Breaking Good

by Mike B. Good

  “Oh, I would, but you’re my only friend who speaks Spanish.”

  _ _ _

  At the airport, as children fled from the sight, I pushed the scary-looking Buddy to the gate.

  “Aloha, cutie, aren’t you the thoughtful one?” purred a gorgeous Polynesian flight attendant about to pre-board.

  With a beautiful smile, a killer figure, and a plumeria flower behind her ear, she looked familiar.

  Buddy said, “Mikey, write down her phone number for me.”

  She gave Buddy a look. “I was talking to your handsome companion.”

  “Huh?” said a confused Buddy.

  He had me wheel his chair around in a circle looking for someone good-looking nearby. I straighten my posture and puffed up my ego, ready to appear more intelligent, act better-looking.

  “That handsome companion would be me, Buddy.”

  Pleased to hear it, he said, “Aarrgh. . .”

  “What happened to your revolting friend?” asked my admirer.

  “He was born that way,” grumbled Buddy.

  “I was referring to you, Mr. Buttinsky.”

  “Ah, you mean this poor wretch?” I patted my revolting friend gently atop his fractured skull. “I’m afraid he had a prolonged series of surfing accidents.”

  “Just learning?”

  “He’s a pro by lowly California standards. But over here? With no MMA experience? Poor guy’s outclassed.”

  “Got in over his battered head, huh?”

  “Good one!”

  Buddy started getting agitated, so put my hand over his mouth. My new friend and I shared a laugh while Buddy glared through the bars of his head cage.

  “I tried to warn him, but he just wouldn’t listen.”

  “Don’t you just hate people like that?”

  “I’m tempted to, but I know it’s better to show sympathy instead.”

  My saintly point of view did not appease Buddy. He struggled as much as a man encased in plaster could. That was distracting, so I put him in a relaxing choke hold. His purpled eyes bulged out, mellowing with rage.

  “It’s so sweet of you to help unfortunate losers. You have such kind eyes. . .not like your weird friend.”

  “I’m, uh, M-m-mike,” I stuttered, all suave. “It’s nice to meet someone so stunning with such discerning taste. Usually girls like you go for handsome athletes.”

  Buddy, only half-conscious, mumbled, “Like me.”

  “You wish,” she scoffed. Turning to me, she smiled. “M-m-mike? It’s different; I like it. I’m Leilani.”

  Another Leilani!

  “That means Heavenly Flower.”

  “And it’s very fitting. My name means Lover of Leilani.”

  “What a coincidence.”

  “I know. Say, are all the Leilani’s here stone foxes?”

  “Yes, we are. Great beauty is our destiny. Comes with the name.”

  “Wait a second, Leilani, aren’t you Miss September from the Girls of Hawaii calendar?” Only my second favorite month, so I said, “Only my favorite month.”

  She smiled and gave me the sexiest shrug. “That’s me.”

  “Oh my God, I knew you looked familiar. I didn’t recognize you without the skimpy bikini.”

  “Obviously, M-m-mike, you have a huge heart.”

  “Well,” I shrugged, “that’s what everyone says.”

  I clamped hard on Buddy’s protesting mouth but he started biting me. Gumming, anyway, which didn’t hurt, but was creepy. By this point, I’d pinned his arms with his surfboard and jumped atop to get more leverage. Staying cool, I pretended nothing unusual was going on.

  “By the way, Leilani, that’s not all that’s huge,” I confided with a sexy wink. At the moment, my ego was enormous.

  “Really?” she said with a giggle, no doubt intrigued. Giving me her phone number, she added, “I’m based in Los Angeles now, but if you ever go there, give me a call.”

  I played it cool, as if models gave me their number all the time. Same way Buddy always did when he wasn’t hideous. After a good-bye hug, I said, “I’ll try to visit, Leilani. . .if I can ever spare time from helping the less fortunate.”

  Buddy, impressed with my coolness, said, “I changed my mind. I don’t want you to come to South America with me.”

  “What’s wrong? Afraid handsome M-m-mikey here will steal all the hot señoritas from you?”

  “Aarrgh. . .” admitted Buddy.

