The Tattoo

by Chris Mckinney

  Mike couldn’t fight and he was slow. But he was bigger and stronger than me. After each combination I’d quickly jump back out of his reach and look at him. In a split second I’d decide what combination I’d throw next. Then I’d jump in for another flurry. It took three combos to drop him. Suddenly I felt arms wrap around me. My feet were dangling from the ground. No matter how much I struggled I couldn’t even come close to breaking free. More than anything in the world, I’d come to hate the feeling of helplessness the worst. Pride hates nothing more than the inevitability of failure. Finally I heard Koa whisper to me, “Enough arready.”

  I stopped struggling and he put me down. Then Koa helped Mike up. John stood there in shock. Koa turned to me. “No worry,” he said,“I not into mobbing people. But you know what? If you still like beef, I go wit’ you. I tell you one ting though, I no care how crazy you stay, if we go, I goin’ kick your fuckin’ ass. I no like, but I will. So up to you, we can beef, or we can wait fo’ da bus and talk story.”

  I thought about it and knew he was right. He could kick my ass, but he was giving me an opportunity to walk away with my pride intact. I extended my hand and said,“My name is Ken.”

  Koa shook my hand, picked up my book of Greek myths, and dusted it off. He handed it to me and we all waited for the bus together.

  The next day, they were sitting by me in class. Even Mike. We ate lunch together. Caught the bus home together. In the years to follow, we’d sleep over at each others’ houses. My father loved Koa. You could tell because from day one he teased him, chased him around, punched his arm all the time. Koa, the natural wise-ass, would ask my father stuff like, “Hey, Uncle, where da bird stay?”

  My father, not knowing what he was talking about, but knowing something was coming, played along and asked, “What da hell you talking about?”

  Then Koa said, “Oh, you stay getting bolo head. I thought you was trying to make your head into one bird’s nest.”

  The chase would begin. My father would catch him and either punch him in the arm or pin him and yank out some of his leg hairs. Koa would be laughing and yelling, “Nah, nah!” at the same time. It’s funny, people like Koa who don’t give a fuck, sometimes they’re the most charismatic people around. There’s a quality in them that is attractive to others. It never surprised me too much that my father loved a natural like Koa, but it shocked the hell out of me that he trusted him.

  “Hey Dad,” I’d say, putting down my book,“I goin’ out K-point, surf. Be back tonight.”

  “Das what you tink. Today we goin’ clean yard. And what I always tell you about talking like one fuckin’ moke.”

  “Aww, c’mon Dad. I’m supposed to meet Koa pretty soon.”

  “Koa? Ahh, o.k. den. Tomorrow we go clean yard.”

  “Koa” was like the magic word. It was one of those weird things that, no matter how much I thought about it, I couldn’t come up with an answer. Little did he know that we only went surfing or diving half the time, and almost never at K-point. When we did surf, we’d catch the bus to Sandy’s or the North Shore, looking for big waves, and on the ride over, I’d try to read while Koa teased me about reading. “Eh, you nerd motha-fucka, why you read so much?”

  “Betta den looking at your sorry ass.”

  “Fuckin’ Poindexta.”

  “Fuck you.”

  When we’d get to the beach, we’d ride waves way too big for us. My fear of water was overcome, like most of my other fears, through anger and pride. Age and confidence. Besides, when you’re pissed off half the day every day, it’s easy to say, “fuck it.”

  Whenever you hear or read anything about surfing, all of this “soul” and “zen” crap appears. For me, surfing is athletic. All the zen in the world won’t get you past fifteen-foot breakers when you’re paddling out. Only skill, athleticism, and a demented mind will get you through that. It’s a rush because of the fear factor.When I have thousands of pounds of water nipping at my heels, longing to smash me down into coral, I am not feeling “one with the ocean.” Instead, I’m running away from it, not really trying to escape it, but teasing it with every cut, showing Neptune that I’m too fast, too smart for him. I’m briefly transformed into a modern-day Ulysses.

  I remember one day Koa and I were sitting out on our boards at Sunset Beach. No sets were coming in and he caught me looking over my shoulder. “What you looking at?” he asked.

  “Just looking back at the beach, seeing if get any chicks.”

