by Mike B. Good
No amount of work could eliminate the ghastly smell. And no amount of coercion or incredible discount could convince anyone else to buy it from me. As Happy pointed out, driving around in the Turd with my fancy new respirator beat hitchhiking myself to death on Makimaki Road, and on another good note, thanks to Happy’s misspelled X on the contract, I got off the hook for the last grand. Best of all, with it’s four-wheel drive, the Turd could take me anywhere I wanted to do some philanthropy.
Chapter 29
Living The Dream
With trimming over, it was time for me to change the world. I realized it’d be in a rather small, anti-climactic way—and maybe not at all, depending on the kind nature of the blackhearted Bank of Hawaii. In other words, changing the world from the organic farm looked sketchy. I told myself: Remain optimistic. Everything will go well. Just ignore rip-offs, eviction, and all the times you’ve been wrong before.
On the bright side, my keikis (Hawaiian for babies) were lush and multi-branched and over a foot tall. They grew vigorously in their gallon-sized containers, but they yearned for the deep compost of the hidden bed out back. Ready for some philanthropy, I put on my grower’s hat. I liked the way it hid the lumpier parts of my head.
“Wow, man, you have a special hat just for growing.”
“Not just a special hat, Happy,” I said, unsheathing the new golden thimble I’d rewarded myself. “Check out this green thumb I mutated.”
For discretion, I kept the golden thimble wrapped up with a custom-made, monogrammed velvet thumb cover I grabbed off a bottle of Crown Royale. I unsheathed the subtle royal purple cover, pulled off the glistening thimble, and let the privileged Happy have a peek at my secret weapon.
“So, it’s not just a cliché.”
“Not with me.”
And so, after a diligent week of non-stop sporadic work, pausing only for siestas and beach breaks, I’d added new compost, lengthened Ray’s secret plot, and was ready to rock. A day later, while a sleeping Mango supervised, I popped my keikis into their new home. Four months after arriving Hawaii and I was living my dream. All right, it was a dream the Bank of Hawaii wanted to crush the moment the lease ran out, but for the moment, hidden away with my own batch of pakalolo, my philanthropic adventure starting for real, I felt elated. I felt free. I felt like smoking a celebration doobie.
A hundred keikis seemed a reasonable number for my first experimental crop. . .probably ‘cause that’s how many starts I had.
Finished watering, Happy crawled into the plot for a look-see. “Wow! You’re gonna have way more than Ray.”
“We’re not competing, Happy, but I’m gonna kick his safari-clad butt.”
My babies, free of their restricting containers, took off like prison escapees. Like my self-confidence, they grew larger every day. I went to town with Ace Driver Happy on a delivery and we ran into Crash at the Omni Boogie.
“Aarrgh. . .” he screamed, welcoming us.
“Oops, sorry,” apologized Happy. “I stepped on the wrong pedal again.”
“You okay, Crash?” I asked, as I helped him up.
“If you don’t count the broken leg.”
Happy, feeling bad, treated Crash to a smoothie. Also, a selection of pills from his monthly stash. “Consider them a bonus to go with the pain.”
“Thanks, brah,” said Crash, swallowing a few. Twenty minutes later, he added, “Umm, these are fun.”
“Good thing we ran into you, huh, Crash?”
Crash gave me a look. “You’re killing me.”
“Aw, come on, you’ll probably live.”
“No thanks to you guys. I’m gonna need a ride to the hospital.”
“No problem,” said Happy.
“Not with you. I wanna get there alive.”
“Probably a smart move,” I agreed. “Hey, before you go, lemme ask you something. The buyer for the farm hasn’t changed his mind, has he?”
“Not according to the bank. With all the work they’ll have to do to make that place suitable for regular farming, it seems crazy.”
“No kidding. Do you know who bought it?”
“I heard some maniac from California.”
I felt a shiver go up my spine. I knew a maniac in California. Then again, who didn’t?