  I loved her even more.

  And with that, my angel flew away

  “I hate you,” grumbled the jealous Buddy.

  “Now you know how I always feel.”

  As he boarded, I promised to think about an adventure with him to South America.

  “Someone has to watch over you, after all.”

  “Don’t bother.” No doubt Buddy-code for, “Please help.”

  Deep down, I knew he still wanted my company. The poor guy couldn’t walk and spoke no Spanish. Still, with my own first harvest on the horizon, I’d have to be nuts to leave the great scene I had going.

  Chapter 31

  The Elite Eviction Team

  While I chauffeured Buddy to surf contests and Emergency Rooms, my plants blossomed like crazy. They loved eating Jimmy’s compost—if possible, even more than Jimmy. By the beginning of December, the bushy kids, maturing faster than Mexican teens, had peaked out at a stumpy three-feet-tall. On the bright side, they’d grown just as wide. Picture corpulent green dwarves. They were in that riotous puffball stage, covered with a jillion white hairs, packing on weight like Oprah between diets.

  Positive thinker, I told myself: Nothing can go wrong now.

  Naïve yet motivated, I started another batch of seeds, planning to take full advantage of stunt season. As long as I could ignore the eviction process, I’d keep my mini-plantation going. I’d read accounts in the newspapers about how hard it was to get rid of tenants that didn’t voluntarily split. With any luck, I’d pull off multiple harvests in the time it took to kick my recalcitrant butt off the farm. Things looked good for the rookie philanthropist.

  Two hours later, as if to prove me wrong, a battered Toyota rolled down our driveway. This close to Koli Koli Pass, the neighbors greeted dorky Japanese clerks in slow-moving cars with animosity. Not wanting to seem racist or unfair, they treated everyone with animosity. On Makimaki Road, husbands were happy to fight wives when no other victims were around.

  Mango and Mako, our two remaining attack pets, charged our visitor with foamy greetings. Loving the startled reactions they got, the pups always popped a cherry Fizzies tab in their water bowl to get that provocative rabid-vampire look.

  They enjoyed assuring visitors, “As you might have guessed, you are lost and in serious danger.”

  Noticing me, the driver shouted, “Hey, hippie.”

  “Hey, straight guy. Are you lost? Please say yes.”

  He seemed familiar. I checked him out through the smashed passenger window: black-framed glasses, ugly polyester aloha shirt with tiny floating banks, frowning Japanese clerks, and stacks of loan denied forms as a motif. Without even looking, I knew he’d be wearing black slacks and uncomfortable shoes. By then, I’d recognized him. He was a die-hard Bank of Hawaii minion. AKA: The Enemy.

  “Lost? You wish.”

  “That’s too bad. So, why are you here?”

  “I’ve come to bum your trip. Did I say that right?”

  “Man, I sure hope not.”

  “Call off your dogs. Also, get a haircut.”

  “Turn your car back around and I just might.”

  “Really?”

  “Nah. To tell the truth, I lied about the haircut. The dogs, too.”

  “But they’re eating my car. What’s left of it.”

  “The boys don’t care much for trespassers.”

  “But I’m not a trespasser.”

  “Tell that to the boys.”

  Taking me lite
rally, he rolled his window down an inch. “I’m Mr. Watanabe. I represent the Bank of Hawaii.”

  The dogs went ballistic. The window went back up.

  “What’s with the attitude?”

  “Mango says you turned them down for a loan.”

  “That’s a different Mr. Watanabe.”

  “There seems to be a lot of Watanabes in Hawaii.”

  “I come from a large and grumpy family.”

  “By the way, Mr. Watanabe, you have any proof you’re from the bank? I mean, besides that snappy uniform and unpopular car?”

  A snarky smile on his face, he said, “Just this eviction notice.”

  “Eviction notice? Why didn’t you just mail it?”

  “We have, many times, but we’ve never received any replies.”

  “Probably because junk mail goes in the compost pile.”

  “We figured it’d be something like that. So I’ve been sent to handle this matter before someone gets hurt too lethally.”

  “Stay in the car and you’ll probably survive.”

  “I didn’t mean me.”

