Breaking Good

by Mike B. Good

  “A win/win. Perfect.”

  “You know, for someone new at all this stuff, you’re quite the businessman.”

  “Well, Crash, you did tell me this commune idea was hippie nonsense and to start thinking like a capitalist.”

  “Me and my big mouth.”

  “That’s exactly what Ray said.”

  “Heh heh, yeah,” said Crash with a reddened face and a guilty shrug. “He did get a little steamed up about that. Grouch didn’t even give me a share.”

  “Don’t feel bad, he didn’t give Plastic Donald any, either.”

  “Well, you were smart not to tell anybody. In a way, you have me to thank for that.”

  “That’s true.”

  “I don’t suppose that would warrant a nice discount, would it?”

  “Heh heh, nooo. . .”

  “Didn’t think so. Tell ya what, Mikey, I’ll buy a pound and see how it goes. If I can move it at a nice price, I’ll buy some more.”

  And so, my philanthropic career had finally launched. The sky was the limit. So was December 31st. I’d have to come up with a Plan C or my budding career would fade quicker than a New Years resolution.

  _ _ _

  “Peter and I are caretaking the Boy Scout camp atop the Waianaes for the winter,” said Miss June, after learning of the looming eviction. “Why don’t you use the hooch?”

  With a plumeria flower behind one ear and a Tahitian gardenia lei around her perfect neck, she smelled extra heavenly that day.

  Not sure what they were or how to use one, I asked, “What’s a hooch, Leilani?”

  “You know, a hooch, man,” clarified Peter.

  “Isn’t that slang for booze or something?”

  “Yeah, I guess it is.” To clarify, he added, “It might be slang for other stuff, too.”

  “Could you be any less specific?”

  “Perhaps,” he said, proving it.

  “It’s the least I can do for cauterizing your mouth,” explained Leilani.

  “You mean, being vague?”

  “No, silly, offering you my hooch.”

  And that’s when I realized what a hooch was. Maybe. Hoping I’d guessed right, I wiggled my eyebrows. “I’m thrilled with the offer, but are you sure Peter won’t mind?”

  “That’s not what it means,” snapped Peter. “And I would mind.

  I used to hate Peter for his good fortune. What did he have that I didn’t? I mean, besides great looks and playing guitar like a rock star? For one thing, an ability to get along with Leilani’s crazed father, Reverend Lee. Not an easy task. And for another, an ability to honor Leilani’s virginity. An impossible task. Love Goddess Leilani, a virgin? That seemed so wrong. And not having all kinds of depraved sex with her seemed masochistic. After all, the curvy Leilani was irresistible. When I realized Peter was as frustrated as me, I stopped the hating and started the pity.

  Why was luscious Leilani a twenty-one-year-old virgin? I blamed it on her control freak dad, an evangelical preacher spouting fire and brimstone. The guy was a human volcano, ready to erupt into a sermon at any moment. Though a fanatic, Mr. Lee was not a fun guy. On a side note, he wanted to send me straight to hell. His bizarre religion seemed to have two commandments. The first involved Leilani staying a virgin till marriage. The second involved me staying the hell away from her. Which I found weird. I mean, what were the odds? Picky yet neurotic, I always looked for the one serious flaw in gorgeous, unattainable women I desired but could never have. That way, I wouldn’t feel as bad when ignored, rejected, or delegated to friend status. As flaws went, lovely Miss June, though physically perfect and sweet as an angel, had a couple whoppers.

  “Don’t worry about the cauterizing, Leilani. Not your fault. Besides, I only use my mouth for eating, talking, getting high, and sticking my foot into.”

  “How did your tongue and lips heal so fast?”

  “I’m part starfish. We’ve got skills.”

  “Really?” asked Peter, impressed.

  I shrugged like a mutant. “My dad’s a mad scientist.”

  “Lucky you.”

  “You don’t know my dad. By the way, I still don’t have any idea what a hooch is.”

  “You remember our little place at the beach, don’t you?” asked Leilani.

  “Ah. . .”

  “I know it’s not much. . .”

  “Like you said, it’s the least you can do.”

