by C. McGee
Paul’s tidy, all-caps script stood in stark contrast to my crowded reckless scrawl, and his succinct factual statements differed drastically from my stream-of-consciousness ramblings. Despite these disparities in style, the similarities in our words were unmistakable. The message they conveyed, the same.
As I finished reading the list, Paul chimed in with more information that further exacerbated my confusion. The mental anguish I was experiencing must have shown on my face, but he didn’t seem to notice. Paul was interested in what we were discussing, but he wasn’t bothered by it, and the fact that someone else might be never dawned on him.
“That was an amusing little exercise,” he said as I looked up from the paper. “It’s always fun to explore the origins of the things that surround us.”
“Mmm-Hmm,” I replied, still contemplating the list.
“You know, I really enjoyed the way that you tied the Hawaiian Liberation Front to the historical events that you were discussing earlier. People find history so much more relevant when it’s connected to contemporary issues.”
“Yeah.” I agreed, my attention still elsewhere.
“I actually wanted to conclude my historical account in a similar fashion, you know, tie in the Oahu Independence Party and the Atooi Kingdom Movement, but I couldn’t figure out a way to smoothly segue into the subject, so I decided to forego the topi—”
“Hold on, what’s that now?” I interjected, my full attention suddenly captured.
“What’s what?”
“What’s that you were saying about Oahu Independence and the Kingdom whatever?”
“The Oahu Independence Party and the Atooi Kingdom Movement?”
“Yeah. What are those?”
“They’re independence movements, just like the HLF, except they want sovereignty from the rest of Hawaii as well as the United States.”
“Wait, what? There are other Hawaiian independence movements?”
“Of course, although technically speaking they aren’t all Hawaiian. Which is to say, some of them are not seeking independence for Hawaii as a whole but rather for specific islands. That’s actually how I was going to tie them into my story. You see, both the Oahu Independence Party and the Atooi Kingdom Movement base their bids for independence on the idea that Kamehameha’s actions were illegal; that he forced a regime change upon them; that he removed the legitimate governments that existed via force, both actual and implied.”
“So basically they view Kamehameha and the invaders that came over with him from the big island in the same light that the HLF views the United States.”
“I suppose that’s a reasonable assertion.”
“Well, then what the fuck?”
“I’m sorry,” Paul said, confused. “I’m not sure what you mean by that.”
“Neither do I,” I replied, fading off into my own head.
I stayed quiet for the remainder of the trip, overwhelmed by confusion once more. The logic I had used to arrive at a decision regarding the resort suddenly seemed flawed—no, inconclusive. My mouth didn’t even open until we got back to our point of departure.
On the drive back home, I passed an HLF protest, the first since the disaster in Hanalei. Per usual, a traffic jam developed as everyone slowed their cars in order to gawk.
“Oh sweet Jesus, are you kidding me with this shit,” I vented, while bringing my vehicle to a halt.
Having expressed my frustration to the interior of my SUV, I turned my head in the direction of the protest, joining in on the rubbernecking. “If I’m going to be stuck in traffic, I might as well enjoy the show,” I thought.
Unfortunately, I didn’t enjoy the show. The presence of one of my least favorite people prevented that from happening. Sage Kendrick. What a cunt.
“What the fuck are you doing, Sage?” I asked loudly.
She didn’t respond. Evidently, it’s hard to hear someone when they’re fifty yards away, inside their car, with the windows rolled up (an actuality that didn’t prevent me from calling her a “bitch” for ignoring me). I briefly considered honking my horn in order to get her attention and then flicking her off, but in the end decided to refrain. I had nothing against the people protesting with her, and I didn’t want any of them thinking that they were the target of the gesture. That said, the fact that Sage had become part of their organization made me wonder if they all deserved a big middle finger.
Before I could decide whether or not to deliver the non-verbal obscenity, the traffic opened up and I accelerated. A quarter mile down the road I increased my speed further in an attempt to run down a chicken that was pecking away at something in the middle of the road. Regrettably, the crafty little fucker was able to scamper onto the shoulder before my wheels could get to him.
