by Mike B. Good
I gobbled books on eating healthy. There was the classic Back to Eden. There were also some rather dubious titles, such as The Mucousless Diet System and The Wonders of Starving, written by crazy old Arnold Ehret. Like I needed someone to tell me not to eat a bowl of mucous. There were books about Hawaiian history, like Jack London’s great story of defiance, Koolau the Leper (a man on the run who really did shoot the sheriff, not just sing about it), and another edition of Hawaii by Michener (ponderous yet boring). There were books about hiking and camping around the islands, and a section featuring Eastern philosophy, yoga, astral projection, reincarnation, Edgar Cayce, Carlos Castenada, alien civilizations, the lost continent of Mu, and even some wacky shit. Plenty of travel adventures and novels, too. Last but not least, there was a terrific collection of Zap Comix and every issue of Rolling Stone. A typical hippie library, and except for the Rolling Stone and Zap Comix, of no interest to anyone else at the farm.
I devoured the whole shelf on organic gardening, soil science, and botany, and man, did I bulk up. The failed agronomist had left behind most of it. I diligently consumed it, wishing I understood Swedish better. Or at all.
Russ observed my avid interest in a book on tropical fruits. “So that’s your secret. I always thought hungry for knowledge was a cliché.”
“Not with me. I’m a hog for information.”
“You shouldn’t speak with your mouth full.”
On the leeward coast, we could count on hot and sunny weather daily. The guys wore nothing but shorts and flip flops, only putting on a shirt for town or after dark. The girls wore bikinis. Never getting chilly felt so cool. Of course, the farm’s dress code excited our porky neighbors, and we often saw the nosy Hogg brothers rooting around in the taro patch where our properties merged in the mud. The girls took the admiration the wrong way; said they didn’t like all the whacking off of pig junk. Or the ecstatic grunts, squeals, and snorts. They demanded the Hogg boys stop their peeking. And the other stuff, too. True to their nature, the Hoggs were pigheaded about it.
The lecherous sightseers in the military choppers were also fond of the dress code, but most of all, the sight of the girls in their work bikinis delighted our horny old Japanese neighbor, Compost Jimmy. He had a yen for younger haole girls and if he’d had a little too much to drink at lunch, he’d come by and offer some of those yen to the girls for a “little fun.”
“Come here, girls, I make it rain!”
Then he’d toss hundred yen notes at them. Only two at a time, because Jimmy was one cheap son of a bitch. It took 350 yen to make a dollar and the girls weren’t exactly thrilled with the storm of cash. In fact, since seventy-year-old Jimmy had shrunken down to a raisiny five-foot-one, and arrived encased in a funky brown coating of chicken poop dust, his visits creeped out the uptight girls.
“Wat’s da problem wit da grouches, Mikey?”
“Who knows, Jimmy? Maybe they only take dollars.”
“Classy, huh? I like that in a grumpy girl.”
Compost Jimmy may have been deviant, but to his credit, he never once hit on me, and he did have a lifetime of experience growing veggies and flowers. I tried to learn as much as I could from the mini-ladies’ man. I figured it made up for any creepiness. The girls did not agree. While he ogled them, I’d pick his brain. In the most literal sense possible, Jimmy really knew his shit.
A shrewd businessman, Jimmy had negotiated with the poultry mogul next door. “I want all your shit.”
Equally shrewd, the chicken farmer made a counter-offer. “Thank God.”
Sitting happy and demented atop his manure-moving equipment, the tiny turd-monger dumped mountains of the eye-watering stuff onto his property every week, constantly enlarging the hazardous-stench zone along the shoulder of Makimaki Road. The neighbors appreciated the improvements so much that Jimmy never went anywhere without a gun. Compost Jimmy was depraved, but to be fair, he was more than just a pervert. By using free chicken crap as the main ingredient in his valuable compost, he turned lemons into lemonade. As Russ attested, though packed with nitrogen, it was an acquired taste. This explained why sales fell flat at the little juice stand Jimmy’s grandson put up.
Since the chicken poop wasn’t sufficiently vile on its own, Jimmy threw in a bunch of other nasty things to ensure maximum pungency to his mighty piles of excrement. It worked. All too well. . . When Jimmy felt the piles were disgusting enough, he’d soak the giant turds with a water tanker to start the composting process. Like the world’s most revolting cigars, once they got cooking, smoke came off the mounds.
