by Mike B. Good
“You’re funny.”
“That’s better than all those other things put together, right?”
When Lesley finished laughing, she admitted, “I do sort of miss you. Go ahead, see if you can tempt me.”
Knowing I had stiff competition, I’d enticed her with an irresistible offer. “Come live in a bug-infested shack and grow lettuce worth a quarter a pound.”
When that didn’t work, I sent her alluring pictures of the farm. And yet, she still resisted.
On the other hand, Mom and my hyperactive thirteen-year-old sister, Bonnie, better known as Bonster the Monster, did visit the islands. Uninvited and to my dismay. “Surprise!”
Somehow, Mom had found time off from her busy job at the CIA. I found that suspicious. Interrogations were constant, vacations were rare. No doubt she had a secret agenda.
Mom and Dad had a motto: “The Red Menace never relaxes. Why should we?”
“Lots of good reasons,” I’d tell them. “There’s surfing, scuba diving, skiing, golfing. . .”
After considering my good reasons, Dad would say, “You’re grounded, Mister.”
Curious about her job, I’d once asked Mom if she planned to psychoanalyze the commies into submission.
“That’s a good one, Mikey,” she answered. “Now go to the dungeon of learning. (She meant the bomb shelter in our front yard.) And don’t come out for a month.”
I never asked again.
The folks were big on grounding and like a naughty gopher, I spent half my childhood underground reading. It’s fair to say, Mom and Dad were not a barrel of laughs. Neither was my little sister, and as pre-harvest distractions went, Mom and the Monster weren’t even on my list. Even worse, Mom expected me to join them for a week on Kauai. I should have sent her the frightening farm photos instead.
They’d flown into Honolulu the evening before and stayed at a CIA safe house in Kahala. Mom called to caution me they’d made it and threatened to visit in the morning. Her buzzkilling plan: Check out her son’s scene. That would give her plenty to berate me about for the rest of her trip. Then the three of us would be off on our dream vacation to the Garden Island. Such fun. I could hardly wait—for it to be over.
Hearing the scary news, I groaned with enthusiasm. “Oh, great, I guess your plane didn’t crash.”
“You could try to sound a little happier about it.”
“Sorry.”
“About us not crashing or the attitude? And don’t say both.”
“You could always read my mind.”
“It’s easy reading.”
“Hey, it’s not like I rooted for your plane to crash. I just hoped it’d land somewhere else, far away.
“You’re not as funny as you think.”
“If I had a dollar for every time I heard that.” I sighed, resigned to my fate. “Guess I better give you directions.”
“That’s all right, dear. I already know how to find you.”
“Mom, come on, I’m out here in the boonies. Past the end of a dangerous dead end road.”
“I’m not worried about a few thousand potholes.”
“I didn’t mean the road itself. Wait a second—what do you mean you already know how to find me?”
“Don’t you remember giving us directions in case we visited?”
“No, I don’t. I would never volunteer sensitive information without due interrogation.”
“As if we’d let you remember your interrogation,” scoffed Mom.
“Aw, man, tell me you didn’t. . .”
“Sure, honey, if it makes you feel better, we didn’t.”
“But you did?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Now I’m confused.”
“Perfect. Tell you what, go ahead, give me the directions.”
“Get on the highway and take it west till you see Nanakuli Beach Park. Then watch for Makimaki Road and hang a right. You’ll probably see the Channel 5 ReActionNews at 5’s armored personnel carrier on the corner. Don’t stop for anything until you get to the end.”
“What about the road crew?”
“Oh right, you’ll definitely be stopped by. . . Hey, how do you know about them?”
“Aren’t all the roads over there blocked by road crews?”
She had a point. At one time or another, every road I’d been on had been blocked.
“Anyway, just keep going to the end, and when you are sure you’re lost, you’ll smell the pig farm.”
Mom cut me off. “Those are the same directions I already have.”
“Do they send you back to Honolulu without ever finding the place?”
“No.”
“Then those are the wrong directions.”
