Breaking Good

by Mike B. Good

  “Yes, I could. But I won’t.”

  “How about a vague hint?”

  “Sure. It is not where you think it is.”

  How’d he know where I thought it was? I didn’t even know. I had a horrible thought. What if he told the truth about not growing pot? And here I’d put my trust in his deceitfulness. I could feel my mission to change the world circling the drain.

  My turn to sigh. “You’re right. This place is not for everyone.”

  “Aw, come on, it’s not that bad.”

  “It’s not?”

  “Don’t worry, it’s nicer on the inside.”

  But was it safe? It seemed doubtful. “Was the builder some kind of lunatic?”

  “He was a Swedish agronomist.”

  “Agronomist? Is that Swedish for insane carpenter?”

  “Maybe. But in English it means someone who studies agronomy.”

  “Thanks, Professor Higgins. What specifically does an agronomist who studies agronomy study?”

  “Who knows? Some kind of plant or soil science, I think.”

  “I knew it couldn’t have been architecture.”

  “This place was an experimental hydroponics farm.” Pointing at the conjoined rooms, he said, “Originally, those were IKEA storage sheds.”

  “Ah. . .”

  “And you know how it is with IKEA.”

  “I do. The instructions are incomprehensible and there are always missing parts.”

  “Looks like it could fall down at any time, doesn’t it?”

  “It sure does. And yet, isn’t that where everyone lives?”

  Yeah, now that they’re fixed up so nice. . .why are you looking at me like that?”

  “Your jokes are so subtle I keep missing them.”

  “Go on in, man, you’ll see. The girls have done a lot with the place.”

  “You first.”

  Before we could enter, the door opened and out walked the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen—at least outside of my Girls of Hawaii calendar. She had shiny black hair to her waist, curves like a centerfold, and a smile like an angel. She smelled like plumerias. To my surprise, I recognized her.

  Keeping my cool, I squealed like a groupie. “Oh my God, you’re Miss June! I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

  Of all the places I’d been, the far end of Makimaki Road was the last one I’d expect to run into Miss June.

  “Take it easy, brah,” advised Ray. To the familiar-looking Love Goddess he said, “Howzit, Leilani.”

  “Howzit yourself, Ray. Who’s this cutie?”

  Cutie? “Who me? I’m, uh, in love.”

  I heard Leilani giggling.

  “Oops. Did I say that out loud?”

  “Yes.”

  “I hope my total lameness doesn’t make me seem less cool.”

  She laughed. The prettiest sound I’d ever heard.

  “In Love? Umm, that’s an unusually nice name,” she flattered, her voice like a song.

  “This guy’s got more names,” said an amused Ray, shaking his head.

  “Well, I like that one,” said Leilani with a smile that made me weak in the knees.

  “To be honest, most people just call me Mike. Or lately, Mark. Either way, it’s nice to meet you, Leilani. Or should I address you with your official title as Miss June?”

  “You’re funny.”

  “And you’re my favorite month.”

  “Yet another big fan, Leilani,” joked Ray. “Lucky you.”

  “This is great,” I said. “A dream come true.”

  “At least for you,” said Ray.

  “I can’t believe we’re gonna be roomies, Leilani. Or that you’d even set foot in this place. I know we just met, but after worshipping your picture, I already feel intimate with you. Not that I’m obsessed. It’s just that I can’t wait to take it to the next. . .”

  She took a cautious step back. Oops, I thought, too much information?

  “I’m just visiting, Mikey.”

  I knew it was too good to be true. “Bummer.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll be back.”

  “Really? Promise?”

  “Sure, I’ll bring my boyfriend Peter. I bet you’ll like him, too.”

  _ _ _

  Unhip Martha Stewart might not agree, but the interior screamed comfort. Also, colors clashing. Like the commune’s house in town, it smelled delicious. French doors, looking improbably elegant compared to the rest of the shack, opened into a living room. Against the walls to the right squatted an L-shaped couch made from concrete blocks, sheets of plywood, and old mattresses. Nice and comfy, and much easier to assemble than anything from IKEA. They were covered with those colorful Indian tapestries sold dirt cheap at Pier 1 Imports, and they held two sleeping kitties, two cuddly white German shepherd pups, three hippies, and a bunch of psychedelic-patterned pillows piled against the walls. Perfect for leaning against while smoking joints and digging the stereo. Two more hippies lounged on beanbag chairs. Hendrix was playing All Along the Watchtower, the guitar solo bouncing back and forth between the massive speakers. One of my all-time favorite songs for headphones. A good omen.

