Breaking Good
Page 9
“After your soul-crushing lecture, I read your detailed instruction manual and practiced like a maniac every chance I got.”
She gave me a look. “All that practicing? Was it with women?”
“Well, hypothetically.” The Girls of Hawaii were definitely women.
“Yeah, I didn’t think so.”
I shrugged, busted.
She sighed. “What the hell, I’ll give you another shot.”
I couldn’t wait—to talk to Ray about the farm. Later on, seeing him on the lanai in his customary safari outfit twisting one up, I greeted my would-be mentor.
“Howzit, Ray.”
“How do you know my name?”
Everyone seemed so happy to see me back. I made a subliminal suggestion. “Remember a few weeks ago when you begged me to move to the farm?”
“I did?”
“See? Even you say so.”
“So it seems. But still, refresh my memory.”
“We were smoking one of those killer doobies of yours. . .”
“Ah, that explains it. They will make you forgetful. By the way, these killer doobies are from a handsome friend.”
“Right. That’s what you said last time.”
“What last time?”
“Oh boy. . .”
“Just kidding, man. So, you wanna go to the farm, huh? Well, let’s see. . .Louie the Flake just split for the lost continent of Mu, so there’s an empty room.”
“Split for where?”
“Mu, man, Mu,” said Molly, like a beatnik cow to a square. “The other lost continent.”
“Not sure where that is.”
“No one is,” explained Professor Molly. “That’s why it’s lost.”
“Like Atlantis?”
“Are you saying it’s in Georgia?”
I shrugged. “Sure, why not?”
“I love solving geometry riddles!” declared the brainy Molly.
“So, Ray, I’ll fill in for Louie the Flake?” I joked, “Sounds like I have some big shoes to fill.”
“Smelly ones, anyway,” said Ray. “Louie wasn’t big on hygiene.”
“It’s a good thing I have my own.”
“No one likes a braggart, Mikey.”
I apologized for my boasting, then pointed out the obvious. “Your pot is really strong.”
As I made the compliment, Ray’s chest expanded. His hat, too. I found that amusing.
“Mahalo, man, I appreciate that, you know, on behalf of my friend.”
“Lucky for you to have a groovy friend like that.”
Ray swelled some more. His hat now bulging, he confided, “I don’t want to sound conceited, but he’s the greatest.”
“Well, tell him for me, he’s a horticultural genius.” I laid it on really thick. “A modern-day Luther Burbank.”
Ray, by this time puffed up like a toad, looked a bit uncomfortable with all the humility. The humble organic farmer pleaded, “Stop, please. I don’t think my sexy friend can take any more compliments for now.”
I did, fearing he might explode. Just then, Happy and Cool Gino, attracted by the aroma, walked onto the lanai.
“How was the Big Island?” asked Gino. At least someone remembered me.
“Kinda soggy. Good to be back in the sun.”
Cool Gino was the only black hippie in the commune, and he gave me one of those impossibly complicated handshakes that only the hippest people could fathom. Failing miserably at copying it, I threw him a shaka sign and followed it with a peace sign, a Cub Scout pledge sign, an okay, and two thumbs up. Hopefully, we were almost even.
“You know this guy?” asked Molly.
“Yeah,” said Gino, “so do you. You slept with him.”
“I sleep with a lot of people.”
Happy, on permanent disability from his former job helping a dealer friend figure out if the acid was mind-boggling enough, remembered me for my music.
“How could I forget Mikey here? He played guitar and sang until Ray made him stop.”
Ray snapped his fingers. “That was you?” He shook his head, apparently thrilled by the memory. “Quick, someone hide his guitar.”
“Hey. . .”
“You sure you wanna go to the farm, Mike?” asked Ray. “You seem articulate. Almost academic. At least compared to Molly.”
“That’s not saying much,” I pointed out.
Everyone except Molly, who didn’t get it, laughed.
“No offense, but you might not fit in.”
