January 1977. I am sitting in a jet. That jet is a United Airlines 747 and it is flying me to Hawaii. Sitting next to me, in the seat by the window, is Dorothy Jenkins. Good old Dorothy. We met about four hours ago at an all night party in Flint, Michigan. But now, here we are, traveling companions suddenly off on an exotic junket to a faraway tropical isle.
The pilot is addressing the passengers, telling us that if we look out our window right now we will see the city of Casper, Wyoming. Suddenly, though, it is as if Rod Serling has entered the body of the pilot for that is the voice that I begin to hear. I wait for him to add that we have just entered the Twilight Zone. He doesn’t, of course, because he is really just the pilot and we are really just flying over Wyoming. What is happening, coincidentally, is that for the first time in about twelve hours my physical condition is approaching something like sobriety. Though I find it amazing that my bodily organs, so taxed and abused, didn’t give up working years ago they’ve been hard at work over the last few hours at the process of once again detoxifying my foul system. Way up here, where the rest of me is often paralyzed with fear to the point that I can’t even concentrate on the pictures in a magazine, my little cells and tissues and aggregates thereof have been humbly performing their complicated, metabolic wonders.
Casper, Wyoming. It’s as if someone just blew a loud, verbal reveille deep in my subconscious. My brain, suspended for so long in a state of alcoholic catatonia is beginning to function once again. I make a mental note to remember that it is at this point – some thirty-thousand feet above Wyoming – that I begin to regain the use of that portion of the brain which governs reasoning. Not surprisingly it is at this point, also, that I find myself reexamining the virtues of my impulsive wanderlust. There are certain ramifications here which my previously dulled senses had no trouble in completely ignoring. Now, though, with the sun shining and the City of Casper gleaming beneath my feet, I am becoming sober and a part of me has some serious misgivings with respect to this little adventure.
But, like it or not, I am moving with great speed and with no choice now towards a tiny little string of islands in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. And moving right along with me, of course, is Dorothy.
The mood on the plane is festive with the male flight attendants dressed in vivid blue and white “aloha” shirts and the female attendants wearing skirts made from the same material. Our idyllic destination is further suggested by the fact that the majority of these employees appear to be real, live Hawiaan folks. They could be Polynesion or, for that matter, Eskimos with terrific tans. The airline knows that us dumb Midwesterners aren’t very good at making such fine distinctions. And at these prices we are content, even happy, to be fooled. While literally miles below us the cities of the desert are shining like rattlesnakes in the sun there is an air of gaiety and excitement, right now, aboard our high-flying, pressurized travel-tube.
Looking around the plane I notice that most of our fellow travelers are fiftiesh couples who, no doubt, have been saving for years to make this hedonistic pilgrimage. Among these folks Dorothy and I are certainly unique. While the people across the aisle have obviously been together so long that they’ve actually begun to look like each other, I’m not sure that Dorothy and I would be able to pick each other out of a police line-up. Considering the fact that we only met a few hours ago and given the fact that I have been drunk to the point of incoherence during most of that time we barely qualify as acquaintances. And our uniqueness as travel buddies on this flight does not end with the fact that we hardly know each other. I am also confident that we are the only people on this non-stop flight from Chicago to Honolulu who are carrying absolutely zero luggage. We have the clothes on our backs, Dorothy has her purse, and I have a small travel bag which I found fit comfortably under my seat. In that bag I have only a toothbrush (no toothpaste) and some non-prescription pain medication – hardly the provisions for a moderately hygienic weekend anywhere. Our clothing, too, is not exactly the standard by which a pair of globe-trotting sybarites would be judged. I have on an old pair of jeans, some heavily insulated hiking boots, and a hand-me-down sweater given to me a few years back by my brother-in-law (who wore it in high school in 1962). Dorothy looks slightly better, her diminutive but shapely frame stuffed into a tight-fitting pair of brown corduroy jeans, a cheap looking beige blouse made of some shiny material, and a pair of high-heeled clog shoes with white straps. Completing our wardrobes and stuffed into the compartment over our heads we both have the type of winter coat worthy of a Michigan winter or, for that matter, an Arctic expedition.
