Breaking Good

by Mike B. Good

  “Come on, Mikey,” said Randy, “admit it, this is way more fun than those shrimpy waves at Makua.”

  “Definitely more exciting. Maybe too exciting.”

  “How could they be too exciting?”

  “I think I’m having a heart attack.”

  “Nothing exciting about that, man.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “The secret? You gotta relax, enjoy the fun.”

  In the short time we’d been there, the waves had almost doubled. I pointed that out to Randy and Happy.

  “Big deal,” spat Randy, “these puppies can’t be any more than six or seven feet.”

  Maybe from the back, where the sharks lurked. But I wasn’t dealing with the back. Nor did I want to.

  “It’s been fun, but I’m going in, Sarge.”

  “Me, too,” said Happy.

  “You’re demoted.”

  “Big deal,” I said, “I’m already a lousy private.”

  “Ha! So you admit it.” Cutting us off, he challenged, “Race you losers to the beach.”

  Missing the take off, we watched as he rode his wave all the way to shore and got out. He raised his arms in victory, then took a bow.

  “He’s good, isn’t he, Mikey?”

  “He sure is,” I said, envious. Kinda pissed off, too. “He’s sort of a dick that way. And a whole lot of others.”

  From shore, Randy yelled something, then waved and pointed. We couldn’t hear him, so we turned to see if he might be trying to make some kind of vague point. Nothing there except those huge dorsal fins closing in. Well, that and a mountain of water rising up, blocking the view of anything imperiling. The enormous swell raised its ugly head. Showing off ghastly stitches, scars, and giant neck bolts, it lumbered towards us.

  “Jesus, Mikey, the waves are turning into monsters.”

  We spent a lifetime diving under a freakishly large set, doing our best to get outside. Like a suicidal baitfish, I swam towards the waiting sharks. I pictured them lined up like a toothy gauntlet, and yet, I couldn’t stop myself. Talk about your mixed feelings.

  Ten minutes of sheer panic later, finally outside, I looked with longing at the distant beach, then cringed. Adrenalized locals now cluttered the shore. Each of them had a surfboard and a lot of attitude, and before you could say, “Outta my way, you fuckin’ haole,” a dozen hyper-aggressive surfers covered the line up.

  Meanwhile, the surf kept growing. Bobbing like seals a hundred yards from shore, we surrounded ourselves with a protective ring of blood-thirsty predators. They’d keep the dangerous surfers away while they enjoyed their meal. Things looked, well, terrifying. I decided to lighten the mood with some relevant humor.

  Turning to Happy, I said, “Hello, chum.”

  “That’s not funny.”

  “Let’s see you top it.”

  “We’re gonna die.”

  “I like my line better.”

  “I guess I’m a little nervous.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ve got a plan.”

  “Thank God. What’s the plan?”

  “We’re gonna body surf like our lives depend on it.”

  “They do, don’t they?”

  “No doubt about it.”

  “We’re gonna die.”

  “No we’re not.”

  I wasn’t ready to toss in my cards, not while the world needed me.

  “Really?” He seemed skeptical. “Why not? Because of our good karma?”

  I tried to think positive, ignore the incident with the little fish and resulting staph infection.

  “Man, I sure hope so. Let’s find out.”

  Deciding to commit suicide the macho way, we swam towards shore, hoping to die like real men, not seals. The surfers, as fierce and territorial as pit bulls, wearing nothing but surf shorts, spiked leather collars, and malevolent smiles, darted about everywhere, carving those huge waves like Thanksgiving turkeys, frustrating our attempts for a death plunge. Their fins, crafted from those Japanese Ginsu knives you saw on TV commercials, made for razor-sharp turns and cut right through haole traffic. And yet, never went dull. Dropping in on the surfers would get us sliced quicker than a shrimp at Benihanas.

  While we treaded water and waited to die, we could see Randy on the shore. He was laughing it up with a gang of late-arriving locals. They spent a couple of joyful minutes going through our pockets, lighting up the doobies I’d rolled.

  Happy and I made a pact: If either of us survived, Athletic Director Randy must die.