  “Oh.”

  “There’s been pressure on the Bank from. . .” He paused to look up at the sky, then added, “. . .from the very top.”

  Did he mean God? Damnit, I knew the Big Guy was out to get me. I checked to be sure. “The very top? Of what?”

  “I’ve said too much. Pretend you didn’t hear anything.”

  “Huh?”

  “Take it easy, I don’t want any trouble. I’m just doing my job.”

  I pointed at Mango. “Show the paperwork to my attorney.”

  Mr. Watanabe pushed the eviction notice through the narrow opening above his window. Mango perused it with his teeth, and with a snarky smile of his own, swallowed it down.

  “That’s just a copy, you know. Eating it won’t stop your lease from terminating.”

  “What if they ate you?”

  “Ha! That’s the beautiful thing. The bank will keep sending other minions.”

  “Cool. I’ll save a fortune on dog food.”

  “That’s not funny.”

  “You bankers have no sense of humor.”

  “Here’s a joke I like to tell. You’ve got till the end of the month to vacate.”

  “Like I said, no sense of humor.”

  “Humor is highly over-rated.”

  “You sound like my dad. So, what happens if we don’t split?”

  “Then it’s too late for the Bank of Hawaii to play Mr. Nice Guy anymore.”

  Even the dogs had a laugh at that one.

  “Just when I thought bankers weren’t funny.”

  “I don’t think you’ll laugh when we send in the Elite Eviction Team.”

  “Elite Eviction Team?”

  “That’s right,” boasted Mr. Watanabe. “Four psychotic Samoans, heads like coconuts, each a highly-reputed sociopath. Motivated on Primo, reds, and PCP, they never fail.”

  “Is that all ya got?”

  The dogs and I dealt with people like that every time we drove down the street. Hell, the Elite Eviction Team probably included some of my neighbors. Ultra-violent as they were, they knew better than to mess with the white German shepherds.

  “No, that’s not all we’ve got. Half the Elite Eviction Team will arrive in a Bank of Hawaii bulldozer.”

  “Bulldozer?”

  “They’ll be accompanied by one of the Bank of Hawaii’s tank fleet.”

  “The Bank of Hawaii has a fleet of tanks?”

  “The Army got a little behind on payments. Your dogs will be happy to know the EET will be accompanied by a pack of rabid Bank of Hawaii bullmastiffs.”

  The fearless Fizzy-drinking team of Mango and Mako gave me nervous looks and tucked their tails. Mr. Watanabe was wrong; they did not look happy.

  “And just for fun, they’ll be armed with flame throwers and assault weapons.”

  “The Bank of Hawaii bullmastiffs will be armed with flame throwers and assault weapons?” I asked, tucking my tail as well.

  “I meant the Samoans.”

  “Is all that really necessary?”

  “Just a safety measure in case you hippies are obstinate.”

  “Like at Kent State?”

  “Good one, dirtbag.”

  “You bankers are a compassionate bunch, aren’t you?”

  Finally, a laugh from Mr. Watanabe. After a bemused glance at the shacks, he shook his uncool head.

  “Give me one good reason why you’d want to live here?”

  “I’ve got fifty of them. I can’t tell you what they are, but. . .”

  “Isn’t there something better you could be doing with your life?”

  “Like what? Fighting communism or going to law school?”

  “Now you’re making sense. Straighten up and fly right. Live the American Dream.”

  This was sounding far too familiar.

  “Wait a minute, Mr. Watanabe. Did my dad send you?”

  “You’re being paranoid.”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  “Four weeks, hippie, and you’re out of here.”

  Unless I’d mistaken Mr. Watanabe’s subtle hints, the Bank of Hawaii meant business. Also, had issues with long hair. The attack pets could handle a nerdy Japanese clerk and his battered Toyota, but the Elite Eviction Team, with their bulldozer, tank, and rabid bullmastiffs, sounded intimidating. In a deadly sort of way. Bottom line: I had a month to finish my crop.

  With no time to lose, I got pro-active. Like a demented track coach, I stood in the plot in my Adidas sweat suit, stopwatch in one hand, whistle in the other, and ranted motivational speeches.