“You never stop with the corny jokes, do you?”
“Who’s joking?”
She ended the call with a chilling, “See you in the morning.”
I put the phone down with the same paranoid feeling I always had after a talk with Mom. She had a way of doing that to people. Ask any terrorist. The next morning, after admiring the questionable views alongside Makimaki Road, the visitors reached the driveway to the pig farm. Most people never made it that far. Unfortunately, Mom was tougher than the average human. Also, much better armed. Undeterred by a half ton of Hogg brothers, she sped the dark blue Ford sedan with bristling antennas, blackwalls, and nondescript hubcaps the Agency had provided through the swampy taro patch and onto the farm. The attack pets, seeing a courageous car suddenly appear, went ballistic.
“Holy shit,” yelled Happy, “the narcs are here.”
I probably should have warned my friends Mom might be in one of those.
“Don’t worry, guys, it’s. . .” Hearing a whooshing sound, I turned around. “Hey, where’d everybody go?”
I heard a loud stage whisper. “We’re behind the water tank.”
“You can come out. That’s just my mom and sister.”
No one came out. I heard another whisper. “They’re narcs?”
“Just my little sister. Mom’s with the CIA.”
Mom, a huge Elvis fan, had taken the Monster along when she weaseled her way into Elvis’ White House visit the previous December. Elvis met with Nixon, not to perform rock ‘n’ roll, but to offer his services in the War on Drugs—not to mention get his addicted hands on a Bureau of Narcotics and Dangerous Drugs badge. In a generous mood after Elvis shared some medication, Uncle Dick gave a badge to Bonnie as well. As you can imagine, she was not popular with her classmates.
Thus reassured, my roomies remained where they were. Time to play host. I waved to Mom and the Monster as they got out of the car. Then realized I should have warned them not to. They were family, after all. And yet, even before I used the dog whistle, the attack pets settled down and saluted. I should have known Mom had one of her own. Also, that Bonnie spoke Afrikaans. It appealed to the fascist in her.
Gathering myself, I yelled, “Aloha, Mom. Stop bossing around the dogs, Bonnie.”
“Your sister speaks Afrikaans?” whispered hidden dog trainer Johnny with respect.
“Well, yeah, it’s the language of martial law.”
“Come over here and let me hug you, Mikey,” said Mom, all mother-love-like, as if missing her favorite son.
That would be my fiendish older brother Major Johnny, a chip off the block who worked in Washington with the up-and-coming Oliver North diverting funds for clandestine activities and was nowhere around. I would have to suffice.
“Aw, Mom, don’t get all mushy and embarrass me.”
“No problem, honey.”
With my guard down, I walked over and went in for a hug. Bad move. Mom, using one of her CIA tricks, put me in a hammerlock. Worse, she had my ear in a death grip. The classic fake-embrace strategy. How could I forget that one?
“Is that better than a mushy hug, sweetie?” asked Mom, twisting my ear for emphasis.
“Ow. Not exactly.”
“Mom, that’s supposed to be a rhetorical phrase.”
“Not with me.”
“Now that you’ve got my attention, is there something you wanted to talk about?”
“So many things. For starters, have you lost your mind?”
“Whaddaya mean? Look at this great place I get to live.”
Mom shuddered and made a funny choking sound. I couldn’t tell if she was laughing or crying.
“Your father might be right to worry about your mental health.”
“Are you kidding? I’m zooming up the corporate ladder.”
“Really? I guess that means you’re making a good salary. Are you putting money aside for the future?”
I heard muffled chortling from the invisible-but-cowardly peanut gallery.
“Well, not exactly.”
“How not exactly?”
“They don’t pay me a good salary. Or any salary at all. But it’s okay, because I don’t work much.”
“Now see here, young man. . .”
“I knew you wouldn’t understand my dream job.”