  He looked over his shoulder. “Yeah right. If all da chicks was wearing surf shorts and was topless, you couldn’t even tell if dey was girls or guys from here. You was looking in da water. Why you scared of sharks?”

  “Nah, I was just lookin’. Figure if I see one I can hit ‘um on da nose befo’ da thing try bite me. You hit ‘um on da nose and da fucka goin’ bug out.”

  Koa laughed. “You think if you hit one thirteen-foot tiger on da nose da thing goin’ cry and run away? Fuck dat. Fucka would laugh if he could. Da only way he goin’ away is if you taste shitty.”

  I involuntarily looked back again and was pissed at myself for it. He laughed again. “Look,” he said, “you no need worry. Sharks, das my aumakua. Das all my great-great aunties and uncles swimming around.You my bradda, dey not goin’ fuck wit’ you. When I die, das what I goin’ become. But hey, if I die before you and you surf without me, I goin’ come and eat your sorry ass.”

  He laughed. I called him a superstitious mother-fucker and asked him if he prayed to tikis, too. He put hands by his mouth and yelled, “You heard dat, aunty, uncle? Come eat da fuckin’ Japanee!”

  We both laughed, then looked at each other, and began racing back to shore. As we paddled in, I saw a tour bus stop in front of the beach. A file of tourists exited. I couldn’t make out any faces, but I saw a group of ugly aloha shirts and white limbs congregate in front of the bus. I slowed my paddling and waited for Koa to catch up. Koa stopped beside me. “I cannot see,” he said, “fuckin’ Japs or haoles?”

  “Eh, neva mind saying ‘Jap’ ah. I Japanee, rememba?”

  “Yeah, but you not dat kine Jap.You local. Hey, you tol’ me about da samurai befo’. What da fuck happened to Japan? Only get skinny pussies now, ah?”

  “Eh, no blame dem,” I said. “Fuck, imagine if you got two atomic bombs dropped on you. You would act like one pussy, too.”

  Koa shook his head.“Fuck dat. Eh, Hawaiians got mo’ fucked by da haoles. You know, my grandfadda used to tell me about Kahaluu and Kaneohe Bay when he was small kid time.”

  “I see some wit’ blond hair, must be haoles,” I said.

  “Eh,” Koa said, splashing water at me, “listen you fucka, I trying fo’ educate you. Fuckin’ Kahaluu used to be mean. Had pig all ova da place. Had taro. Kaneohe Bay had all kine fish swimming close to shore.You could trow net from da beach. But da best, and I know you not goin’ believe, but da best is you could drink da wata from da streams coming down da mountains.”

  I laughed. “Fuck dat. No way you could eva drink from dat. You fuckin’ die in seconds. I would radda drink my own piss den da wata from da stream behind your house.”

  “Serious. Could, you know. My grandfadda told me dey always used to drink from da stream. And you know what’s even mo’ mean? Da beach in front Kahaluu neva used to have shit-brown wata.”

  “No fuckin’ way.”

  “Yes, and you know what else?”

  “What?”

  “My great-great-grandfadda used to be da chief.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Yup. So you betta call me ‘Chief Koa’ from now on cause I da rightful chief of Kahaluu.”

  I smiled and shook my head. “Yeah, nice your kingdom now. Fuck rememba da last time we was on your brown beach? Had fuckin’ dead fish washing on your shore. Hey, what dose fuckin’ haoles doing now? We go paddle more in.”

  As we got further in, we saw the tourists taking off their socks and shoes on the beach. Most of the men and women were fat, and some o
f them wore matching aloha shirts. I looked at the legs of some of the men and saw their tan lines. Their ankles and feet were pure white, while their upper calves and thighs were red. Even some of the children had this tan line. I laughed. “Look at dose fuckas. Fuck, dey no shame or what, half sunburn, half white?”

  “Das nothing,” Koa said, “look dose fuckin’ shirts. Can be any brighter or what?”

  When we got to shore and picked up our boards, the tourists were walking past us towards the water. “No fuckin’ way,” Koa said. “No tell me dese fuckin’ haoles goin’ put dea stink-ass haole feet in da wata.”

  We walked further up the beach, put down our boards, and sat down. We watched the tourists. They were standing knee-deep in the water, laughing and splashing. “Eh,” I said, “maybe dat’s why da fish stay dying in Kahaluu. When you sleeping, get haoles sneaking ova dea putting dea feet in your wata.”

