Breaking Good

by Mike B. Good

  I made some quick calculations that made no sense. Undaunted by bad math, I looked around.

  “I think we see our new plot right now.”

  “We do?”

  “There you go, Happy. Great minds think alike.”

  “Huh?”

  “Come on. Let’s find a way to sneak into those haole koa trees down there. They’ll be ideal for hiding our plants.”

  To the left of the road, about a quarter mile above the gate, grew a cluster of kukui nut trees. Just beyond them stood a small forest of haole koas; little legumous trees that grew all over the place. With their scraggly canopies they’d let in most of the sunlight while masking clear views of the kids. Clumps of waist-high wild grass grew amidst the trees and everywhere else, making the spot perfect for hiding stunt plants, as well as hiding a trail. A careful grower could hike through the stuff without leaving evidence. Fifty feet from the Army’s road, hidden by leafy kukui nut trees, we were already invisible. By then, obscured by foliage, a little trail action wasn’t quite so critical. At least if your day-glo partner didn’t wear a tie-dyed Bob Marley t-shirt, gold-colored gym shorts, and a red, yellow, and green Rasta hat. We’d have to do something about that.

  As I led us through the trees, I heard, “Whoa. . .”

  I turned around, saw Mango and I were alone.

  “Happy. Happy? Where’d you go, man?”

  “I’m down here.”

  I walked back to a lava tube and looked in. “Taking a break?”

  “Just the ankles. I didn’t see the opening.”

  “It’s six feet across.”

  He shrugged.

  “You really gotta focus better.”

  “Now you tell me.”

  We walked a bit more, then stopped inside the hale koas. We were maybe a hundred feet from the road, not that we could see it.

  “No need to go further, Happy. No one can see our plants from here.”

  Happy took a careful look around, a pro in the making. “Neither can I.”

  From our potential plot, you could look out over the kiawe tree forest behind the beach and see waves breaking in front of the hooches.

  “I like this spot, Happy. It’s nice and close, but not too close. Know what I mean?”

  “Nope.”

  “It’s away from any beach ripoffs and yet only a ten-minute walk from my hooch. The only problem, not counting annihilation, is gonna be watering the girls.”

  “Lend me your thinking cap. I’ll try to come up with a plan.”

  Chapter 37

  Venusians

  Aside from choosing the right location, having good luck with the weather, not getting ripped off, not getting busted, not having rodents, deer, pigs, goats, snails, worms, insects, and fungi attack your plants, there is a wealth of unpredictable things that can and do happen to pot crops. Ask any grower, and he’ll tell you a horror story. Most of those issues can be dealt with one way or another, but a lack of water? The game is over before it starts. A huge problem that had to be solved.

  I checked with my partner a little later. “Any strokes of genius?”

  Happy shrugged. “How would I know?”

  “Good point.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’ve got a terrific idea. Let’s go shopping.”

  “You sound like Rita.”

  At the Outer Limits, a second hand store in Waianae, I bought a king-sized waterbed. Lucking out, I found a special tool I’d need between some manacles and hacksaws in the torture section. We also found some old UPS uniforms. The uniforms, though not exactly camouflage, were sneakier than Rasta outfits. With our deep tans and brown clothing, we’d look more like longhaired Mexican gardeners than pot growers. Or even better, long-lost UPS guys.

  The eclectic owner of the Outer Limits wore huge earrings and a head scarf. She even had a giant fake mole and a wispy mustache—just like a real gypsy. Out front was a sign saying she read palms, told fortunes, and did financial consulting on the side. She looked at our clothing selection, nodded with approval, then gave us a wink and a weird hand sign.

  She whispered behind her hand, as if we were part of a conspiracy. “You guys just arrived from Venus, didn’t ya?”

  “We’re from Venus!” said the impressionable Happy, returning the wink and hand sign. “I really am a spaceman.”

  “I knew it!” she said, smacking the counter with a fat hand.

  Happy and I improvised some hand signs for fun. Misinterpreting them, she raised her hands over her head.

  “Hey, don’t worry, it’s cool, it’s cool. No need to vaporize me.”