Bonnie came screaming by, a thirteen-year-old whirling dervish chased by a feisty pack of white German shepherds and two fearless attack kittens. The Monster’s insanity distracted Mom from her impending rant. She was about to discipline her maniac of a daughter, but my roomies, noticing I wasn’t in handcuffs, finally came over to meet her. If Mom found it suspicious to see four giggling hippies appear from hiding, she didn’t say anything. Which made me envious. She never let me slide on anything.
“Come on in, Mrs. Good,” said Jackie after introductions, “we’ve made some herb tea and baked some muffins just for you. Specialty of the house.”
“Well, that’s so sweet of you, dear. I suppose I could use a little snack and a cup of tea.”
Yes!
“Sit right here in the seat of honor and make yourself comfortable.”
Jackie to the rescue as planned, and not a moment too soon.
Mom seemed confused by a piece of furniture she’d never encountered before. “How does the seat of honor work?”
“Don’t worry, Mom, you just kinda plop onto it.”
“Well, okay. Whoops. Oh my,” said Mom with a giggle, experiencing her first beanbag chair. “I must say, it’s surprisingly comfortable.”
Two kittens purred their way onto her lap. Kula and Luna, two of the ferocious guard dogs, followed us inside and went over to Mom. After giving her a lick, they rolled onto their backs, offering their bellies for a rub. What was wrong with them? Mom hadn’t even shown her gun. Meanwhile, the Monster zoomed past the windows again, the pack of dogs still barking at her heels.
“Looks like your sister is enjoying herself.”
“Just so you know, Mom, those are violent attack dogs chasing her. Trained killers—like you.”
“That’s a relief. They should be able to protect themselves.”
Jackie came back in from the kitchen with a large platter filled with her famous muffins and a big pot of special herbal tea.
“Here, Mrs. G., try one of these muffins. Fresh from the oven.”
“Umm, they smell delicious,” complimented Mom.
“Oh, they are, Mom. They’ve got pineapple and raisins in them.
“Put some butter and honey on them,” suggested Rita. “They’re even more scrumptious that way.”
“Thanks, dear. Hmm, that’s odd. . .”
“What’s that, Mrs. G?” asked Rita, already halfway through hers.
“They seem to have a greenish tint.”
“That’s the lighting in here,” I lied.
“Also, a sign of quality and freshness,” assured baker Jackie.
Mom had a dubious look on her face, but seeing everyone else wolfing muffins down, she said, “I hate to be impolite.” Fingers crossed, she took a tentative test bite. “Oh my God, this muffin tastes delightful.”
“Mahalo, Mrs. G.,” said Jackie.
“I love to bake, but I’ve never made muffins like these, have I, Mikey?”
“You can say that again.”
These were Jackie’s tried and true pineapple/raisin/ganja muffins, with a full ounce of buds in every batch. Mom’s muffins, though delicious, had no greenish tint and did not pack a punch. With Jackie’s, one tasty muffin assured a pleasant time. Two produced a six-hour-long buzz. Any more than that incapacitated the drug fiend who’d over-munched.
“Have another, Mom?”
“Well, why the heck not? I am on vacation. More tea, too, please. Besides, I’m not really sure I can get out of this crazy chair. Jackie, dear,” coaxed Mom, “you must give me the recipe.”
I caught Jackie’s eye, gave her a subtle shake of my head.
“I’d like to, but it’s a family secret.”
“Not for long, sweetheart. I have ways of making you talk.”
Everyone laughed, not realizing Mom was serious. I sat across the room slack-jawed, stunned at seeing my super-straight mom grooving in a beanbag chair, hanging out with hippies, eating pot muffins, extorting recipes, and totally digging Jimi Hendrix. It warmed my heart to see her catching a nice buzz and playing air guitar. Left handed and upside down, just like Jimi. Also, behind her back and with her teeth. Mom sang along with Jimi, asking if we’d ever been experienced. When she sang the words, “Well, I have,” my roomies cracked up. I liked this new Mom.
I’d never drugged her before, but now I realized my mistake. I couldn’t make up for lost time, but this was her vacation and I planned to dose the hell of her, make sure she had a great trip. After all, Mom, a real square, wouldn’t make the effort to score any vacation weed on her own. And if that mini-narc Bonnie bought any, it would be part of a sting operation. Since neither one would want to smoke joints with me all day, I’d come up with a tasty Plan B.