“One thousand nine hundred and fifty nine,” I said, while driving past the elusive rooster, adding to the running tally that I keep in order to fuel my disdain. Counting the rat-bird wasn’t as good as smashing it with my two-ton vehicle, but it was better than nothing. It was a clear step in a distinct direction toward a defined goal, and that felt nice. So, I decided to take another.
Chapter 37
Make Gatorade, Take a Shower
“Tonight’s the night, my furry little assassins.” I asserted this loudly and with a fair bit of excitement as I entered my garage. Noting the inflection in my voice, the mongooses responded energetically, running around their cage with the frantic energy of kenneled Labradors. Their eagerness caught me slightly off guard. Normally, they show little to no interest in what I have to say.
“Not quite yet,” I declared in a calmer voice, looking to curb the enthusiasm I had just inspired. “We have to wait until nightfall. I can’t just release you guys in the middle of the day, that’s asking for trouble.”
“Fuck that shit,” the mongooses seemed to reply, continuing on with their pandemonium.
Realizing that my calm voice could never counteract the effect of my excited one, I decided to leave the slinky predators to their own devices, exiting the garage without another word. Once inside I headed to the kitchen, stripping off my clothes on the way. My skin had that hot, sticky, been-out-in-the-sun-all-day feel to it, and I wanted to remedy that as quickly as possible with a cool shower and an electrolyte-laden beverage.
Unfortunately, the fridge contained no Gatorade, just beer and iced coffee, neither of which sounded good.
“Goddamn it,” I grumbled, irrationally annoyed by the fact that the refrigerator didn’t hold exactly what I wanted.
After a brief moment of weighing my options, I decided that my thirst was greater than my desire for cleanliness, so I headed to the cupboard, pulled down the canister of powdered sports drink, and measured the appropriate amount into a pitcher.
Down to just my underwear, I initially attempted to avoid open windows while going about the drink-making process, but this quickly grew tiresome so I gave up. I finished mixing the batch of Gatorade in front of my sliding glass door with my boobs hanging out for all to see. Whatever. When you live in a part of the world where swimsuits are worn everywhere breasts start to seem a little ho-hum.
After polishing off two glasses of lemon-lime deliciousness (I stick to the old-school flavors), I put the freshly made pitcher into the fridge, my cup in the sink, and then headed back toward the shower, passing my trail of discarded clothes on the way. Feeling that I deserved a moment of lethargy, I did my best to ignore the dirty laundry littering the floor. In the end, however, the temptation of the blinking light emanating from the back pocket of my grubby shorts proved too great. Before entering the bathroom, I picked the shorts up off the ground, removed my phone, and then tossed them into the hamper. As I turned on the shower, I checked the phone. According to the notifications on the lock screen, I had missed a call, an e-mail, and a shit ton of texts. They were all from Lana.
Deciding that I wanted to enjoy my shower before dealing with the drama, I set my phone down beside the sink, slid off my underwear, stepped over the
side of the tub, and let the water fall down onto me. The cool spray released the heat from my skin, the tension from my body, and the urine from my bladder (I like to let it go in the shower, it feels liberating). It was a wonderful experience, refreshing and rejuvenating, definitely one of my top five showers of all time. Or, maybe I just remember it fondly because I spent the next six months showering with a bunch of other women.
Chapter 38
Shit Got Real
I hesitate to use the phrase “shit got real.” It feels phony coming out of my mouth, distinctly unnatural, like I’m an articulate politician trying to dumb it down for primary voters in a rural state. Nevertheless, I’m choosing to employ it here because it’s the best way to describe what happened after I got out of the shower. I turned off the water, grabbed a towel, dried off, stepped out of the tub, and then shit got real.