Crash added, “Oh well, with Ray on Maui, and me moving back to the mainland, the whole commune deal is about over, anyway.”
“The mainland? What’re you gonna do over there?”
“Grow the shit out of Washington State. Time for some good ol’ fashioned capitalism.”
“Huh. . .that’s what Ray said. Why there?”
“Because I inherited 160 acres of woodland. I can go nuts.”
“Ah.”
“With all that education, Mikey, you might wanna move back there; give capitalism a shot.”
“Wait a second, did my dad get to you?”
Crash laughed, then quoted a couple of his favorite philosophers. “Let it be. All things must pass.”
Happy sang, “All you need is, uh. . .”
I helped out. “Love.”
“Right!” agreed Happy. “Coo coo ca choo. . .”
“Give peace a chance,” I added, getting into the spirit, sounding exactly unlike John Lennon.
“Try to be more down to earth,” advised Crash. “Like Happy.”
I think the bonus pills were really getting to him. I appreciated Crash’s advice, but I already had plans: harvest a crop at the farm. Lease or no lease. I didn’t mention that part to loose-lipped Crash—not after what happened with Ray’s batch.
On the way home, I asked a logical question. “How are they gonna kick us out, Happy? We’re not even on the lease.”
“Good thinking.”
I’d show the Bank of Hawaii—that I knew nothing about real estate law. My shaky position seemed as solid as Dad’s future-looking land investments along the San Andreas Fault. I remember him pointing at a map. “We drop a nuke here, here, and here, and bingo, California falls into the ocean. That beachfront property is yours, son, if you just cut your hair, straighten up, and fly right.”
I used to have a share in the Good Guys Bomb Shelter business he’d started with silent partner Uncle Dick during the Cuban Missile crisis. But after I pissed Dad off with a conflict of interest comment, he gave my share to Major Johnny.
“What do you know about corruption, Mikey? You’re only in grade school.”
“I know that ducking and covering under my stupid desk is not gonna save my butt when the Big One hits.”
“Language, son.”
“I think you’re missing the bigger picture, Dad.”
“Oh, so you want the Good Guys Bomb Shelter Company to fail? You don’t want a nice inheritance?”
“Not if it means blowing up the world.”
“You have a lot to learn about capitalism, Mister. Now go to the dungeon of learning and practice hating commies.”
Three weeks after the transplanting session, the male plants began declaring. It had to happen eventually, but what a drag seeing those first boys show up while still so young. Worse, with some exceptions, they were the biggest plants in my garden. With pot, that was the nature of things. And to be honest, nature was pissing me off. It just didn’t feel right, yanking all that potential out of the ground.
Even for a newbie, males were easy to spot, in that they sprouted what looked like balls popping out of any convenient crotch. No pubes, veins, or wrinkles, but definitely balls. And lots of them. One male plant, equipped like a thousand mutant porn stars, could have knocked up every virgin in my garden. Growers had to be ruthless in yanking them out. For me, it felt like pulling teeth. Not my own, but still. Within a week, feeling evil as a slum lord, I’d evicted all my boys. About then, the females started doing their thing. Already pruned a couple times, they were bushy. That was good. On the other hand, they were only two feet tall. The little princesses would grow faster now that they�
�d started flowering (bolting!), but no way they’d get as large as Ray’s. I felt as confused and disappointed as my ex-lovers must have. I shrugged, figured it had something to do with karma.
I racked my brains wondering what I’d done wrong. Turns out, nothing. I’d merely stumbled into stunt season. The shorter day lengths of autumn and winter triggered flowering at a much earlier age. Something that came as a surprise. I wondered what other surprises might lie ahead. I hoped they’d be more fun than finding Plastic Donald and Lolo in my plot.
Chapter 30
Buddy Tests The Waters
My old friend Buddy, a champion surfer in California, came over for some contests and a visit around Thanksgiving. He loved Hawaii at first sight. A lot of people did, but soon left anyway. Often due to a condition called rock fever. Sometimes it was psychological—but a little beefing with the locals and a rock to the head had a more direct effect.