  Chapter 35

  Makua Beach

  I’d visited Leilani’s family home in Makaha a couple weeks earlier, dropping off some produce on the way to the beach. Her dad was hosting a luau and needed salad for two hundred cult members. In addition to being out of his mind, Mr. Lee had a large organic garden. Not large enough to feed two hundred gullible followers, but still. . . Anyway, Leilani had the ill-conceived idea that we fellow gardeners would bond.

  “He’s a little intense, Mikey, but you’ll have a lot in common.”

  “He smokes weed?”

  She giggled. Was that a yes?

  Hoping for the best, I introduced myself. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Lee, I’m Mike.”

  “It’s Reverend Lee, and you need a haircut.”

  Mr. Lee seemed a bit frosty for a human volcano. I tried to break the ice a little.

  “Wanna get high?”

  “Drugs are bad.”

  “Not these. By the way, you seem familiar.”

  “I don’t think I like you.”

  “Very familiar.”

  “Have you been saved?”

  Oh boy, the tour promised some big laughs. A lover of salsas and ignorer of fences and warning signs designed for the timid and sane, I gobbled a tiny red chili pepper from an enormous plant festooned with State Champion ribbons.

  “Wait, don’t eat that,” shouted the stingy Reverend Lee.

  Like he couldn’t afford to lose one. The bush only had a jillion peppers on it.

  “Too late,” I said, munching away. Then, “Why are smiling like that?”

  “You’ll see.”

  A moment later, I did. Before I could scream, “Oh, shit,” I burst into flames. But because I was cool, only on the inside. On the other hand, smoke poured out of my nose, mouth, and ears.

  Leilani’s devout father let out a most unholy cackle. “You just met Madame Pele. I named her in honor of the Goddess of Fire. She’s going to win the World’s Hottest Pepper Contest.”

  Always polite, but unable to speak at the moment, I waved to the plant.

  “Did you enjoy your snack, hippie devil? Was it spicy enough for you?”

  Spicy enough? Madame Pele tasted like molten lava with a habanero salsa. Still, I played it cool so as not to give him the satisfaction.

  “No offense, but you don’t have a chance of winning with these wimpy things.”

  He seemed disappointed. “Not hot enough for you?”

  “Not even close,” I lied.

  “Well then, tough guy, are you ready for a few more?”

  “As long as you put a little hot sauce on top. Also, how about a brewsky to cleanse the palate?”

  “We don’t serve alcohol here.”

  “That’s okay, Mr. Lee. If you don’t feel like being polite, I’ll help myself.”

  “I meant we don’t stock any.”

  “What happened, lose your liquor license?”

  Though dogmatic, he had no sense of humor.

  “Normally, I’d kick your hippie butt and tell you to go to hell, but perhaps that might be considered rude.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Since I’m a religious man, I won’t. Still, pretend I did.” With a reluctant sigh, he said, “I suppose the Christian thing to do is offer you a glass of water.”

  “Wine is what Jesus would serve.”

  “Not me.”

  “Oh, so you’re better than Jesus?”

  “Ah, good, you’d like to interminably discuss theology. . .”
r />   “Whoa there, Oral Roberts. Out of politeness, I’ll accept your water.”

  I’d have preferred a beer, but what with the tongue dissolving, I figured I better drink something. The second he split, I burped. To my happy surprise, flames came out and “accidentally” caught Reverend Lee’s precious Madame Pele on fire. Or was it due to my Bic lighter? Either way, I had a feeling a vengeful God appreciated the move. The sanctimonious preacher needed a lesson in humility.

  At the rear gate, my host blocked my way. “Leaving so soon?”

  “Love to hang around and get harangued about Jesus and stuff, but I’ve got sins to commit.”

  “At least enjoy your refreshing water first,” he insisted.

  I guzzled the water down in one mannerly gulp. Then realized he’d boiled it.

  He smiled. “I guess I should have warned you, water exacerbates Madame Pele’s torture proteins.”

  I exploded like Krakatoa, sprayed dense steam, and seared the smirk of hypocrisy right off his face.

  “Thanks for the fun tour, Reverend Lee,” I said, my good work done.

  Behind him, the cultists ran amok, speaking in tongues, screaming, “It’s the End Times.”