Five calls, that’s how many I missed while I was washing up. That made for a total of six in less than a half hour. My initial assumption was that they were all from Lana, that she was truly freaking out about my backing out of the investment and was frantically trying to get a hold of me. As it turned out, I was only partly correct. Lana had made three of the calls, the rest, however, were from Koa.
It felt odd, seeing Koa’s name in my call history. I kind of forgot that we had each other’s numbers. Sure, we were friends, but we were not the type of friends that talked on the phone, and we definitely were not the type of friends that called each other repetitively until the other picked up. The fact that he had done exactly that made me a little anxious.
Heading toward my room in pursuit of fresh clothes, I turned my phone to speaker and pressed play on the voicemails. My hope was that the multitasking would curb my unease, that I could control the anxiety that I was feeling so long as I listened to the messages in a cavalier fashion. It kind of worked—for a few seconds anyway.
“Freyja, hey, it’s Lana,” her voice sounded normal, no sign of anger or frustration. “Just calling about the message you left. I wanted to double check with you to make sure that you really want to back out of the resort investment. Fiscally speaking, I think it’s the wrong move but if it’s what you really want I’ll make it happen. You might lose a small percentage of your initial investment but that’s about it, the vast majority of your capital should be returned within the week. All right, that’s all I have for you. Give me a call back when you get the chance.”
“Nice,” I thought, as I pulled on a cami, wrestling my girls into the built-in bra. “Lana’s not pissed. The e-mail and the other calls are probably just regarding stuff I have to sign.”
After a second’s pause a new message began. “Hey, haole girl,”—it was Koa, he sounded a bit winded—”just wondering if you were home. Please give me a call as soon as you get this.”
“Weird,” I thought. “Was he doing cardio?”
Another second’s pause and then another message from Lana.
“Hey again, just wanted to let you know that I sent you an e-mail containing all of the necessary paperwork. I encourage you to contemplate your decision before you move forward, but if you do decide that you want to pull out of the resort, then all you need to do is sign the attached documents, scan them in, and then send them back to me. I’ll take care of the rest. Okay, that’s it. Talk to you later.”
Lana’s second message confirmed the promising tone of her first. She honestly wasn’t mad. Everything was fine. Our friendship was unstrained. Tension I had been harboring in my shoulders released. Then my voicemail kicked over to the next message and the tension returned.
“Ingrid,” Koa said, more winded than before. “Are you home, or anywhere near Hanalei or Princeville? Give me a call as soon as you—What? No, I’m not asking her to do that—Give me a call as soon as you can. Thanks. Bye.”
“What the fuck?” I thought. “Why was he out of breath? Who was he talking to? Why was he calling me Ingrid? He never calls me Ingrid.”
Another second of silence passed followed by another message from Lana. This time her voice contained a hint of frustration.
“Hello again. Sorry to bombard your voicemail like this. I just wanted to make you aware of the fact that my father might try and contact you. I let him know that you were pulling out of the resort and he reacted more seriously than I would have guessed. It’s not a big deal; he can just be a bit temperamental. If he gets a hold of you just stand your ground and he’ll eventually back down. He’s just a pushy salesman. So, yeah, that’s it—for real this time. Talk to you later.”
Oh goddamn it, I thought. Lana’s dad was the last person that I wanted to talk to at that moment. The thought of conversing with him made my salivary glands produce the salty liquid that portends vomit. Ugh.
Busy contemplating ways to avoid speaking with Yukio, I missed the beginning of the next message. The first words that actually registered with me were the last few that Koa spoke: “We just need a place to lay low for a bit. We’re headed over right now.”
“Wait. What?” I said, to the empty room.
Then came a knock on the door.
Chapter 39
Rattled Cages
“Hey, beautiful,” Ethan said with a grin.
Kissing me on the cheek he made his way inside, strolling along in his typical carefree fashion. Charlie followed immediately after, drinking pop out of a fast food cup. Biggie Smalls followed five seconds after that, wheezing heavily. Evidently, the three steps leading to my front door took a lot out of her.