  “How can we be sure?” I asked.

  “Your secret is safe with me. I’m copasetic with the whole colonization thing.” She threw in more strange hand signs to prove her allegiance to the cause.

  “All right, you pass the loyalty test. We may not have to vaporize you, after all. As long as we get the usual two-for-one Venusian discount.”

  “It’s only a twenty-percent discount.”

  I sighed. “Vaporization is such a painful drag. Not for me so much, but. . .”

  “Of course, for preferred Venusians, two-for-one it is.”

  “Thought you’d see it our way.”

  “Far as I’m concerned, Venusians are outtasight. Good negotiators, too.”

  “That’s us,” I agreed. Far as I was concerned, Venusians were invisible.

  A UPS guy came in and dropped off some packages. She gave him the same wink and Venusian hand signal for howzit. Without hesitation, he returned them. Up till then, I had no idea the UPS was a Venusian front.

  After he split, she said, “Huh. . .guess he didn’t recognize you guys without your uniforms on.”

  “Well, Venus is a big place. You meet a lot of us?”

  “Oh, sure, all the Venusians on the leeward coast come here to buy brown clothes. Or to donate them back when they go home again.”

  “I bet some of them don’t admit they’re Venusians.”

  “How’d you know that?”

  “As invaders go, we’re discreet, always trying to blend in.”

  “Subtle.”

  “Also, color blind. Why we only wear brown.”

  She nodded. “Makes perfect sense.”

  Years later, in a Santa Monica restaurant with my girlfriend Beate, a world-class eavesdropper, we overheard two real Venusians at the next table.

  They’d arrived separately, but when the lady sitting next to us saw a single guy dressed in her favorite color enter, she called out, “Excuse me, are you from Venus, too?”

  “Of course,” replied the newcomer without missing a beat. “Mind if I join you?”

  Beate, having never shopped at the Outer Limits, wasn’t familiar with Venusians, and hearing that, she kicked me in the shin, no doubt hoping the pain would make me a better eavesdropper.

  Eyes lit up, she silently mouthed, “Of course?”

  “I could tell you’re one of us,” said the lady Venusian, “because you’re wearing all brown like me.”

  “Naturally,” replied the guy, in a Boston accent.

  They ordered hamburgers.

  At the hardware store I grabbed a bunch of hoses, a couple of shovels, and wiped out their stock of extra-large plastic garbage cans. The rancid garlic I required was easy to find at the Waianae General Store. It’s the only kind they stocked. On the way home, except for a few items, we hid our supplies in thick brush so no one at the beach would get any ideas. Around sunset we took a stroll. At the gate, I pulled out the rancid garlic and my special new tool: an evil-looking probe, the diabolical kind sadistic dentists use to torment their patients.

  Mimicking my childhood menace, the fiendish Dr. Kim Chee, I chewed the clove of garlic, leaned in close to the lock, and exhaled. Having its appalled attention, I suggested, “Open wide. If you cooperate, this will still hurt like a son of a bitch.”

  “Checking for cavities?”
asked Happy.

  “Just trying to get some answers. But if it doesn’t wanna talk,” I joked, “I’ll need a pointier probe and more garlic.”

  The lock cringed. Good. Mom had taught me (the hard way) that psychological torture, when used sadistically enough, worked better than the more popular techniques Dad’s henchmen preferred.

  I probed the lock’s insides like an alien with a hillbilly. After a few tender moments, I heard an “ouch,” a “click,” and an “ahhh” as the lock popped open.

  “Far out,” said Happy. “How’d you learn to do that?”

  “Lots of Mission Impossible episodes. Also, my dad is a mad scientist.”

  “How cool is that? My dad is just a corrupt Congressman.”

  “When you put it like that, well, it’s still not very cool. Funny thing, Happy, I never thought I’d use any of the weird stuff he taught me. Not for good, anyway. If only he could see me now.”

  “He’d be so proud,” said Happy, meaning it.

  “Yeah, right,” I laughed.