“Yum,” said Buddy, smoking his first joint of da kine. “I’m—ahack hack hack—I’m moving over here.” Then, “Jesus Christ, what is this stuff?”
Everyone said that the first time they smoked da kine. A week later, after beefing whenever he went in the water, Buddy’s affection for Hawaii had already waned.
“I’m going back home.”
“How come?”
Sitting there all grumpy in his wheelchair and his casts, he mumbled, “You really gotta ask?”
“You sound funny without any teeth.”
I spoon-fed him some of the hospital’s gruel. Poor guy couldn’t chew anything solid. And without the use of his arms, he couldn’t feed himself. Or fend off the nasty hospital food I tortured him back to health with.
Despite the dubious treat, he kept up the griping. “Man, I thought the surfers in California were aggressive.”
“So did I. Wait, aren’t you?”
“Of course. We’re total dicks to strangers. But over here with the locals—on their turf? I’m totally outclassed.”
“By outclassed, you mean brutalized and mangled, don’t ya?”
He tried to nod, but with the metal cage bolted to his shoulders, he couldn’t move his broken head.
“Not getting along with da bruddahs, huh? It can be tricky.”
“Tricky? These guys threaten me in a language I can’t understand. Hell, half the time I didn’t even know they were threatening me.”
“Not sure how you can confuse their menace with anything else.”
A local guy could threaten the hell out of you with just a glance. They did it just for fun.
“It’s confusing. They invite me to a barbeque and when I say, ‘Yeah, let’s go, brah,’ they punch the shit out of me.”
“That stinks.”
“No kidding.”
“Well, it takes a while to get used to it.”
“How do you get used to a load in your surf shorts?”
“Not exactly what I meant.”
“I don’t wanna get used to the punching, either.”
“I meant the pidgin.” I explained to my thick-headed pal. ‘Let’s beef,’ is not an invitation to a barbeque. And ‘Let’s go, brah,’ means, ‘Please beat me to death.’ ”
“It does?”
“Yes. I can’t believe you didn’t figure that out after the first few beefings.”
“What am I, a linguist? Plus, I love barbeque. Tell me something; does my face look as deformed as it feels?”
“Let’s take a peek.” I reached into his head cage and pulled away some bandages. “Holy shit.”
“How come you threw up?”
“Take a guess.”
“Damnit, I’m hideous, aren’t I?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Really?”
“What good would it do?”
“But I’ve got a Surf Magazine cover shoot scheduled.”
I tried to cheer him up. “Not anymore.”
With his curly black hair, athletic build, killer smile, and startling blue eyes, poor Buddy used to be good looking. A total chick magnet, he’d go to Doors concerts, make Jim Morrison jealous. Take him to a beach and foxes surrounded him. So did every other female on the beach. They beat up the foxes and sent them on their way. Beat up Buddy, too, if he resisted their repulsive charms. Being so attractive proved a curse as well as a blessing.
“You not looking at the bright side.”
“What bright side?”
“Getting your face ruined was a smart move.”
“What?”
“You wanna be a little less handsome over here.”
“I do?”
His pearly whites were gone, his blue eyes were blackened, and his perfect nose was broken. So was his body. Just for fun, someone had torn off his ear.
“Yeah, but you didn’t have to take it such an extreme.”
“Now you tell me.”
“By the way, you never thanked me for saving your ear from that seagull.”
“I’ve been in a coma.”
“Never too late for courtesy.”
“Sorry. Thanks.” He started up again with the complaints. “I was up for a movie role.”
“Man, are you ever self-centered.”
“Huh?”
“What about me? Think how I feel having to look at you.”
“Can’t be worse than looking in the mirror.”
“You’re just bitter because you’re freakish. Count your blessings. Who’s gonna be jealous of you now?”
“No one?”
“Ta da!” I waited for his gratitude. In vain.
