by C. McGee
I shook my head while looking down into my glass, a nonverbal attempt to convey my disapproval of what had taken place a hundred-some years prior.
“And that’s only a small part of it,” Koa continued. “Prior to the actual coup an array of underhanded things went down. Coerced revisions to the constitution; the stripping of poor Hawaiian people’s voting rights; the removal of pathways to citizenship for the Asian population; the building of pathways to political office for American citizens; just a wide variety of devious shit. Anyway, long story long, that’s why I got involved in the HLF. Because an old man that I respected told me a bit of history that roused me up. A bit of history that made me appreciate the culture and traditions that the islands have lost as well as the importance of preserving the ones that remain.”
I nodded my head once more, this time in understanding and agreement. What Koa said made a lot of sense. The island’s culture did need to be preserved. The erosion of their traditions was tragic. I thought of the various stories that Koa had told me over the course of the previous weeks and felt deflated when I imagined a Hawaii void of the things at the heart of those tales.
Feeling moved I turned to Koa and said, “I know I’m a haole and all but if you ever need help or anything please just ask.”
He gave a small smile and nodded his head.
Koa and I continued drinking until the bar closed down. After that we walked to my place where we promptly passed out in the living room—I on the couch, he on the recliner next to it. The following morning we were awoken by an abhorrence of chickens squawking at the top of their lungs.
“Goddamn those fucking birds,” I said reflexively.
“Yeah, they’re the worst,” Koa added.
Opening one bleary eye, I looked in the direction of the kitchen. Koa was already up making coffee.
“They’re everywhere because they aren’t supposed to be here,” he said, pouring the steamy liquid from the carafe into a mug. “The island didn’t evolve to handle them so when they got free here they took over. Nothing to balance them out.”
I nodded my head without lifting it off of the pillow, then added, “I hope they all fucking die.”
“Yeah, it wouldn’t be the worst thing,” Koa said through a grin. He then handed me a mug of coffee, poured himself one in a disposable cup, and headed toward the door.
“Thanks for keeping me company last night, Ingrid. You’re a good friend.”
“Of course,” I replied, touched by the sincerity in his voice.
It was nice hearing Koa express his genuine appreciation, but it was also a little awkward; too serious for my taste. Looking to end our interaction on a more frivolous note, I asked, “So where are you headed this early. If you have a hangover half as bad as mine it must be important otherwise you’d be rooted to the furniture.”
“Just want to find out if there have been any new developments regarding Tiny. Plus, I should probably do a little PR work. I’m afraid all of the violence that went down overshadowed the main point of our protest.”
“What? Sovereignty? Aren’t all of your protests about sovereignty?”
“Yes and no. I suppose independence and self-governing are at the heart of all of our protests, but usually we have a more specific and tangible goal in mind.”
“Like …”
“Like last time we were trying to stop the importation of foreign pineapple.”
“And this time?”
“This time we were trying to raise awareness about a new lavish resort being planned for Hanalei. It’ll probably kill some of the small hotels that have been in the area for ages. Not to mention the fact that it will bring Hanalei one step closer to becoming Princeville—nothing but Hiltons, Hyatts, and high-end retail. A sanitized version of paradise for the one percent.”
“Wow, sounds awful,” I said, adorning my face with as much disgust as I could manufacture.
“Yeah, it’s pretty terrible,” Koa affirmed. He then provided another thanks, a cheery goodbye, and left.
Shit, I thought as the door closed behind him.
Chapter 33
Seeking an Answer
I spent the next few days anguishing, unsure of what to do about the resort investment. Koa and the HLF were against it, but were they right? My gut told me yes, but my gut doesn’t have a brain, so it’s a dumb cunt. My gut was wrong about Chad Dahl in eighth grade (definitely not my soulmate), Beanie Babies in 1999 (definitely not the investment of a lifetime), and Facebook in 2004 (“Nobody is vain enough to create a webpage about themselves?” I believe those were my exact words). And even if my gut was right, even if the resort was wrong for the island, did that mean that it was wrong for me? Who knows? I certainly didn’t. Questions and more questions, that’s all I had. No answers.
“So what should I do?” I asked the mongooses, while peeling back a can of sardines.
“…” they replied, evidently uninterested in a debate over the best way to handle the residual effects of colonialism in a capitalist word economy.
“Read a goddamn book, you heathens,” I said, pouring the sardines into their food tray.
Having refastened the lid of the mongoose recovery center, I watched as the little predators tore the fish to pieces. Four days with me and they were already looking significantly better. By the end of the week they would be ready to release, ready to begin the end of the chicken era. It was exciting.
Having tended to the mongooses, I headed out for the day, determined to stay busy and keep my mind free of worries. I had agonized about the resort for more than half a week and nothing had come of it. It was time to stop toiling over the decision.
“The answer will come, Ingrid,” I told myself as I walked out the door. “Quit stressing about it.”
But after a full day of work paddling tourists up and down the Wailua, and a full night of partying with Lana and the boys, the answer still eluded me. Nevertheless, I felt better. Sometimes you just need to stay busy. It’s the answer to so many of life’s problems.