  “You promise, Happy?”

  “He’s next, right after Yoko Ono.”

  I couldn’t argue with that. Yoko, like Nixon, posed a far worse threat on a global scale than the Sarge. I wondered which band she’d destroy next. I thought: Look out, Stones.

  Suddenly, a lull between sets. A wave only half as big as the monsters lurked overhead like a watery guillotine. We swam like floundering fish, barely managing to catch a ride. Sort of. Depends if you consider going over the falls catching a ride or not. We spent, oh, I don’t know—forever—tumbling along the bottom. To pass the time before drowning, we shredded our skin against the coral. When all seemed lost, the white water spewed us out like driftwood. For a brief moment, half out of the water, it looked like we’d live. We spent a couple seconds spouting sand crabs, tiny fish, and colorful shells out of our blowholes, then guzzled air as if it would save our lives.

  Fat chance. A moment of hope, and then the playful backflow sucked us out. Covered by foamy whitewater and out of breath, it seemed the end. Damnit, I’d really miss Mango. Just as disappointing, I’d drowned without killing Sgt. Randy, deflowering Miss June, or changing the world. Motivated fiercely by philanthropy and revenge, with our last ounces of strength, we dug in like the sand crabs we’d been swallowing. Then we crawled up the beach like primeval air-breathing fish, gulping in enough oxygen to fill a blimp. With the crowd of expert watermen laughing at our every ridiculous move, we lived just long enough to die from humiliation.

  A guy the size of a refrigerator seemed impressed. “Funny stuff, brah,” and my ego surged back to life.

  “Glad you liked it.”

  “Like two Jerry Lewises.”

  “What’s funny about Jerry Lewis?”

  “Eh, brah, do it again,” Biggie suggested.

  “Sure,” I lied, “love to. Come back tomorrow. We’ll be here all week.”

  “I mean right now.”

  “Man, you locals really love your comedy.”

  He reminded me, “Beefing, too.”

  For emphasis, in case we didn’t get it, he pounded a catcher’s mitt-sized fist into his massive palm. Whack.

  “Right.” I pointed at Sgt. Randy. “Actually, fellas, he’s the main act.”

  The humor-mongers turned their eyes to our surprised tour guide.

  “Dese buggas outta jokes,” said Biggie. “Let’s see your act, bruddah.”

  “But a swimmer without a surfboard could get killed in waves that big,” pointed out the nervous Activities Director.

  Biggie, his massive head set on more comedy, whacked his fist into his palm again, then assured Randy, “Or right here on shore.”

  After weighing the options, potential death versus certain, the reluctant comic swam out to start his set. He looked a bit nervous performing for such a demanding crowd. Or was it the twenty-foot faces on the waves?

  I yelled encouragement. “Just relax. Enjoy the fun. That’s the secret.”

  Sgt. Randy directed his last one-liner, “Latrine duty for the both of you,” at a frisky pair of tiger sharks.

  I felt bad for our Activities Director. I didn’t like hanging out with Randy, and he’d almost gotten us killed, but I didn’t exactly want to see sharks dining on him. Which is why I turned away.

  I told Happy, “Man, am I glad we went on first.”

  “Me, too. I guess our karma is pretty damn good.”

  I considered ou
r body surfing skills, the humongous waves, the blood-thirsty surfers, and the hungry tiger sharks.

  “You’re right, Happy. It’s the only possible explanation.”

  “Ya know, Mikey, I had no idea show biz was such a rough gig.”

  “We better stick to growing da kine on the weapons range. It’s much safer.”

  Driving back to Makua in our new van with the gruesome murals, John Lennon was on the stereo. Happy sang along, paraphrasing a bit, “Instant karma’s gonna eat you. . .”

  Chapter 42

  A Vague Warning

  At Makua, except for an occasional rain, you could hardly call it winter, and the tranquil weeks sped by. Once his cast was off, Crash celebrated with a ski trip to Tahoe, and ironically enough, broke his leg again. With him gone, sales stalled, but I had more than enough to live on. For a long time, if I stayed at the beach. I looked forward to long season. When stunt season ended, I planned to go nuts in the mountains. I’d already found some killer spots during hikes to remote waterfalls—places that no one else seemed to hike to. I thought it weird that other philanthropists weren’t already using these places. I guess they were too busy surfing. In the years to come, they’d somehow find time for both.