  And that’s when a familiar fit of paranoia hit. Even thinking about Dr. Strangelove gave me the creeps. I looked all around. Except for the promises of certain death on the gate, I didn’t see anything threatening. It didn’t matter; I couldn’t relax. Then, remembering Mom at Hanalei Bay, I looked up. I still didn’t see anything, but I felt bad vibes coming my way. I’d experienced that same creepy feeling every day while growing up. With spies for parents, a mischievous kid couldn’t get away with anything. Instead of vitamins, Mom gave me truth serums. Dad insisted he and Mom had eyes everywhere. To prove it, they’d lift flaps of hair on the back of their mutant heads and show off an extra pair of peepers. Having my freaked-out attention, they’d wink at me. Then, just for fun, Dad would hit me with a shrink ray or something. Over the years I’d developed a sort of ESP whenever I felt Dad’s evil focus turning in my direction, and I felt it right then. He was like Sauron in Lord of the Rings, only with nuclear weapons.

  “What’s wrong, Mikey?” asked Happy. “You’ve turned all white.”

  “Just thinking about my family.”

  I told myself to stay cool, that Dad had probably never heard of Makua Valley. For security reasons, I hadn’t even told the folks I’d moved off the farm. I knew Dad had the ways and means to search out and destroy, well, anyone, but I hoped he was too busy with his demented secret projects to find time for me. There was a cold war to win, communist governments to topple, a nuclear war to promulgate. Still, it’s always best to play it safe when it comes to mad scientists.

  After all, Mom had warned me, “Honey, it’s best if you don’t force your father’s hand. He has a malevolent interest in your future.”

  As always, I repressed the memory. I didn’t wanna have paranoid thoughts while doing outlaw stuff. That took all the fun out of sneaking around. A calming doobie helped me relax and knowing I could pick the lock bolstered my confidence. It crossed my mind that someone gifted with common sense might have checked the lock before all the other purchases just to make sure, and to be honest, I’d have felt like one silly Venusian if my burglary skills had failed.

  I pictured us back at the Outer Limits giving the gypsy lady weird hand signs. “We’d like to return our used UPS uniforms.”

  “Going back to Venus already?”

  “Our mission failed.”

  I made one more shopping trip, this one to Compost Jimmy’s, and we were ready to rock. Over the next week, in the hours before dawn, we ferried supplies in Lady Turd through the Army gate. It got to where I only had to brandish the garlic and torture device before the lock sprang open. While we worked, Team Security Expert Mango, dressed appropriately in an M.P. outfit, guarded the gate. First trip, we lugged in a few dozen bags of Jimmy’s compost. The next couple mornings, we dug holes and mixed in the black magic. On another, we stashed six plastic garbage cans in a low spot uphill of the plot. Lastly, we snaked a couple hundred feet of hose through the grass between the road and the plot, angling it downhill through clumps of grass, hiding it with rocks and mulch until it was invisible. Its female end, perhaps thirty feet of elevation higher than the garden, hid just off the side of the road under a rock, making a nighttime hookup with the waterbed easy. With all the effort required, I appreciated how sweet I’d had it back at the farm and cursed the soulless Bank of Hawaii and the detestable new buyer.

  Finally, it was time to transplant our babies. For a grower, that’s always a thrill. We’d filled the waterbed at the beach park the night before. Leaving at midnight with headlights off and brake lights deactivated, we drove up the valley. Dressed appropriately in our UPS uniforms, we delivered our plants to the plot.

  I pulled out a clipboard. “Ladies, if you’ll just sign here.”

  After we made them comfy in their new homes, Happy connected a short length of hose from the waterbed to the long hidden one and let gravity do the work. Cheerful as a lunatic, I stayed in the plot watering the kids, thinking: Way more fun than lettuce! Any extra water went into the hidden garbage cans. As I stood there under the stars, I saw my first fireball. The broad incandescent trail of the meteor’s path, flying parallel to the horizon, seemed to last for several long seconds. Non-Venusians often mistook them for UFOs. Elated, I took it as a good omen. Low tech as our system was, we were growing pakalolo again. You couldn’t keep a good man down. Or me, either. A couple of hours later, the philanthropists shared a celebratory sunrise doobie on the beach.