On a visit to order compost, I’d asked, “How hot do those piles get, Jimmy?”
He gave a precise scientific shrug, then made a guess. “Approximately a million degrees, give or take.”
“Wow.”
“Dey cool, brah, like mini-volcanoes.”
“Not sure how cool they are.”
“You see dis pile? When it ready. . .”
“It erupts?” I guessed, already in full retreat.
“Not funny. When it ready, you get da kine compost. All black and crumbly. It’s like magic.”
“Black magic?”
“You a racist?”
“It was just a joke.”
“I don’t tink so, brah. Jokes are funny.”
He opened a sealed bag of the finished product, pulled a bit out, and gave it an appreciative sniff. And by sniff, I mean he treated it like cocaine, inhaling a gram of the stuff.
With a degenerate’s smile, he boasted, “Dis da kine, brah.”
I put a joint in my mouth and corrected him. “No, dis da kine, brah.”
“Watch dis,” he said, then popped a sample in his mouth like a plug of tobacco. Chewing away, he looked like a wizened old big-leaguer. He nodded his head, satisfied. “Aged just right. Here, try some.”
“I would, but I’m still full from lunch.”
“Too bad.”
“Isn’t it?”
He put some in a doggy bag for me.
“When it ready, da compost get no mo’ smell, get no mo’ shitty taste. Now it clean, tastes like, uh. . .”
“Clean shit?”
He smiled with decadent pleasure.
I thought about what would happen if you sampled a little too soon. “How can you tell it’s perfect if you don’t want to put it in your mouth, or say, stick it up your nose?”
“Why wouldn’t you?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Some people are just funny.”
“Well, at least you don’t have dat problem.” He added, “You can also tell it’s ready by feel.”
“I get it. Like in the bag, where it’s all black and crumbly.”
“Exactly.” He pointed at a nearby pile. “Go ahead, reach in, see if it’s ready.”
How bad could it be, right? Long as I ignored the ingredients, I mean. After all, Compost Jimmy had eaten the stuff. And smiled. With all that black and crumbly stuff smeared on his teeth, I wished he hadn’t. I didn’t wanna seem like a girl or something, so I reached in and grabbed at the pile’s, um, intestines? At first, it felt, well, about like you’d expect a volcano to feel. Perhaps a little squishier. I yanked my arm out, stared at the cauterized stump.
“I don’t think it’s ready.”
“Cook it some mo’, brah.”
“I meant the compost.”
He rolled his eyes, pointed at the smoke pouring out of the top. “Duh. . .obviously.”
I sighed. Then screamed.
“Now, put da udda han’ in dis pile.”
“No way.”
“You wanna learn about compost, don’t ya?”
“Not anymore.”
“Watch me, you wimp.” He nonchalantly reached into an adjacent pile and pulled out a chunk of rich, black, odorless compost. “See? Nice and safe.”
“Eat a few handfuls, just so I’m sure.”
“What’s da problem, Mikey? You seem angry. Is it da han’?”
“What hand?”
“Don’t be a pussy; you’ve got two.”
“Not anymore.”
I was kind of bummed because those fingers had just grown back. Some of the lessons were more excruciating than others, but between Ray, Compost Jimmy, and the library, I learned a lot of important information during my rookie season. Except for the hand, things were going pretty well. Now, if I could just get laid more often.
Chapter 19
No Elton John
With my sex life centered around the Girls of Hawaii, there were times I felt a lonely. Not to mention, horny. Taking action, I prayed that Miss June would realize I was the hippie for her. God, that slacker, seemed to hold a lifelong grudge, and perhaps offended by what I did while I prayed, the Big Guy never helped. Though I’d still visit Molly on occasion for unenthusiastic sex, it got to where Molly wasn’t the only one falling asleep.
“Sorry, Molly. The thrill seems to be gone.” I felt like B.B. King.
She took it hard. “It was never there.”
Now and then, I’d meet a girl at a concert or the beach and invite her out to the country. Sometimes a naïve new recruit to the commune would come out to see the farm. If strong-stomached, she might decide to spend the night with me. She’d usually leave within a day or two. Like Ray said, the farm wasn’t for everyone.