  Across from the door, lining the entire rear wall, were shelves filled with books, magazines, a stereo, and record albums. Plumeria and gardenia blossoms floating in bowls of water perfumed the room. Sweet-scented tuberoses from the garden filled Oriental vases. Picture windows featured the Waianae Range just beyond us. Others framed the gardens in front. The coffee table was one of those ubiquitous wooden cable spools that hippies loved so much. Not just because they looked sophisticated when lacquered, but because they were free. A laughing Buddha sat in the center of it. A couple burning sticks of incense sprouted from tiny holes in his bald head like transplant plugs gone wild. There were woven tatami mats on the floors. Also, on the walls. The mats and tapestries covered holes in the floors and walls and shielded us from the general ugliness of the shacks. Colorful Indian mandalas and rock concert posters provided culture. An autographed photo of ever-smiling guru Meir Baba (who looked a lot like Lizardo) held a place of honor above the stereo. Someone had added, “What, me worry?” above Meir’s signature. Though an eyesore outside, the interior had all a dirt-poor hippie could ask for in terms of classy decor.

  A shack grafted to the right side of the living room held a small but functional kitchen and the enticing aroma of fresh baked muffins filled the air. There were several other sheds set up as bedrooms. Not to make the dump sound too bourgeois, but it even had a bathroom with a sink, flush toilet, and hot water shower. All in all, the funky first impression belied a comfortable scene if you weren’t too persnickety about giant bugs and your place looking like a pile of shit.

  Ray introduced me to the gang. “This is Mikey, everybody. Or is it Mark?”

  “Mike is fine.”

  “Whatever,” he clarified for the farmers, “he answers to both. Other stuff, too. Anyway, he’s here to fill Louie the Flake’s shoes.”

  “Why? Doesn’t he have his own?” said a sarcastic hippie chick with a red, peeling face, a horrible batch of haole rot (dime-sized white fungal splotches), and a nasty case of mango rash. If you’ve never seen mango rash, picture herpes run amok. I’d seen lepers with less stuff going on.

  “Sure do,” I bragged, foiling her.” No way I’d put my feet in Louie’s old shoes.

  “Well, aren’t you special?”

  “Thanks for noticing,” I replied. With a shrug of humility, I added, “Most people don’t.”

  “That’s my grouchy old lady, Katey,” apologized Ray. “She’s strictly literal. No sense of humor.”

  Katey frowned. “That’s not funny, Ray.”

  “See what I mean?”

  “I’m sitting right here,” boasted Katey, like it was some kind of big deal.

  I turned on the charm. “If you want, Katey, you can check out my flip flops, give ‘em a nice sniffing.”

 
“Don’t call her Katey,” said a petite hottie with long blonde hair and a great figure. “Her name is Kate.”

  “That’s Katey’s girlfriend, Lynn,” said Ray, confusing me. I thought Katey was his girlfriend.

  “Girlfriends, huh? Wait, don’t tell me. Katey’s the guy, right?”

  “Because she’s so flat-chested, right?” guessed Ray.

  “Not that kind of girlfriend,” snapped Lynn. “At least not yet.”

  “My chest isn’t flat,” insisted Katey with a lie.

  “I wish,” said Ray wistfully.

  “So do I,” grumbled Lynn with a sigh.

  “Hey,” said Katey.

  Ray added, “Lynn’s a grouch, too.”

  Lynn snarled in agreement. For not having an old man like Ray to bum her out, she seemed much too uptight. Perhaps I could help. After all, I had a bit of experience bumming girls out.

  “This is Jackie and Johnny. Johnny is my Chief Assistant Dog Trainer and Jackie bakes these muffins you won’t believe. You’ll like them. Not the moody type.”