The next day I did the same thing as the day before but with a bit more verve. Okay, a lot more verve. Especially when it came to the partying portion of the evening. I drank until I didn’t care and then drank a bunch more. I concluded the night by passing out in a chaise lounge on Lana’s back deck. Sometimes you just need to get shitfaced. It’s not an answer to life’s problems but it helps.
Chapter 34
Charlana and Other Portmanteaus
The Worst Places I’ve Woken Up After a Night of Drinking:
• A Beanbag in Winnipeg, Canada: That actually doesn’t sound that bad. I should add that my friend and I started drinking in Grand Forks, North Dakota, and that the beanbag was located in the house of a complete stranger. I don’t even remember crossing the border or crashing the party. Probably not my finest hour. Fortunately, the stranger turned out to be nice. He also turned out to be a forward for the Jets and his abode turned out to be less of a house and more of a mansion. Evidently, highly intoxicated Ingrid has good taste.
• The Bottom of a Pool: The pool was empty. Obviously. I mean I’m not dead. Still, it’s not the best place to snooze. Poured concrete is far from comfortable.
• A Florida Beach with a Bluebottle Attached to My Foot: Jellyfish aka nature’s mistake. Goddamn, I hate those fucking things. My foot hurt like a bitch. I tried to pee on it to ease the pain but failed miserably. At first it went okay, I used my extremely limited yoga ability to get into a tree pose, and then started whizzing directly onto the spot where the bluebottle got me. It was sweet relief but it was short-lived. A few seconds in I lost my balance and fell over while continuing to pee. Three quarters of my body ended up covered in urine.
• The Couch at the Kappa Delta House: Had I not laughed in their faces when they asked me to pledge I probably would have been fine. As it was, I ended up covered in green marker from head to toe. Sluts.
A chaise lounge on Lana’s back deck did not make the above list because it wa
s not a horrible place to wake up hungover. Actually, it was the exact opposite. The sun above me, Hanalei bay below, Mount Waialeale to my left, and the entire Pacific to my right, the view from the back of her home was idyllic and the piece of furniture from which I viewed it was luxurious and comfortable. Unfortunately, what transpired after I woke up was far from idyllic and miles from comfortable.
“Lana!” A stiff and assertive voice rang throughout the house followed immediately by the sound of a firmly closed door.
“Lana!” The voice demanded once more.
The second “Lana!” was completely unnecessary; everyone in the house was woken by the first. Yukio’s voice has that sort of effect on people. At low volume it commands attention, at high volume it requires it. I can’t imagine what it was like for Lana as a child. “Time out” probably sounded like “gulag” coming out of his mouth.
Looking over to my left I watched through bleary eyes as Lana jumped off the daybed and into a swimsuit cover-up lying on the ground. For the two seconds it took her to get out from under the blanket and into her brightly colored tunic, her vagina was on full display. Fortunately for Lana, Charlie and I were the only ones that noticed, and based on the fact that Charlie was under the same blanket on the same daybed as the half-naked Lana, I suspect that he already knew all about her down-belows.
The sight of Lana and Charlie together surprised me. It shouldn’t have, but it did. In hindsight it seems obvious. They make sense together: similar interests, complementary personalities, comparable attractiveness; but for some reason I didn’t see it coming.
“Out here, Father,” Lana said, as I attempted to process the idea of her and Charlie together.
“There you are,” Yukio said sternly, stepping out onto the deck. “Why are you sleeping outside? Who are all these people and why are they sprawled out on your back porch? This is unacceptable.”
“We just—”
“Never mind, forget it, that’s not the issue at hand. Come inside, I need to talk to you.”
Charlie and I sat up straight as Lana followed her father into the house. Ethan rolled over on the chaise lounge next to me, threw a towel over his head, and went back to sleep.
“Why didn’t you call me immediately?” inquired Yukio, controlled anger thick in his voice. “I would have flown back from Japan four days ago. You know how fragile this deal is. Something like this could derail the entire project.”
“No, Father,” Lana replied firmly. “I don’t know how fragile this deal is. You led me to believe that it was a sure thing, that’s why I recruited investors for you. Then, I walked in on a closed-door meeting between you and a bunch of council members that seemed dodgy at best, and when I asked questions about it you gave me elusive answers.”
“I tell you what you need to know.”
“Bullshit.”
“Excuse me?”
“Bullshit. I said bullshit, Father.”
“That is not how you talk to your elders.”
“That’s not how I like to talk to my elders, especially my own father, but it’s the most appropriate word for this particular situation, so it’s the word I’m choosing to employ. I’m your number two on this project—the first time I have ever been your number two, I might add—and you are not keeping me properly informed.”
“You don’t know what constitutes properly informed. You know nothing about doing business on this island. I’m doing what needs to be done, what I have done for the last three decades. You need to focus on your job and your job is what I tell you it is. You know what you need to know. End of discussion.”
Lana looked fiercely at her father but said nothing. Her upbringing prevented her from saying anything. When her father said the conversation was over, it was over. It was a line she would not cross even in her current state of frustration.