I’d grown up hearing that, but in reference to sophisticated situations, stuffy affairs like the White House receptions the Good Family dragged me to when a Republican was in office. I felt a little surprised. “I won’t fit in at the farm?”
“I meant in the state.”
“Sorry for all the education and the words and stuff, but I still want to check it out.”
“I suppose you can ride out with me in the morning.”
“Far out.”
“Don’t get too excited. Believe me, man, the farm isn’t for everyone.”
“Not to boast, but neither am I.”
“No kidding,” seconded Molly.
Excited by the upcoming trip, I went to bed with my snack bar queen. I was hoping all those training drills paid off. Not as much as Molly, but still. . .
Fifteen minutes later, I asked, “How’d I do this time?”
Molly had a scoring system. She held up two scorecards, a four and a three.
“Wow, I got a forty-three. Is that some kind of record?”
“That’s a four and a three, not a forty-three.”
“Oh. You mean because it took two tries?”
“Not good, Mark, but still, quite an improvement.”
If you can call delaying gratification almost forever an improvement.
Chapter 12
Waianae
Molly woke up to a brilliant sunrise, eyes still closed, but with a radiant smile on her pretty face. Ah, good, another morning person. Some of the girls I’d known didn’t appreciate how exuberant I could be upon rising. Actually, none of them did.
“Good morning, sunshine. I’m glad you’re awake. I’ve got a couple minutes. Which means plenty of time for one more. . .”
Her eyes flew open. Noticing me, her smile turned upside down. I guess she wasn’t a morning person, after all. Not wanting to break her heart, I let her down softly, blowing her a kiss as she shoved me out the door. Frustrating Molly was a smart move because Ray rose early and I didn’t want to miss out on the traditional good morning doobie on the lanai. After knocking down the ensuing munchies with smoothies, a papaya, and just-baked banana bread, it was time to split for the country. Ray said something in Afrikaans to a pair of white German shepherds. They jumped into the back of his truck and took up defensive positions.
“Did I hear that right? Your dogs are named Adolph and Eva?”
“They already had their names when I got ‘em, but look at him. What else would you call him?”
I took a closer look at the big white dog and his distinctive brown mustache. Noticing my gaze, Adolph raised his right front paw high.
“Salute back so he doesn’t cop an attitude with you. Trust me, you don’t want that.”
“Right.” I gotta admit, I felt a little weird giving a dog named Adolph the Nazi salute. “I see your point about the name, but some folks might find that insensitive.”
“Who? The Jews? The Gypsies? Intellectuals? Homosexuals? Everyone else in the world?”
“Well, yeah, for starters.”
“Hey, they’re German shepherds. They’re not exactly bred for sensitivity.”
“How do they feel about minorities?”
“Love ‘em. They’re ravenous for ethnic food.”
“How do they feel about deep tans?”
“What do you care? Your skin is green.”
“Once I molt, it’ll darken right up.”
“Looks like I’ll only be half right. I hope they don’t take my pitching arm.”
“I guess we’ll see.”
“How do you say, ‘Nice doggy, don’t bite,’ in Afrikaans?”
Ignoring my question, he boasted, “These were the first white shepherds in Hawaii. You see any others attacking someone, they came from my dogs.”
“Well, that’s, uh, something. How’d you end up with them?”
“I got ‘em from one of my connections. Trevor’s a mercenary and gun-runner now, but used to train dogs for the South African Army. That’s why they’re so well-trained and intolerant.”
“Pure white German shepherds come from South Africa?”
“Not that they’re narrow-minded down there, but that’s the only kind they’ll allow in the country.”
Fifteen minutes later, we’d left the city behind. Looking left towards the ocean, I could see Pearl Harbor slipping by. I was glad no one was bombing it. I didn’t want a pesky world war breaking out while I vacationed. With the city behind us, the traffic grew sparse. I stared at the countryside and smiled. There wasn’t much to see except sugar cane, ocean, and mountains in the distance. A major improvement over Waikiki. Talking to Ray proved interesting. Compared to my circle of friends in California, he seemed so cosmopolitan.