“It’s the bugs, right?” I ask.
She’d roll her eyes in agreement.
So I was stoked when my goofy pal Happy called from town with a question. “Hey, Mikey, you wanna help me escort a couple foxes to some waterfalls? Wait, maybe they said they’d escort us. I can’t be sure.”
“Either way, I’m in. Who are these foxes?”
“Tourists I met at the Omni Boogie. They’re on a working vacation. Is that a thing?”
“Vacationing?”
“No, working.”
“You really live in your own little world, don’t ya?”
“Thanks. Anyway, except for a couple hundred dentists, they don’t know anybody in the Islands.”
“Jesus. . .how could anyone’s teeth be that bad?”
“I don’t know, but they sure look good now.”
“I’d hope so. What are they working on?”
“They said it was kind of like improv. Whatever the dentists requested. To tell ya the truth, I wasn’t paying close attention.”
Though never rude, Happy never paid close attention. He couldn’t. After a brief but intense career in the acid-sampling field, his mind wandered without relent.
“Ah, so they’re actresses?”
Actresses loved waterfalls. If I got one near a waterfall, she’d wouldn’t be able to resist my seductive charms.
In case I was wrong, I added, “Tell ‘em how sexy I am.”
“You want me to lie?”
I sighed. “Whatever it takes.”
“If I’m gonna lie, I might as well tell ‘em you’re a good musician.”
“Great idea.”
Girls went totally hormonal for handsome rock stars. On the other hand, I bet even Ringo scored all the time.
I met up with Happy and the girls atop the Pali Highway, just on the windward side of the tunnel.
Happy made introductions. “Uh, hot tourist chicks, meet Mikey. Mikey, meet, uh. . .”
“The hot tourist chicks?”
“You’ve already met?” He seemed confused. “Where?”
The girls, in their hiking bikinis and sensible stilettos, were just as hot as Happy had promised. Even had interesting names: Sharona and Bambi.
“I dig your exotic names.”
“That’s how we dance,” explained Bambi.
“That’s not who we really are,” hinted Sharona.
Clearly, the actresses were deep thinkers. I’d show ‘em I was cool with a little Shakespeare.
“A rose by any other name, right?”
“Huh?”
“I guess as actresses, you gotta be flexible.”
“Oh, we are,” assured Bambi, doing the splits. “We also do some modeling, a little bondage and domination—you know, whatever the job calls for.”
Renaissance girls! This was so cool. All work and no play made Mikey a dull philanthropist. Every now and then, I needed a break from my demanding world-changing mission. Wild sex with exotic dancers in a tropical wonderland was apparently one of the job perks.
Wait till I told my uptight guidance counselor, Mr. Eisenberg. I’d say, “Ha! Put this in your file.”
“He’s no Elton John,” complained the girls to Happy.
“Elton John?”
I gave Happy a look. Of all the rock stars to pick. I didn’t see how I could compete with chick magnet Elton’s giant glasses, platform shoes, and weird outfits. I’d have to do something particularly impressive to overcome their bias.
We crossed the highway, followed trailblazer Happy over the guard rail, and disappeared into the rainforest on an unmarked path. It was all natural, like Mother Nature intended, yet perfect as a botanical garden. We hiked through a bit of paradise, the lush romantic stuff of postcards and Tarzan movies. The opposite stuff of Makimaki Road. Like shapely Romanian gymnasts, the hot tourists flipped out. Literally. They really were flexible.
“Look at them go,” said Happy.
We watched them bounce down the trail doing cartwheels and flips and other cool stuff.
Amazed at the fantastic scene, I asked, “How’d you find this place, Happy?”
“One of Molly’s boyfriends brought us here.”
“Molly comes here?”
“She loves having sex in nature.”
“Really? Wonder why she never brought me here.”
“She said she didn’t want to desecrate the place.”