Jackie, upon learning of Plan B, had asked, “How many do you want me to bake?”
“I don’t know, how about six dozen? She’ll be here a week.”
“That’s a lot of muffins.”
“I just hope it’s enough.”
I provided the pot and the girls went crazy in the kitchen. Mom, feeling wacky, clearly appreciated their insane work.
“Jackie,” declared Mom, for the third time in the last ten minutes, “these muffins are addicting.”
“Technically, Mrs. G., they’re just habit-forming.”
“I could make a habit of these. Would I be making a pig of myself if I had just one more? I had such a light breakfast, and I seem to keep getting hungrier, ha ha ha ha. . .”
She smacked her thighs and dissolved into a fit of laughter. So did the rest of us. A third marijuana muffin? Mom had the munchies and wanted to defeat them with pot muffins. Beautiful.
“Go for it, Mom, we’ve got plenty.”
The Monster zoomed past the windows again, this time going the other way, only now it was her doing the ferocious barking and her chasing the screaming dogs and cats.
“Mikey, would you call your sister in before she breaks one of the dogs? She’d probably enjoy some tea and a muffin, too.”
“She might be a little young, Mom.”
“Don’t be silly, you’re never too young for a treat like this. Share some with the little lunatic.”
“Well, okay, if you say so. Heh heh heh. . .”
“Ah, son, when you rub your hands together like a mad scientist and cackle like that, you remind me so much of your father.”
I winced at the insult, but knew she meant well. “Thanks, I guess. I’m just happy to subdue the Monster.”
Some people might suggest giving excellent pot to a youngster is morally wrong. They might say: Don’t spoil her, make the little brat pay for it. But they had never met my cheap little sister. Sedating someone with lousy pot? Now that’s morally wrong. A muffin later, the mini-fiend was out chasing the dogs again. But not for long. Soon she’d take a n
ice siesta under the mango tree surrounded by a protective ring of worn-out killers.
The Beatles came on and Mom sang Revolution along with them. Hey, that was my theme song. Damnit, she had a great voice. She especially loved the line about Chairman Mao.
“Great song, huh, Mom?”
“Right on! I totally dig John’s anti-communism message. He’s an inspiration.”
“He sure is. But his songs are about peace and love, not wiping out the commies.”
“Even so, I’ve got to buy some Beatles albums. I need to play them backwards for secret messages.”
“You should. Dad will love that.”
“Where can I get some of these chairs?”
I could picture Dad sitting awkwardly on a beanbag chair calling Dr. D’Mento, the CIA’s out-of-his-mind master shrink.
“You’ve got to get over here, Doc. I think my wife is freaking out. I know I am.”
“Mikey, weren’t you going to change the world?” asked Mom.
“Well, yeah.”
“With lettuce?”
“More with fine herbs.”
“You’d do better with Jackie’s muffins.”
Jackie beamed, gave me a smug look.
Jealous, I said, “I’ll probably use both techniques.”
“Well, you better hurry up, because the world’s a real mess. We could use some new ideas.”
Everyone applauded her comment, loving the idea of Mikey being an adviser to the Nixon administration.
My first piece of advice would be, “Step down, Uncle Dick.”
Chapter 22
Magic Muffins
Joe Cocker’s Mad Dogs and Englishmen album came on next. A brand new back-up singer named Mom joined the band on With A Little Help From My Friends. Mom and Joe harmonized on the soulful acapella first line, a musical question involving singing out of tune, and it brought a tear to my eye. That’s as far as I ever got before people stood up and walked out on me. But Mom carried the tune like Mary Clayton and the girls.
Her new friends thought Mom was cool. Knowing better, I was in shock; also, green with envy. How come she sang like Joan Baez while I sounded like Bob Dylan? Then again, it would’ve been weird the other way around. I ate another muffin to console myself.