“How did you end up in Hawaii, Ray? And, you know, acquire connections with gun-running mercenaries from South Africa?”
Over a doobie, he filled me in on his background. His ancestor had signed the Declaration of Independence. First. He emphasized how ultra-conservative his family was. How he couldn’t relate. I could relate. At least to that last part. He grew up in Virginia in an eighteenth century plantation house with a nanny and a compliment of servants. His rebellious nature caused concern in elementary school, and when he continued exploding the school’s toilet bowls with M-80s, it led to routine expulsions.
“From there I went on to bigger things.”
By bigger things, he meant the larger bombs found at military academies. The exact kind of place where the mischievous sons of ruthless Third World dictators, corrupt military leaders, and international arms dealers misspent their school years.
Ray laughed. “You wouldn’t believe the shit they had in those armories.”
I was starting to get the picture. I was riding with a maniac.
Ray continued. “I got good grades, but bad report cards, if you know what I mean.”
“I know exactly what you mean. Classes were boring. Helpful snide comments, insightful and cynical as they might be, weren’t appreciated by uptight teachers.”
“Right. You get it. So, we’d rob the armory and blow up the Administration Building to let off a little steam. Still know what I mean?”
“Uh, sure,” I lied, hoping he was kidding. “School could be stressful if you actually went.”
“Just typical school kid pranks. I bet you did the same stuff, right, Mikey?”
I wanted to seem cool so he didn’t blow me up. “Definitely.”
“Really?” asked Ray, excited to find a fellow mad bomber. “Small world, man. What’s your favorite explosive?”
“All right, not exactly the same stuff. Not unless you consider surfing blowing things up.”
“Right on,” he raved, not hearing a word I’d said.
In a weird way, Ray reminded me of Dad.
Through high school, I’d dealt with boring classes and uptight teachers by burying my head in a novel, or cracking jokes and getting sent to the Principal’s office. Then, once in college, by not showing up. And yet, I’d never blown up anything except fireworks and the tips of my fingers. No way I could admit that lapse and still seem hip.
The smart move? Resort to bullshit. “Ah, the good old days.”
After college, Ray admitted he’d gone to law school as a default. “I’m not proud of it, but my family pressured me into it. Someone had to inherit their massive insurance empire.” Despite his straight background, he eventually turned on, tuned in, and dropped out. But with no Frodo around, it had taken him longer to wise up.
“You know, Ray, we have a lot in common.”
“I don’t think so. I was a corporate lawyer.”
“Well, everyone makes mistakes. I won’t hold it against you.”
Ray smiled at that one. “You’re all right, Mikey.”
“Thanks. So, how’d you go from the uptight corporate world to growing pot on an organic farm?”
“Someone spiked the punch at an office party with acid, and, well, you know how it is, everyone started looking really freaky.”
“I do know how it is. Especially when I look in a mirror. Aw, man, is that ever a terrible idea.”
“Right. In your case especially. But I thought we were talking about me.”
“Sorry for the empathy. By the way, I busted you on the pot growing thing.”
“You are a tricky one, aren’t ya?”
“Maybe a little,” I said, pulling a quarter from behind his ear.
“Yeah, I didn’t think so.”
“Hey.”
“I’ve got a story, and I’m sticking with it.”
“You can probably fool clever people with your devious denials, but that won’t work on someone like me.”
For some reason he chuckled, but the obvious pride he took in rolling up his doobies dispelled any doubts I had. So did the ear to ear grin on his face when people smoking them coughed like pneumonia victims, then thanked him for the opportunity. And then there was the swelling. Obviously, I needed to turn Ray from a reluctant egomaniac into a helpful mentor.