  Honolulu is a big town; it needed lots of medicine. No reason to stay small time with enthusiasm like mine. That’d be selfish. Like a New Age missionary, I’d convert those heathen mountains into marijuana plantations. My routine may have been simple, but I loved it. Everything I did was fun. I could have gone on like that indefinitely. Or until I sold off the fruit of my labors and went on my big trip to Asia. Or joined Buddy in South America. Or moved to Maui and teamed up with Ray. Or moved to Kona where my down-letting buddy Lizardo had finally returned. I had vision, I had good karma, and best of all, I had options. Nothing could stop me now.

  When Crash got back in late March, he required more psychological help. “You still got da kine?”

  “Am I not a maniac?”

  “Thattaboy. I’ll take my usual prescription right now. And, by the way, I think I can move whatever you’ve got.”

  “Far out.”

  “The thing is, I’ll need a little discount.”

  At the Kaimuki house that afternoon, I put on my green visor and pulled an adding machine out of my sleeve to remind him I was a magician. Also, a serious negotiator.

  “About that discount. How little we talkin’?”

  “How about a couple hundred a pound?”

  We smoked a doobie while I pondered the discount. Moving my crop wholesale made sense. With a new harvest imminent, I wanted to get rid of inventory. Pot acted as a magnet for low-end types: thieves and narcs too lazy to grow their own. Plus, no one else I knew had enough money to buy the stuff. Except Ray, and he’d want an even bigger “mentor” discount.

  “Okay. Sounds fair.”

  “I just wish you had more. People are hungry for da kine.”

  “In that case, I’ve got good news.”

  “You’ve got more?”

  “Soon. Very soon.”

  “Great work ethic, Mikey. Your parents would be proud.”

  We shared a laugh at that one.

  _ _ _

  After Crash’s joke, I decided to use his phone to check in with my family. A bit wary after Mom’s portentous warnings, I hadn’t called since Christmas. With less interaction, I hoped to stay under Dad’s radar. Then again, if I waited too long, he’d get suspicious, feel compelled to spy on me. I could never catch a break with that guy.

  “Hey, Mom, it’s me.”

  “Me, who, dear?”

  “Oh, I get it. It’s been so long you forgot about me.”

  “Is this some kind of a crank call?”

  “Funny.”

  “Your father and I are upset with you for not keeping in touch. Whoever you are.”

  “Dad’s mad?”

  “Well, I am, anyway. You know your father.”

  “He never gets mad; he gets even?”

  Mom chuckled and then turned serious. “So, I guess you’re too busy growing lettuce or whatever, ahem, to send muffins or call? If you’re even at the farm anymore.”

  “Interesting how you prioritize the muffins.”

  “You’re missing the point.”

  I detected a subtle hint. Mom suspected there’d been more than lettuce growing at the farm. Also, that I didn’t live there anymore. Looks like the spying had already begun. Frank Zappa had a song, Who Are the Brain Police? I’m pretty sure he meant my parents. Then again, maybe I was just being paranoid.

  “Look, Mom, before you get going on your guilt rant, can I just apologize fifty times right now and get it over with?”

  “For starters.” Then, “You know I can hear all that sighing, young man. Did you just call me a bat?”

  “Not out loud.”

  “I think I heard a thought.”

  Mom and her ESP were tough foes.

  “I thought it as a compliment.”

  Assuming a softer tone, she said, “Thanks, dear. Don’t forget, I have eyes in the back of my head. And everywhere else.”

  “How could I forget? You and Dad scarred my childhood with those creepy things.”

  “Aw, really?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll be sure to let your father know we were successful. Not that it did any good.”

  “You’re the greatest.”

  “It’s nice to know our efforts were appreciated, even if insincerely. Since your ears are too far away to twist at the moment, I’m offering you a chance to make up for your neglectful behavior.”