  “Fuck, das not even funny. Hey, look at dat kid. What da fuck he doing?”

  One of the tourists, a blond boy who looked about our age, ran up the beach from the water and began undressing. He unbuttoned his bright blue aloha shirt. The shirt had the Hawaiian Islands drawn all over it, and under each island its name was written in cursive pink letters. He took off the shirt and began unbuttoning his pants.

  “Whoa,” Koa said, “what da fuck he doing? Eh, what da fuck is dat he wearing?”

  “Das fuckin’ speedos,” I said.

  “Fuck you, das bebeddies. Look at dat fucka, he no shame or what. Can see his balls sticking through dat.”

  “What da fuck you doing looking at his balls?”

  “Fuck you. Eh, what is dat he get now? No tell me das one fuckin mask.”

  The boy pulled a pair of swimming goggles out of his pants pocket. I smiled. “Das da style in da mainland.”

  Koa stood up and put his hands by his mouth. “Eh, haole boy, you crazy or what?You look like one faggot insect. Put your clothes back on befo’ we go blind.”

  The boy was too far away to hear what Koa was saying. I was laughing, then I felt Koa’s hand grab my arm. I stood up. “Hey Ken,” he said, “what da fuck haole boy doing now?”

  I watched the boy swimming in the water. “Dey call dat da buttafly or someting,” I said.

  “Da buttafly? I taut buttaflys was pretty. Fucka look like he having one seizure out dea. The fucka like drown or what?”

  I shook my head, smiled, and sat back down. Koa looked over his shoulder. “Hey, look up dea.” He pointed toward the front of the tour bus. “We go steal dea shoes.”

  “How can? Still get da tour guide in da bus. Besides, what about our boards?”

  “Fuck da boards. No one goin’ take ‘um. And no tell me you cannot outrun dat tour guide fucka. You da fastest guy I know.”

  “What about you, fat ass? You cannot run dat fast.”

  “Yeah, but you forget someting.”

  “What?”

  “I no give a fuck.”

  We stole the shoes and ran away laughing our asses off. The tour guide only chased us about ten feet before he stopped and the tourists just stood on the beach in a state of shock. We waited for the bus to leave, then went back and grabbed our shirts, slippers, and my book from the bushes. Luckily, no one stole our boards, too. I didn’t know it at the time, but Koa’s personal war against haoles was to escalate in high school. But until then, we did more surfing and harmless stealing. Sometimes we avoided the tourists, the landmark beaches, and went diving or hunting instead.

  I always felt safer in the water while diving. At least I had my three-pronged spear, and I could see under the water. I was still a little paranoid, though, because I knew the spear would be about as effective as a stick would be in warding off a hungry lion if a shark were to attack, and the tempered glass sucked onto my face by a rubber frame gave me limited sight into the ocean. I saw only about twenty feet in any direction. Sometimes I felt like I was walking into a huge, dark room armed with a flickering candle, moving in a tenuous bubble of light. I loved to dive, though. Taking the boat out to Chinaman’s Hat and diving the deep end behind the island. Spitting in the mask and wiping the glass to prevent fogging. Sitting on the edge of the boat, holding my mask down on my face, leaning back, and entering the ocean like I’d seen Jacques Cousteau do. The rush of cold water, the surfacing, spitting water out through my snorkel, acting like I’m a whale, the snorkel my blow hole. The sound of my breathing resonating in the plastic tube. Sounding like Darth Vader. Trying to talk like him. “The circle is now complete, I was once the student, but now I am the master.” The searching for prey under dark crevasses, the feel of the surgical rubber squeezing the knuckle of the index finger right before I released to take a shot. Nothing can compare to the feeling of going down about forty feet, holding my breath, seeing an uhu just before I have to resurface, deciding to stay down for just a half a minute longer, feeling my body shake from lack of oxygen, knowing that I have only one shot at him, knowing I’m risking a lot just to catch one stupid fish. Nothing around you matters, not even thinking about sharks, just struggling to get a clean shot at the fish before you pass out. It was like therapy.