  Reverend Lee turned around, saw the roiling black cloud rising above his back yard. “Holy smoke!” he bellowed, and ran off to grab his shotgun. As if shooting me would put out the fire. Although the scene was entertaining, I decided it was a good time to split for the Emergency Room.

  “Sorry, Mikey,” said Leilani, as I took my leave, “my dad can be a little prejudiced towards, well, you know.”

  “Haoles?”

  “Just the stupid ones. No offense.”

  Anyone stupid enough to pop a Madame Pele in his mouth deserved it.

  _ _ _

  The hooch, nothing more than a box framed with two by fours, was eight feet on a side and equally tall. It had a fashionable green canvas shell for walls and roofing. It failed to qualify as a shack, but least it had a plank floor with a tatami mat over it to make it homey for the centipedes that lurked there until dark. The front wall didn’t exist. Instead, screening formed a gigantic picture window with a view of a sandy beach and breaking waves. The hooch squatted under a massive kiawe tree, designed by Mother Nature to provide shade and firewood. Also, to puncture feet with inch-long thorns. Though lacking in almost everything that made a house a home, given they were rent-free on a gorgeous beach, hippies considered a hooch quite a score.

  Makua Beach, at the foot of beautiful Makua Valley on the far western end of Oahu, was the antidote for Waikiki. Miles past the last signs of civilization, the isolated beach offered tranquility instead of traffic jams and mobs of tourists. Makua Valley was another story. A sacred place to Hawaiians, it made for a terrific target. Recognizing this, the Army turned it into a weapons range and bombed the hell out of the consecrated land.

  Leilani had said, “It’s like a private beach for hippies.”

  If you ignored that we didn’t own the beach, or that we camped there illegally, she had a good point. Tourists, getting a look at the Waianae area locals featured on the evening news, rarely ventured past Makaha, and the only other folks around were a small group of local fishermen camping at the eastern end of the beach, hundreds of yards away.

  For those with a little money for food and beer, not much ambition, and no problem sharing a waist-high outhouse in the bushes, Makua was a kicked-back piece of paradise. Sunshine and waves damn near every day. The off-shore reef allowed for snorkeling and spearfishing. For surfing bigger waves, Makua was right between Makaha and Yokohama Bay. Wanting to stay out in the country, Mango and I jumped on Leilani’s offer. Jackie and Johnny moved into town with Mako, but Happy and Rita, who also preferred the country to Honolulu, found themselves a vacant treehouse in the kiawe forest behind the beach.

  About a dozen hippies camped there. My neighbors to the right, a pair of blondes nicknamed Ken and Barbie, looked like vacationing models. Picture Swedish volleyball champs. Two Canadian couples camped just past them. Picture, well, typical Canadians: sturdy, non-offensive, talked a little funny. A few more hippies camped just beyond. Picture skinny longhairs with dark tans, bloodshot eyes, and ready smiles. All of them were mellow, easy to get along with. But on my left lurked Sergeant Randy, deranged Vietnam Vet and ex-Special Forces guy. The boisterous Sarge had sun-bleached white hair, dementia, and a booming voice. He stood six-foot-five; weighed close to three hundred pounds—every bit of it muscle. Especially between his ears. He was damn near as big as your average Waianae bruddah. If one of them lost a lot of weight.

  He’d returned from Vietnam with post-traumatic stress, a monthly disability check, and a gung ho attitude. Also, loud and freaky nightmares. Even when awake, he yelled all the time, having lost most of his hearing and all of his sanity in the war. Picture Hulk Hogan on PCP driving a Dodge Van with ghastly murals of the Mai Lai massacre covering it. According to Randy, “Lt. Calley got all the credit, but it was my brother T. Rex that sparked things off.” Randy hoped the peaceful beach life, along with plenty of mind-altering drugs, would help him forget about the war and ease him back towards reality. The bombing of the valley behind us wasn’t exactly therapeutic, but he handled it well—with flashbacks and screaming fits. On the bright side, he became Happy’s best pill customer.