  Johnny, a big, blonde-haired guy with a bushy beard, looked like a happy Viking. Jackie was the quintessential hippie chick with long dark hair parted in the middle, a sweet smile, and great vibes. She was busy with a macramé. Your classic Earth Mother type.

  “Welcome to the farm, Mikey. Hope you like it here.”

  That was more like it. I did like them.

  Ray pointed at the last farmer, an athletic-looking guy with a ready smile. “And this crazy guy here is my Chief Executive Assistant, Russ.”

  Russ gave me a friendly welcome. Everyone seemed nice except the two girls. Perhaps I’d rubbed them the wrong way by showing up with my own flip flops.

  “Let me show you your room,” said Ray. “We’ll see if you still wanna stay.”

  The grouchy girls cackled and snorted as if there was no way I would. We had to walk outside to get to my door. All the bedrooms had their own doors onto a connecting sidewalk. Picture a Motel 6 in ruins. The grumps walked behind us in order to enjoy my reaction.

  Ray pointed at a screen door. “Go ahead. Take a looked inside.”

  I pulled it open and then jumped back. A huge spider web blocked the way. In the middle of it lurked a fearsome black and yellow beast the size of a king crab. He flexed his arms, each about a foot long. All right, maybe only six inches. Still, da bugga was massive.

  “Relax, Mikey, it can’t be that bad in there.”

  “That depends on whether this spider is deadly or not.”

  “Let’s see.” Ray took a look and then laughed. “That’s just a cane spider.”

  “He’s not deadly?”

  “Why? You scared of bugs? If so, you are in the wrong place.”

  “You kidding? I love giant bugs.”

  I wanted sexy Lynn to know I was full of machismo. At least full of something.

  “These guys are our eight-legged friends. Go ahead,” urged Ray, “shake hands.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  I gave it a shaka sign instead. My new pal returned it.

  Ray laughed. “Pussy. Here, watch this.”

  His hand darted out, cupped the giant spider, and then tossed our friend onto Katey.

  Amused by the joke, Katey began jumping and shrieking. With a fierce strike, the ninja-like Lynn knocked our eight-legged buddy to the sidewalk and playfully squashed it about twenty times with her flip flop. If that’s how she treated her friends, well. . . I decided not to piss her off any more than necessary.

  “See?” said Ray. “Perfectly harmless. Didn’t bite you, did it, Katey?”

  “It’s Kate,” snapped Lynn, nipples hard, nostrils flaring, invigorated by the kill.

  Her nipples weren’t the only thing hard. To my dismay, her violent bitchiness had turned me on.

  “See, Mikey?” said Ray. “Nothing to worry about. Even chicks like to play with ‘em. In fact, you want ‘em around.”

  “The grumpy girls?”.

  “I meant the spiders. They’re much friendlier.”

  “Hey,” said Katey.

  “Well, aren’t they?”

  She shrugged.

  “They eat the varmints.”

  “Maybe that’s why they’re so grouchy.”

  Dirty looks from the girls.

  “I meant the spiders,” clarified Ray.

  “Oh. What kinds of varmints we talking here?”

  “All kinds of crazy-looking things. You wouldn’t believe some of these buggas!”

  He pointed at a couple of bizarre insects dismantling a mongoose. They were orange and black, six inches long, and equipped with barbed tails. Also, jutting spines, nasty-looking pincers, and jaws like a crocodile.

  “Jeez. . .”

  “You still wanna stay, don’t ya?”

  “Mmm. . .”

  “Right on, brah. Guess you got more balls than brains. Well, don’t just stand there; check out your new room.”

  Eyes darting, I entered Louie the Flake’s old quarters. After bumping into the recently-squashed doorman, I expected far worse. Evidently, he’d gotten so big by eating every other varmint in the room. With its killer view of the mountains out back and the gardens out front, tapestries, bamboo window shades, tatami mats, small cable spool table, and a life-saving mosquito net over the bed, it seemed comfy enough. It wasn’t the Ritz, but it beat Waikiki and Volcano. If I could just start a career growing pot there, I would have slept on a bed of rusty nails. And it looked like I’d have to.

  “Isn’t there a mattress or something to put over those?”

  “What are you, a wimp?” teased Ray.