The farm was inland from the little town of Nanakuli, about thirty miles west of Honolulu, nestled between the ocean and the Waianae Mountains. The Koolaus, forming the eastern part of the island, were behind us now. Between the two ranges, a road led uphill from Waipahu, past Mililani, Wahiawa, and Schofield Barracks, and then downhill through endless pineapple fields towards Haleiwa and the legendary North Shore. In the winter, you’d see the waves lined up like corduroy all the way to the horizon. Oahu, except for Honolulu and a few other cities, looked like you’d hope a tropical island would: verdant sculpted mountains, sugar cane and pineapple plantations, undeveloped countryside bordered with near-continual beaches. Where man hadn’t uglified it, the island pleased the eye. I hoped the farm looked like I imagined: a landscaped jewel out in the lush and peaceful countryside.
My hopes for a landscaped jewel in the lush countryside grew ever dimmer as the leeward coast vegetation grew ever scrubbier. On the left: endless beaches, all of them empty. I thought: It might not be lush, but it sure is peaceful.
As I blinked my eyes, I heard Ray say, “That was Nanakuli.”
I looked around. “What was Nanakuli?”
He shrugged. “It’s not much of a town.” Hinting the countryside might not be as peaceful as I thought, Ray asked, “How you been getting along with the locals?”
“Well,” I lied, “so far, really great.”
At least none had beefed me yet.
“That’s good, ‘cause we’re gonna pick up a couple things I need in Waianae. Try and stay cool.”
“Always. Just comes naturally.”
“No, I’m serious.”
“Wait a second, is Waianae dangerous or something?”
“You’ll see.”
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
“You should. Out here in the country it’s pretty much all locals, brah, so haoles come at their own risk.”
“Like the rest of the state, only more so?”
“You catch on quick. At least, you better hope so.”
As we pulled up to the funky Waianae General Store, four giants armed with cases of Primo beer burst through the store’s cinder block wall.
“You gotta appreciate the teamwork. These kids are well coached,” said Ray. “Co
uld go all the way this year.”
“Crashing through walls is a sport in Hawaii?”
“That’s the defensive line for the Waianae High School football team. Just getting in a little practice. Looks like they needed a rehydration break.”
In their massive paws the cases of Primo Beer looked like six packs. As the closest one stomped near, I felt the earth tremble. Or was that me? Noticing the nervous haole in the pickup, the beer-lover did a double-take, shaking several of his chins. He seemed startled at seeing a hippie on his turf. Also, outraged. By meekly sitting there, I’d rubbed him the wrong way. He gave me stink-eye while he pondered how best to go about the crushing. It would be tougher than usual since my squishy body was well-armored by a pickup truck. Plus, his mighty hands were encumbered with cases of Primo. Thinking quickly for a giant moron, he tossed the cases into the truck bed next to us and smiled. Maliciously. Next would come the beefing. My fault for being a haole in Waianae.
“I told you to stay cool, Mike,” chided Ray, “but you just wouldn’t listen.”
“I blame my fear of dying.”
Unafraid, Ray threw the menacing ogre a shaka sign. “Howzit, brah.”
The brute turned his glare to Ray, but reluctantly returned the howzit and shaka. You had to be a real dick not to.
“Eh, brah, you remember my dogs? Adolph and Eva?”
Hearing their names, the South African dogs barked scary greetings. Then, noticing the dark skin pigment and intriguing Spam-infused body odor, they bared their fangs and growled.
Judging by his bulging eyes, the big fella did remember the dogs. “Easy, brah,” he pleaded with Adolph, deciding not to risk his life rearranging my uncool face.
Wow, even going shopping was exciting in Hawaii.
When the pickup full of thirsty teammates drove off, I asked, “Jesus Christ, is everyone out here a monster?”
“Monster?” chuckled Ray. “Those were just kids.”
“Isn’t it a little early in the morning for that?”
“For what? Monstering?”
“You know, selling alcohol to kids? Or is that legal out here?”
“Who said anything about selling? You think those guys are something, wait’ll you see their parents.”