  “Nothing can go wrong now, Happy.”

  I had good reason for my confidence. Since the Army preferred blowing things up in the daytime to better savor the lovely valley’s destruction, we never ran into anyone. Thank God, because explaining what we were doing there would have challenged my bullshitting skills.

  “U.S. Army Annihilation Squad? Ah, good, we’ve been looking everywhere for you guys. What’s that? No, don’t be silly. There’s need to blow us up, we’re with the UPS. Special package from Venus. Sign here, please.”

  Chapter 39

  Spearfishing

  Sergeant Randy, handsome neighbor Ken, and the Canadian guys (Big Steve and Bigger Steve), were nuts about night diving, and thus, most Makua evenings featured seafood banquets. Swimming out just after sunset, they’d return with stringers full of snappers, parrot fish, and lobsters. The early evenings on Makua Beach featured purple-tinged sunset afterglows, soothing air in the seventies, and during night dives, a visit from Big Steve’s horny girlfriend Claire.

  A centipede attack to his junk had deactivated the big fella and Claire assured me, “It’s okay, Mikey, I have needs.”

  Normally, I wouldn’t have sex with my neighbor’s girlfriend. If you saw the women on Makimaki Road and their monster-sized mates, you wouldn’t either. Big Steve wasn’t a monster-sized local, but the size of a small Sasquatch, he was intimidating. Then again, with her impressive Canadian boobs, wrestling skills, and passionate ways, Claire was irresistible. And as she’d said, it was okay. Plus, she had those needs. As a philanthropist and humanitarian, how could I say no to someone that sexy in need? I think we all agree that would be morally wrong.

  As I began applying the philanthropy, I said, “Wow, sure is open-minded of Big Steve.”

  “Huh?”

  “Wait, doesn’t he know about this?”

  “Are you kidding? He’s insanely jealous. And strong. He’d rip your dick off and stuff it down your throat.”

  I considered the erotic pillow talk for a moment. “So then, it’s not okay?”

  “It’s okay with me. Besides, extreme danger makes sex more fun.”

  I felt my desire for philanthropy wilting.

  “Hey, what’s going on down there?”

  “Nothing anymore.”

  “Well, that is not okay with me.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Sorry? What about my needs?”

  “It’s just that I’d like to keep my body intact.”

  “What
are you? Selfish?”

  “When it comes to Lil’ Mikey? Definitely.”

  Claire shook her head and smirked, as if all resistance was futile. Resorting to her feminine wiles, she asked, “Don’t you see these fine Canadian boobs?”

  I couldn’t argue with logic like that. “You’re right,” I said, giving in and resuming the philanthropy. “Your needs are important.”

  When the divers returned, a beer bash and BBQ would follow. It’d be pot luck and everyone would bring a little something. Lucky for them, I’d bring the pot. Also, my guitar. The neighbors raved about the pot and the music, although in different ways. I was a vegetarian, but now and then I’d eat some lobster or fresh fish. Not voluntarily, but it was hard to resist a little taste when Chef Randy put me in a hammerlock.

  Delirious with generosity, he’d scream, “You’re gonna enjoy this lobster, Mikey boy, if I have to shove it down your throat.”

  “You’re right, the lobster tastes good.”

  “I knew you’d love it.”

  “Can I have my arm back now?”

  “Not quite yet. You should come diving with us next time.”

  “Are you nuts? You told me there’s a jillion sharks out there at night.”

  “If it makes you feel better, day time, too.”

  “It doesn’t.”

  “What’re you worried about?”

  “Losing the use of my arm.”

  “What a pussy. It’s not like you don’t have an extra one. Besides, I meant in the water.”

  “Losing the use of my extra arm. And my legs, and whatever else your shark friends might care to munch on.”

  “Don’t be silly. Sharks aren’t violent. They’re just exceedingly dangerous creatures looking for a meal—same as me.”

  “Exactly my point. Uh oh. . .please tell me you’re not a cannibal.”

  Dodging the question, he raged, “You’re coming tomorrow night, whether you like it or not. And you will like it. That’s an order, Private.”