I kicked myself for asking and decided to concentrate on the birds in hand. They looked ripe for the desecrating. Huge trees covered in vines and giant bird’s nest ferns bracketed the narrow trail. So did tree ferns, broadleafed jungle plants, and tropical flowers. The sun peeked through the canopy, dappling the trail in spots of dancing light as a breeze sang through the branches above. We heard birds calling each other, their melodies standing out against a steady roaring sound in the background. Coming around a switchback, we spotted the big waterfall and a gorgeous pool sixty feet below.
“Far out!” cried the actresses. “This is so romantic.”
They began spinning around upside down on slender pole-like trees. I’d have done anything right then for some wild sex with the actresses.
Sharona pointed at the waterfall. “You guys ever dive off?”
All right, anything but that. Obfuscation was the smart move.
“All the time, right, Happy?”
Well, we did. Not from anywhere near that high, but the girls didn’t need to know that.
“Actually,” said Happy, keeping his promise to lie like a rug if it would help me score, “Mikey’s the one with the enormous balls, not me.”
“Really?” asked Bambi, finally showing a bit of interest.
That figured. Everyone knows girls like a well-packed scrotum on a daredevil.
“Well,” I shrugged, filled with humility and paranoia.
“Look at him shivering with pride, too modest to brag about how fearless he is,” added Happy, ignoring my imploring looks to shut the hell up and stop helping so much.
Before anyone said another word, I scurried down the trail to the safety of the pool.
After a swim, Sharona had a request. “Hey, Mikey, give us an example of how macho you are.”
“Aw, girls, I don’t like to show off.”
“Please do,” pleaded sexy Bambi.
I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised. The girls were from Hollywood, after all. Unfortunately, my desirable nuts, all taut and lovely, while at the same time wrinkly, hairy, and hideous to behold, hadn’t attained the freakishly large status my hype-man Happy promised. Especially after a swim in the cool wat
er of the mountain pool.
“You sure you want a demonstration?”
When I’d asked about his provocative boudoir photos, Ray had explained, “A nice, hairy scrotum drives the chicks insane.” But I’d been skeptical. After all, none of my lovers had asked me to model my boys. More like just the opposite.
“Hell, yeah,” they said in unison, loving the idea. “Show us your stuff.”
The romantic location had apparently turned the wholesome young actresses into sex fiends.
“You don’t wanna wait till we’re in your hotel room?”
“Quit stalling.”
I didn’t wanna gross Happy out. “Should we go behind that banyan tree before I show off the fellas?”
“What? Not that stuff, you perv.”
“Huh?”
“We want to watch you dive off the top.”
I picked the lesser of two evils. “Maybe you’d rather see my mighty. . .”
“We don’t,” insisted Sharona.
“You’re not chicken, are you?” asked Bambi.
Damnit, if I wanted wild twisted sex, I needed to wow them by risking my life. But they were hot and I was horny. Instead of walking up the jungle trail, I took a shortcut. After diving in the pool, I swam to the waterfall’s base where a sketchy path twisted its way up a steep cliff face. Funny thing, from down there in the pool, the distance to the top looked a lot farther than the sixty feet it had from above. And the near-vertical climb looked a lot more dangerous than the regular trail. That’s when Fear tapped me on the shoulder and said, “Boo!”
Climbing up the slippery cliff salamander-like, clinging for dear life the whole way, I made it to the top. Scraped, bloody, and covered with mud, but I made it. Feeling all macho, I walked up to the edge of the waterfall and looked down at the pristine pool. It seemed so far away, as did my vanishing machismo. Never had a scenic view been so. . .startling. With the fear level ratcheted up, I went for an option play, deciding to jump to my death instead of dive. I rationalized: No one likes a show off.
Before I could chicken out to Plan C (abort mission), I walked back a few feet, ran to the edge, and leaped off. If it led to kinky sex with the actresses, suicide was worth it. Like Wile E. Coyote, I sprinted athletically through the air. Unlike Wile E. Coyote, I went straight down. Instead of entering the water like a sleek missile, I spread my quivering arms and legs apart as if doing jumping jacks. Not on purpose, and yet there they were. I’d lost control of my body, but on the bright side, that way I would make a bigger splash and enjoy a more excruciating pain. For added pizzazzz, I screamed the whole way. Not that I was a coward, but hey, anything to thrill the girls. Always resourceful, I used the tender area between my legs as a shock absorber so the rest of me wouldn’t hurt as much.