I watched Buddy squirming in his wheelchair, unable to sit still. “I guess you’re antsy to get home, huh?”
“That, plus I’m itching to death under these casts.”
“Want me to put you out of your misery?”
“The itching is bad enough without your corny jokes.”
“So when you coming back?”
“Never.”
“Thought you wanted to move here.”
“You kidding? I’d rather be super-handsome and live somewhere else. Hell, I’d rather live anywhere else.”
“Even Los Angeles?”
“Aw, man, there are limits. In fact, I’ve got a better idea. You’ll like it, too. The main reason I came here.”
“Oh, yeah? What’re you thinking?”
“Once I heal enough to float, I’m thinking you and me go to Peru.”
“Peru? Why Peru?”
“Why not Peru?” he said, as if laying down a trump card.
“Hmm, good point. Nice and vague.”
“Peru has some of the best waves in the world, and no one else is on them.”
“Why is that better?”
He didn’t laugh.
“What? The locals break your sense of humor?”
“We could find out if you ever said something funny.”
“Ah, good, your sense of humor is coming back.”
“I wasn’t joking.”
“So, tell me more about Peru.”
“They’ve got these remote stretches of coast with almost no roads or towns. Supposed to have the longest lefts in the world. And best of all? There won’t be any Hawaiians there. Throw in the stony Peruvian pot, the pure cocaine, and the smoking hot señoritas and you’ve got a tropical paradise. Not to mention, we can make lots of money on our trip.”
I realized Buddy was talking about Chicama, a place I had already heard about from surf legend Gerry Lopez, a friend of Ray’s, whose larger and more aggressive brother Victor had been one of the locals competing against the hated surf champ from California. Champion surfers were super-competitive and shared a small but aggressive world. A little beefing was known to occur. Often. We’d laugh about it a few years later when we were neighbors. Victor and I, anyway. Spoil-sport Buddy steadfastly refused to find the incident humorous. It seemed the uglified Buddy was right about the lengthy waves in Peru, but wrong about everything else. T
here were Hawaiians surfing Peru. What a fun surprise if he ran into Victor down there.
“You make it sound nice,” I said. “Not like the wind-battered, barren desert coastline with no amenities and no hot señoritas it really is.”
“Huh?”
“Where we’d be camping on sand-blasted cliffs, or worse, staying in dirtbag dives, drinking warm gritty beers, and not smoking any of the stony local pot.”
“Are you nuts? Why won’t we be smoking mass quantities of the local pot?”
“Because Chicama is in a desert and there isn’t any local pot. Or any other kind, either.”
“What about the smoking hot señoritas?”
“Sorry. Lots of sweaty anchovy fishermen, though. If they aren’t too picky, you might be able to score with one of them.”
“How do you always know these obscure facts?”
“Product of a nerdy childhood. Also, word of mouth.”
“Well, screw it, we’ll bring our own pot from Colombia.”
“Hmm, Colombia. Now that’s a place I’ve always wanted to go.”
“Is that a yes?”
“It sound intriguing, but I’m pretty happy right here.”
Buddy scoffed and looked around our farm. Thanks to the head brace, I had to wheel his chair in a circle.
“Mikey, even you could do better.”
“Don’t let the funky looks of the place put you off.”
“How is that even possible?”
“Close your blackened eyes.”
“You’re living in a shack on a commune. Until the end of the year. Then you’re out. You’ll be shackless. You drive a truck named the Turd—for good reason. Plus, you’ve got no girlfriend, no future. . .”
“Knock it off, Buddy, you’re starting to sound like my mom.”
“Think about it. You’ve got no real reason not to go on a South American adventure with me.”
“Sure, I do, about fifty of them.”
“Oh, yeah, right, your little plants. What about after that? Sell ‘em and you’ll have plenty of money for traveling.”
“Well, I’ll think about it, but unless something really weird happens, I’ll probably stay right here in Hawaii, find another place for my next plot. Why don’t you ask someone else?”