone else needed it, then cruised over to the Omni Boogie. A bald tourist and his pals blocked the sidewalk. They rubbed me the wrong way, so I offered them some advice.
To Baldy, I
said, “Grow some hair.” I told the surprised guy next to him, “Quit your job.” I pointed at their outraged wives. “You, lose some weight.” “You, way too much polyester.”
Crushed ‘em!
Lucky me, Molly was working the lunch shift. I couldn’t wait to see her face light up when she saw her lover back.
I hit her with one of my killer smiles. “Howzit, good looking?”
I was all smooth and sexy. According to my secret adviser (a paperback called Even You Can Score) girls loved that shit. She made a face as if she’d just stepped on some.
I added, “I just got back from the Big Island.”
She could barely restrain herself. “So?”
“Molly, it’s me, Mike.”
“No, I don’t think so. Hey, how’d you know my name?”
Such a kidder. “Don’t you remember me?”
“Give me a hint.”
I reminded her about the hot steamy night of insane sex we’d had in her room not so long ago. And the copy of the Kama Sutra she’d given me.
“Oh, yeah, I remember you now. Mark, right? You really did sweat a lot.”
“Actually, it’s Mike.”
She frowned with doubt. “So you’re back, huh? I guess that means you went somewhere.”
“Didn’t you get all those postcards?”
“I wondered who those were from.” Warming up to me, she asked, “So, whaddaya want? You’re holding up the line.”
I settled for ordering a sandwich. I’d continue my seduction later. After the lunch hour, when things had quieted down, I went up to the window and offered my sexiest smile.
“What’s wrong with your face?”
This time, to avoid the hassle, I said, “It’s me, Mark.”
“Oh, hey, Mark, didn’t recognize you at first. Weirdest thing, some creep was just here pretending to be you.”
“I get a lot of that. People are so envious.”
That gave her a good laugh. “At least you’re funny—not like that imposter. I suppose you want to come up to the house? Mess around?”
“Yeah, that’d be groovy.” My plan was coming together. “Is Ray there?”
“Who knows? Meanwhile, tell me, has your sexual technique improved?”