  “It’s just that I puncture easily.”

  Chapter 15

  What’s Wrong With Lettuce?

  Back in the living room, Hendrix was playing the long version of Voodoo Chile. Another all-time favorite. Ray rolled up one of his giant doobies. By the time we finished, all seven of us were giggly high. Even the two crabs were laughing.

  As Jimi’s guitar faded away, Ray asked, “Ready to check out the farm?”

  I sure was. More precisely, the pakalolo hiding there. We went outside and heard a new sound.

  “Wow, that helicopter is low.”

  “Isn’t it?” replied Ray, unconcerned.

  “Are we being invaded?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Then how come that machine gun is pointed at us?”

  He stepped away. “You mean at you, don’t ya?”

  I moved ten feet to my left. So did the gun. I put my hands up.

  Ray shouted, “They could cut you to pieces, but don’t worry.”

  “Right, I get it. They’re just having a little fun, like the chicken fighters.”

  “What? No, that’s the military, man. Nothing playful about them.”

  Just then, Kate, Lynn, and Jackie burst through the door. A moment ago, they’d been sprawled on couches or beanbag chairs. I watched in amazement as they pulled off their t-shirts. Lynn and Jackie straddled some lettuce beds in front, looking good in their work bikinis. Waving at the chopper, they started go-go dancing. From the open door, the machine gunner waved back and blew kisses. The fungus-covered, rash-faced Katey’s positioned herself in the rear of the farm like a polka-dotted scarecrow. Noticing Katey down there in her bikini, the helicopter veered sharply away. Ray nodded approval and smiled from the shade of the mango tree. While the chopper continued on to a nearby base, the girls went back inside without another word.

  “Uh, Ray?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Are we just gonna pretend that never happened?”

  “Pretend what never happened?”

  With that cleared up, the tour continued.

  “This is Russ’s room. This one is Jackie and Johnny’s. This is Lynn’s.”

  At the next door, Ray paused a moment to gloat. “Check out my cool room. It’s a little nicer than yours. Or anyone else’s.” Chor
tling like a communist Party Boss, he added, “Which is fair.”

  I stepped in and took a peek. It looked like a minor sheik resided within. A Persian carpet covered the floor. Dominating the double-sized room: a four-poster bed with a king-sized mattress covered with black satin sheets and a red silk kimono embroidered with flaming dragons. A white mosquito cloth canopy hung down.

  “Got the idea from a spread in Hustler,” confided Ray. “Totally classy, right?”

  I humored my guide. “If anyone knows class, it’s Larry Flynt.”

  Rock posters, trippy Indian mandalas, and a selection of small Tibetan carpets added color to the tatami mat-covered walls. I noticed some intriguing-yet-bizarre blow up portraits of a Speedo-clad Ray smiling all, I don’t know, seductively? Insanely? In one of them, the classy guy had posed atop a polar bear skin rug on his stomach, looking back over his shoulder at the camera while winking one eye. It was hard to tell exactly what effect he was going for, but it cracked me up. He must have gotten the inspiration for those from Larry Flynt as well.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “It makes me happy that you’re so, um, boldly photogenic.”

  He bought it. “Thanks, brah.” He reached into a drawer. “Since you like it so much, here’s an autographed copy for your room.”

  He held it out for me to take. An awkward moment passed. Then another. Ray did that thing where he shook the photo at my face in case I didn’t see it. I didn’t wanna be rude and blow a shot at Plan B, so I found myself accepting it. I’d be damned if I put it up though.

  A big Afghani hookah on the purple silk-covered cable spool added ambiance. A camera on a tripod stood next to the bed.

  “Where’s your harem?”

  “In town,” he answered with a laugh. “Out here, there’s just boney ol’ Katey. That’s why I don’t come around much anymore.”

  “Don’t you mean Kate?”

  “That friend of hers, Lynn? She’s no picnic, either. You’d think I was cheating on her, too. And I would, Mikey, I would. If only I could get into her pants.”

  “Not sure they’d fit you.”

  He gave me a funny look. “If I know anything about women, and believe me, I’m an expert, Lynn is jealous. Explains all the kicking and fighting when I try to get a threesome going.”