  “Let’s pick up the pace, girls. No pressure, but the bulldozer is on its way.”

  Finally, after eight weeks of ripening, my engorged flowers, almost white with sugary crystals, were more bloated than Ray’s ego. We called them the Hogg Sisters. The buds felt rock hard. Powerful, too—like sparkly midget wrestlers on steroids.

  Happy joined me in admiring the plants. Like a neighbor butting in at a barbeque, he offered advice. “You don’t think they’re ready to flip over?”

  “Maybe just a little longer.”

  Or maybe not. By this time, forward progress had all but stopped. There were still a few white hairs, but not many. The calyxes and the crystals on them were engorged, visible from a distance. The corpulent tops were much too fat to stand up on their own, so I’d implemented a system of crutches, pulleys, and support wires to keep branches from bending to the ground. Picture a landscape painting by Salvadore Dali.

  “How much more will they grow before they explode?” wondered Happy.

  “Explode? Is that a thing?”

  “Even Ray’s weren’t that bloated. You’ve created a race of monsters.”

  I felt like Dr. Moreau. “Mahalo, brah.”

  I liked the idea of creating corpulent monsters, but not if they exploded. Happy’s fleeting moment of clarity woke me up. I’d gotten too close to the subject to see the bigger picture. With Christmas a few days away, the girls and I were out of time.

  I told my brain trust, “I think you’re right, Happy.”

  “About what?”

  I had mixed feelings about harvesting my babies. After all the love I’d given my kids, like a deranged beauty pageant mom, I was about to murder them. I dried my plants in the same funky room we’d used for Ray’s stuff a few months earlier. Looking at my crop hanging there, I had more of those mixed feelings. There wasn’t enough to change the world, or even beat Ray, but I put things into perspective. Long season plants took about six months to finish. At the same age, the girls would’ve been nothing but leaves. All things considered, I felt fortunate. With such killer buds, how could I not? Just a few more days, and we’d be trimming and sampling. The crop was all but home free.

  Chapter 32

  The FBI

  This time we manicured buds in the l
avish Sheik Room. Working in comfort was the smart move. . .unless I wanted to trim the whole batch myself. With time running short, I went into trimming overdrive, even staying behind when the gang took a union-mandated beach break. Surrounded by all those buds, listening to Abbey Road, I didn’t mind.

  The Beatles finally finished singing (over and over) about how heavy she was. I sang along, picturing a Hogg Sister. In the silence before the next album dropped, I heard gunfire coming from the pig farm. Used to it, I ignored the background ambiance of the peaceful countryside. The needle landed, Fresh Cream began, and as Jack Bruce started singing I Feel Free, the attack pets went berserk. Which seemed weird considering they loved that song. As de facto Head of Security, I decided to take a look. I stepped outside just in time to see a white Plymouth Narcmobile slam into our big mango tree. Like Mr. Watanabe’s Bank of Hawaii Toyota, its windows were shattered, its body smashed. Unlike Mr. Watanabe’s bankmobile, it sported a wounded pig on the roof.

  At first, I thought: Aw, great, Mom’s back for a surprise visit. And look, she’s brought a mascot with her. I took a second look. From a hundred feet away I couldn’t be sure, but unless Mom had on one of her CIA disguises, it might be someone else.

  The guard dogs attacked the wounded car, treating bumpers like steaks. Obviously, it wasn’t Mom, but someone even worse. I groaned. This was not a good moment for a narc to show up. Busy with gooey buds, I didn’t have time for uninvited guests. Or gunplay. I looked back into the trimming room. . .and cringed. Trimming weed is a messy business. We’d do our best to contain it, but the sticky stuff still gets tracked everywhere. It’s on your clothes, your feet, your furniture—plus, it smells. A lot. It’s a delightful smell, but it’s a pungent smell, and unfortunate people who aren’t around it all the time tend to say uncool things like, “What’s that funny smell?” Even if they know what it is and don’t find anything funny about it. Which says something about the sense of humor of your average square. Staying cool, I freaked. But only on the inside. On the outside, I sweated like a madman to showcase my innocent nature.