  Hunting on land was always shitty to me in comparison. Even though Koa loved it, I complained that it was like a long, fucking walk up a mountain just to get a few rounds off. We used to hunt illegally up at Kualoa Ranch, the only place left on the Windward side with a significant wild boar population. We always had to watch our back for ranchers who would bust us for trespassing. Carrying that damn thirty-thirty up a mountain, feeling it get heavier, feeling the moistness of your palms accidentally touch the metal, knowing that when you get down you’ll have to give it a thorough cleaning because of the mixture of sweat and salt. And God forbid if you actually shoot a boar and have to carry it on your shoulders down the whole damn mountain. Pig blood matting the hair on the back of your head. The huffing and puffing, the strain and stain on your back. It was like work. One trip I’ll never forget, or remember fully for that matter.

  The sun was setting and I wanted to go home. Just as Koa and I started our descent, I saw one lying down under a tree. Like an idiot, without even thinking, I raised the barrel and fired. Like the unlucky asshole that I am, I hit it. I heard Koa cheer and I sighed. We walked down the ridge to the tree. I handed my rifle to Koa, put the boar on my shoulders, and we began to walk down.

  It was getting dark. Suddenly we heard voices. Someone yelled “Hey, stop!”When someone yells this in your direction, it’s usually a good idea to haul ass. For me, it was like hearing someone fire a starting gun. Koa and I blazed. He was ahead of me because of the boar on my back, the biggest pigskin I ever had to carry. I watched as he ran straight through branches and tall bushes, much like a wild mountain boar does when it’s running. He was blocking, I ran through his wake. The blood was pumping and I began feeling like the hunted animal, fleeing with all of my strength, the adrenaline bravely fighting off exhaustion. Suddenly I noticed we were running down like a sixty-degree incline.

  Every fifty yards or so, we’d fall flat on our faces and roll down about fifteen feet. For some reason, each time I got up, I’d re-secure the dead pig on my shoulders, refusing to leave it. Sweating with that weight on my shoulders, dropping it once in a while, scrambling for it like it was my arm I’d dropped or something, sniffing the wild smell of the dead animal, feeling my fingers dig into its coarse hair. We were determined to escape. It was a clumsy flee, but finally the voices faded with the sun. We kept on running just in case, not slowing down in the blinding dark. It was at least a mile. We were lucky we didn’t run straight off a cliff. Finally I saw the light of Kam Highway. Relieved, we slowed down.

  When I reached the side of the street, I let the boar drop from my shoulders and paced with my hands on my hips, trying to catch my breath. Koa threw the guns to the ground, sat down, and leaned back. Every few seconds, his panting would be interrupted as he turned his head and spit. Suddenly, out of the blue, we both started laughing.

>   “Holy shit,” he said.“Fuckin’ ranchers was right on our ass.”

  I laughed. “You fuckin’ nuts or what? You could see where you was goin’?”

  His eyes got big. “Fuck no! I taut we was goin’ fall right off da mountain.”

  We laughed so hard the tears rolled down our beet-red cheeks. As the laughter subsided, once more I said, “You fuckin’ crazy.”

  We decided to clean the pig at my house because it was closer. I picked it up, Koa grabbed the guns, and we began walking home. This is where the trouble started.

  When we got to my house, I hung up the pig while Koa went inside to wash up and grab a knife. I smelled the wild stench on me, crinkled my nose, and began taking my hunting clothes off. When Koa came back out, I finally noticed. His face was covered with lacerations made by the branches he’d run straight through. He read my shock and laughed. “You neva see?” he asked. “Shit, I neva even know too until I went in da house and looked in da mirror.”

  I laughed, laughed in the cold, my underwear and some pig blood my only coverings, but then I saw he was holding the unsheathed katana in his hand, the sword my father inherited after his father’s death, and another kind of shiver emerged. I saw the crimson threads above and below his clenched fingers. The blade shone even though it was dark, greedily grabbing at any light it could reach. Moon, stars, distant street lights. It shone with its cleanness, its flawlessness. He sensed my nervousness.“Shit, I was goin’ grab da small one,” he said, “but I figured would be more fun wit’ da big one.”

  He handed me the sword. It felt so much lighter than before, when my grandfather had first put it in my hand. But in a way, heavier, too. “Gut ‘um,” Koa whispered.