  “Thanks, Mom.” I didn’t enjoy groveling, but I’d do about anything to avoid one of Mom’s guilt rants. “What can I do? Besides going back to school?”

  “For appeasement, I require six dozen of Jackie’s delicious muffins.”

  “Six dozen?”

  “Do you want your mother to starve to death?”

  “Hmm. . .”

  “Michael.”

  “I guess not, but that’s a lot of paka—I mean, that’s a lot of muffins. There goes the diet.”

  “Funny, but I’ll be sharing them.”

  “With Dad? Please say yes.”

  “You know he hates organic food.”

  “Ah, they’re for the Monster. Good thinking; she needs therapy almost as much as Dad.”

  “Actually, we’re invited to a pot luck gala at the White House.”

  “Pot luck? At the White House?”

  “There have been some issues with the budget. Your father went a little crazy over this whole Arms Race thing. Anyway, all the world leaders will be there and I want to show up Premier Brezhnev’s snooty wife. She thinks her dessert is so good.”

  It was funny hearing one of the most powerful women in the world being so petty.

  “You tell me,” asked Mom, “do boiled beets make for a tasty dessert?”

  “God, no. On the other hand, they make for a hell of a poison.”

  “Exactly.”

  Wow, here was my chance to influence world peace. I saw my dream of changing the world shaping up. I was on my way to raising its consciousness and ending war. Now, if I could just get rid of Uncle Dick.

  “You got it, Mom. I’ll call Jackie and put in a special order.”

  “Okay,” said Mom, “let’s see. . .what’s next on my list?”

  I heard cackling in the background.

  “Ah, yes, your father wants to know what’s new with your farm.”

  “Not much,” I grumbled, “except for the bulldozing.”

  “Sorry to hear it.”

  “Why are you giggling?” Something smelled fishy. I pictured a beached shark wearing an Uncle Sam outfit. “Did Dad have anything to do with that?”

  “With what, sweetheart?”

  “You know what.”

  “Well, not directly.”

  “How not directly?”

  “In the se
nse that he didn’t drive the bulldozer.”

  “I’m almost surprised.”

  “I don’t see why. It’s only natural your father chose the tank.”

  I shook my head and took a deep breath. It was all making sense now.

  “I knew the new owner had to be nuts. I have a feeling he didn’t buy the farm for my inheritance.”

  “Hold on to that feeling, because Bonster the Monster gets it.”

  “Bonnie gets it?”

  “After subverting your attack pets, she decided to start a dog training academy.”

  “I thought she wanted to be a narc.”

  “She’ll train the dogs to find drugs. Unless you straighten up and fly right, you’ll be lucky if you inherit a few acres along the San Andreas Fault. And don’t be angry because Major Johnny got your share of the bomb shelter business. He has a nice crewcut.”

  “What business? Dad hasn’t sold a shelter since the Cuban Missile Crisis.”

  “Your dad is no slacker, Mikey. He’s still working hard, constantly promoting nuclear war. Don’t give up hope yet.”

  “Sure, Mom. I’ll keep my fingers crossed.”

  “That’s my boy. So, where exactly are you living now?”

  She probably already knew. Or could easily send a minion and find out. Why bother lying?

  “Well, ever since Dad had the farm destroyed I’ve been living at the beach.”

  “You’ve got to do more with your life than be the beach bum your father always predicted.”

  “Ironically, he’s only got himself to blame. Guess he didn’t think that one through.”

  “In his defense, it’s proving difficult to control your life long distance. We feel guilty for not moving there.”

  “You’re over-reacting. I’m not just a beach bum.”

  “Well, I hope not. Reassure me; do you have a job?”

  “A job? Jesus, Mom, give me a break.”

  An exasperated breath filled the phone. “How about a plan?”

  “A what?”

  “Dear God. . .”

  “Take it easy, everything’s cool. I do have a fun hobby, not that it takes much time. It’s for the good of mankind. Totally altruistic, and as a bonus, it makes me a little money, too.”