Yukio turned and headed for the door. On his way he informed Lana to keep her phone on and to pick up if he called. At no point did he look in the direction of Charlie and I. It was as if he was too powerful to concern himself with being overheard; too important to be troubled by trivial things like his surroundings.
“So Lana’s dad is a dick,” I said to Charlie.
“Yeah,” Charlie replied simply.
Sitting back in his chair, Charlie brought his hand to his chin, extended his pointer finger to his lips, and then sat quietly in contemplation. I wanted to talk, and since Charlie clearly didn’t, I decided to wake Ethan.
Ethan was entertained by my account of what had transpired between Lana and Yukio, yet his curiosity was not nearly as piqued as mine. After I finished telling him about the father-daughter argument, I moved on to the subject of Lana and Charlie. Ethan’s reaction to the latter was much more enthusiastic.
“Finally!” he said. “You know he asked for an introduction to Lana like an hour after we met. I used to give him shit, tell him he just became friends with me because I was friends with her. It’s a fucking miracle they finally got together.”
“Hey, Charlie,” Ethan said loudly, rousing his friend from contemplation. “You finally talked Lana into sleeping with you, huh? Good job, buddy. Now you just have to keep her oblivious to the fact that you’re ugly and dumb. If you can do that I see no reason why you can’t stay together forever.”
Charlie smiled, “Says the ugly dummy with the girlfriend miles out of his league.”
“Shhh, not so loud, she’ll hear you,” Ethan replied while playfully covering my ears.
I gave Ethan an indulgent grin, kissed him on the cheek, and then went inside to talk to Lana. She was sitting on one of the kitchen stools in a stiff upright position, an expression of constrained seething on her face.
Curious about the details behind the conversation between her and her father, I felt tempted to ask about their argument. Mastering the impulse, I refrained. Instead, I inquired about a much more enjoyable topic. Lana needed a friend at that moment and since I am her friend, I behaved like one.
“So you and Charlie, huh?” I said, with the appropriate amount of girly excitement.
Lana’s look immediately softened.
“Yeah, Charlie and me,” she replied with a grin.
“When can I start calling you guys Chaana?”
“Oh god, never,” she laughed.
“Lalie?”
“Nope.”
“Charna?”
“Uh-uh.”
“Lanalie?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Oh, I got it. Charlana. Yeah, that’s good. That’s better than Brangelina and Kimye and Billary.”
“No, it’s not. Charlana sounds like the name of an affordable call girl.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
“Yeah, definitely.”
“All right then, what do you got?”
“Nothing. I’m officially putting a moratorium on all cutesy, combining names, portmanteau business.”
“Boo.”
“You can start calling us a couple though,” Lana grinned.
“Yeah!”
“Yeah, for sure.”
We spent the rest of the morning engaged in girl talk. The guys went back to sleep. I learned nothing more about the argument between Lana and her father.
Chapter 35
“Fair Market Value”
“It’s okay, Mom. It’s okay. Everything will be all right.”
My mother was upset and understandably so. My great-great grandparents’ homestead was being taken by the state and there was fuck-all she could do about it. The government of North Dakota had declared eminent domain, which meant my parents had to sell them the land at “fair market value.” I put “fair market value” in quotes because the concept strikes me as total horseshit. My great-great grandparents’ original 160 acres are priceless to my mother. I suspect that for the right price she would hesitantly part with all the other family land, but not the original homestead, no matter what the offer. Consequently, the very idea of the land having a “fair market value” is absurd. That l
and means infinitely more to my mother than it ever could to the market and that actuality precludes the word “fair” from ever being used in relation to its worth.
“What justification are they offering? On what grounds are they forcing you to give up the land?”
“Oh, ya know, some shenanigans about needing to build up the state’s infrastructure in order to deal with the boom out west.”
“The original homestead isn’t even that far west. How are they using the oil boom as their rationale?”
“Something about the increased need for utilities and roads and who knows what else? But it doesn’t even matter, sweetheart, because there is nothing we can do about it. It’s done.”
“…” I responded, struck dumb by the accuracy of my mom’s assertion. She was right, it was going to happen, the state government was going to take the land and there was nothing we could do to change that.
I thought briefly of the picnics we had out on the homestead when I was a kid. My sister and I pretending that we were pioneers in the old two-room house that my great-great grandfather built; my dad telling us the history of the Great Dakota Land Boom over a picnic lunch; my mother reading Laura Ingalls Wilder out loud under the warm summer sun. I hate Little House on the Prairie, but I love those memories, and soon they will be all that remain. The state is bound to raze that rickety old building the minute they officially obtain the land and then who the fuck knows what they’ll do with the property.
Unable to come up with any words of comfort for my mom, I decided to try and steer the conversation in a different direction hoping it would take on a more cheerful mood.
“So how is the rest of the family doing?” I inquired, using the most chipper voice I could get away with considering the dourness of our conversation thus far. “Did Dad decide to coach the boy’s team, or what?”