  Aside from Randy’s blood-curdling night shrieks, nowhere could be more peaceful than Makua Beach. Wait, sure it could. The locals at the fishing camp, relaxed from a few cases of Primo and fistfuls of reds, and armed with a lifetime’s worth of animosity and fists like sledgehammers, sometimes got feisty. When they did, they stomped on wide-bodied luau feet to our end of the beach. A rather loud sneak attack ensued (picture a herd of drunken buffalo), always coming late at night when their beer ran out. They usually ran out of steam when their giant feet encountered the mine field of kiawe thorns lining the shore. If not, Randy’s stash of land mines (presciently looted from ‘Nam by T. Rex before his abrupt desertion) deterred any further encroachment. In my hooch, with fierce Mango as attack pet, and even fiercer Sgt. Randy as berserk neighbor, I felt safe. Or I would have if not for my fear of centipedes.

  My new home was just big enough to hold a queen-sized bed, Mango’s doggy bed, and a little end table made from an overturned veggie crate. On top of the crate was a kerosene lantern for reading at night. Except for a transistor radio tuned to KPOI FM, fire was my one nod to high technology. A small foot locker held my shorts, aloha shirts, and rock concert t-shirts. Hiding the canvas walls were tapestries from Pier 1 and two classic posters from the Fillmore: Hendrix and the Dead. There was no kitchen, no bathroom, no closet, no nothing. Good, I hated clutter.

  Although I’d taken my first tentative step into capitalism, I seemed headed back to the Stone Age. Good thing material trappings didn’t concern me. I had a home (sort of) with a million-dollar view on a spectacular beach, but when I wanted a shower, I had to drive five miles to a beach park. And yet I felt affluent. I had way more stash than I could smoke, which is always good and makes up for a lot of other discrepancies. Plus, I had some bread, some copasetic friends, and a totally cool dog. Also, not to sound snobby, a truck that would never hold a date and could never be resold. The smart move was to embrace all I had, rather than worry about what I lacked. Like the Buddha said, desire was the key to unhappiness.

  Chapter 35

  A Giant Leap For Mankind

  With no schedule, I spent my waking hours at the beach or taking day trips with Happy and Rita, exploring the island. That usually meant hiking in the rainforest towards a remote waterfall pool. As I did, I’d be checking out forests, thinking: Wow, how much weed could I grow here?

  After a lifetime following a routine dictated by a school schedule, my parents, and more recently, a jillion heads of lettuce, I now lived schedule-free. I could do whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted. Well, almost. Perhaps Miss June would come around in time.

  Life was good. And yet, I wasn�
�t satisfied. Thanks to the eviction, my mission to change the world had hit a snag. That was a major drag, but at least I’d gotten started, learned the fundamentals, avoided arrest. So the world and I had that going for us. Feeling antsy, I hoped my philanthropy would flower again. And soon. But I knew, like putting a man on the moon, great things took time. Speaking of moon shots, just before the first moon launch, while sneaking a doobie on the launch pad, I had a conversation with Neil Armstrong. Unless it was just a vivid dream.

  As I recall, Neil was all right, but he tended to brag. “Just think, Mikey, my mission is finally at hand. What a great day for America.”

  I rolled my eyes to bring him down to Earth. “Check your ego, Neil.”

  “What? Being on TV is not a big deal?”

  “No need to get all defensive.”

  “What’s your mission? If you even have one.”

  “Well, I’m still in school, but I want to change the world as soon as I get out. Not just, ahem, leave it for a multi-billion-dollar vacation at taxpayers’ expense.”

  “And how would you do that? Save the world from communism like your folks?”

  “Please, Neil, there’s no need for spite.”

  “Sorry, Mikey, I take it back. Nixon’s got me all stressed out.”

  “He’s got everyone all stressed out. To answer your question, I plan to have bigger plans.”

  “That seems a little vague.”

  “I haven’t fine-tuned it yet, but whatever I do, it will have nothing to do with communists and a lot to do with getting high.”

  “I get it, you want to be an astronaut like me,” said Neil, preening, admiring my vision, trying to pat himself on the back. He couldn’t reach in his spacesuit, so I lent him a hand.

  “Not that kind of high,” I hinted, taking a monster toke off the doobie.

  “Ah, that is a noble goal. I’m sure your parents will be proud of you.”

  We both cracked up at that one. Neil had a good sense of humor for an astronaut.