“What the hell are you guys doing here?” I asked curtly.
“Whoa, easy lady,” Ethan replied. “We just grabbed some dinner at Bubba’s and decided to stop by. Calm your titties.”
“Sorry, I’m just a little frazzled.”
“About what?”
I briefly considered a vague response but decided against it. There was no reason to be reticent and every reason to be frank, so I plowed ahead. My conflictual feelings about the resort, the HLF, Yukio, Koa, the island, the phone calls, all of it; I decided to talk about all of it. But as it turned out, I talked about none of it.
Before I could get started Ethan interjected with, “Lana’s here,”—pointing through my living room window toward the street—”Wait, no, that’s not Lana. That’s her car, but that’s not her. Oh shit, that’s her dad and he seems pissed.”
Looking out onto the street I watched as Yukio hopped out of Lana’s Mercedes and charged toward my house. Ethan was right. He was pissed. Within seconds of exiting the car he delivered a barrage of loud swift knocks on my front door. I didn’t want to answer but I had to, he could see us sitting there.
As I begrudgingly made my way to the door, another car skidded to a stop immediately behind the first. This time it really was Lana.
“What are you doing?” She yelled as she exited the second vehicle.
I could hear Lana clearly despite the fact that the door to my house was closed. She was that loud. There were now two pissed-off Okadas on my property. Fortunately, by the looks of things, the second one was on my side.
Abandoning her vehicle with the engine running and the door ajar, Lana crossed my lawn in pursuit of her father, reprimanding him as she covered the distance.
“You have absolutely no right to come to Freya’s house like this,” she lambasted. “According to the contract she can pull her money out within ninety days of putting it in. You don’t have to like it, but you have to allow it, and you certainly can’t come to her place of residence and verbally assault her about it. Get back in the car and go home.”
Yukio responded to Lana in an assertive yet controlled tone. The door that divided us prevented me from making out his words, but I got the gist of what he was saying and it was not in my favor. As soon as he finished, Lana recommenced the reproaching. This time, however, I was unable to hear her exact condemnation. The returning sound of her father’s fist slamming into my door overpowered her words.
“All right, let’s get this shit over with
,” I said, deciding to turn the handle and face the problem head on.
As I opened the door, Ethan got out of his chair and stepped to my side. It was a minor bit of chivalry that I didn’t need but did welcome.
“Listen here, young lady, do you have any idea the problems that you have caused!” Yukio reprimanded as he barged into my living room.
“Young lady?” I replied, amused and surprised by his decision to kick things off with a lot of condescension and a little misogyny. “Not sure that’s the tone I would adopt. You’re not going to change my mind by being a dick.”
“Excuse me?”
“I said you’re coming across as a sexist old douche, and I’m not going to respond well to that.”
“You will respond how I want you to respond, little girl. You are nothing but an uncooperative child, and I will put you back in line.”
“Nope. Nope. Nope.” Ethan muttered to Yukio under his breath. “Not the right approach.”
“Little girl? Uncooperative child?” I seethed. “Listen here, you ancient fuck. You can take your resort project and shove it up your loose, wrinkly asshole. I don’t want anything to do with it, and I definitely don’t want anything to do with you, so why don’t you just get the fuck out of my house.”
“I will not.”
“Yeah, you will.”
“No, I will not.”
“Oh, you definitely should,” Ethan advised in a quiet, I-know-what’s-coming-and-you-don’t-so-listen-to-me voice.
“Yeah, you definitely should,” I agreed.
“But I will not,” Yukio reasserted.
Tired of the bullshit back and forth, I turned around, opened my closet, and grabbed my .22.
“Yeah, you will,” I said, while cycling my rifle with a Hollywood-style, one-handed pump. It wasn’t the most responsible way to load a round into battery, but it was the most dramatic.
The country girl in me was certain that the clack-CLACK of the rifle would send Yukio, the polished businessman, scurrying out my front door with his tail between his legs, but the country girl in me was wrong.