Gazing at Dorothy I see that she exudes a radiance not unlike that of a lottery contestant who, against all odds and by expending very little effort, has just won a major prize. However, unlike a lottery contestant who must first purchase a ticket in order to even have a chance at winning, Dorothy’s windfall was even more fortuitous. Out of nowhere, last night, a benefactor literally stumbled into Dorothy’s lap. It was a mindless act of philanthropy perpetrated not by any gaming commission nor television game show. It was I last night, in an act of drunken lunacy, who opened the gates of the world to Dorothy Jenkins.As an accomplice to this grand gesture of magnanimity I had one of the collective miracles of the twentieth century – my Visa credit card with it’s five-hundred dollar limit (which was overcharged considerably by the time we’d paid for our two, one-way tickets). That, incidentally, was the only credit card I’d ever carried. And while Dorothy and I have no real luggage neither do we have much real money. I have exactly forty-four dollars in cold, hard cash and Dorothy has two dollars and some change. Dorothy and I are unique, alright. We are probably the only two emotionally disturbed people traveling together on this aircraft.
Dorothy is talking to me now. She coos, “You’re my Bobby McGee, man….”
I am thinking about other things but manage a weak smile as, more and more, this is beginning to feel less like an exciting, impromptu adventure and more like a dilemma of considerable proportions. Apparently my reaction, for Dorothy, was lacking in sufficient enthusiasm.
With a hard look Dorothy implores, “You know, man – freedom’s just another word for nothin’ left to lose . . . ? !”.
She is looking at me intently now, seeking some kind of confirmation that 1) I heard what she said, and 2) I understand what she believes to be the profound applicability of those lyrics to our current situation. With great effort I force a devilish, affirmative laugh that I hope conveys, for once and for all, both my renegade spirit and the total synchronicity in which Dorothy and I are obviously feeling and thinking. Feeling like hell, I am desperately trying to muster some of that swashbuckling panache that seems to ooze from my every pore when I’m blind drunk. Foremostly, I am thinking that this whole fiasco had better result in my getting laid at some point. A second later the plane takes a one-hundred foot dip and I feel as though I am going to barf all over both of us.
As my sobriety increases I notice that my ability to talk comfortably with Dorothy decreases in inverse proportion. I keep thinking of that old Groucho Marx line wherein he states, to paraphrase, that he would never want to belong to a club that would have someone like himself as a member. I mean it’s one thing that I did this – I’ve been doing lesser crazy things for years. But this person, Dorothy!! Is she nuts? For all she knows I could be a serial killer or an insurance salesman. Luckily for me she just sits quietly most of the time, staring into middle space, dreamy-eyed and obviously feeling like a temporary winner in the game of life.
With Dorothy reveling silently in her sudden good fortune I find myself reviewing the events that led up to this wacky scenario. For the last year I’d traveled North America as a piano player with an absolutely awful, Vegas-style lounge act. Despite scathing reviews from critics and lukewarm receptions from audiences everywhere, the leader’s remarkable business acumen had kept us working steadily. In short, the money was good but the situation constituted a form of artistic prostitution that was becoming increasingly intolerable. When we took an extended vacation over the holidays I’d looked forward to seeing my ex-wife, with whom I’d been carrying on a torrid post-marital relationship for years. Arriving home I found, to my surprise, she’d finally become seriously involved with someone else. After three years of therapy I suppose it was inevitable that her mental health would improve to the point she’d finally dump me for good. With nothing to do I’d been hanging out with an old musician buddy, Carl Glover, and doing some serious research into the subject of how much alcohol a human could ingest before booze actually caused blindness or death. The previous night, with three weeks of vacation left and the temperature in Flint not rising above zero for the twenty-second day in a row, I suggested that he and I fly to Florida on my Visa card. We were old friends and I knew he’d pay me back. He had an important gig that week, though, and didn’t want to change his plans. Enter Dorothy.
Carl’s apartment is a place where people stop by to drink, hang-out, smoke a joint, and generally party. I’d barely noticed Dorothy, much less spoken to her, when she overheard my conversation with Carl and deftly seized the moment. Without as much as an introduction, as I recall, she volunteered to be my travel companion but immediately suggested that we go to Hawaii instead of Florida. I was lonely, bored, cold, and intoxicated to the point that if someone had volunteered to tatoo a map of Argentina on the head of my penis using a sewing needle it night have sounded like an interesting idea. Dorothy, though a stranger, was not completely unknown to me. She had a sister, four years her senior, who’d been a classmate of mine in high school and on whom I’d had a major crush. It was probably a testimony to the character of her older sister, Mary, that she would never give me the time of day. Dorothy, like her sister, was a very attractive young lady. She wasn’t my ex-wife but she was female, which is more than I could say for Carl. The airport wasn’t even a mile away and a quick phone call confirmed that a connecting flight to Chicago was leaving Flint in about an hour. The planets had aligned. Dorothy and I were going to Hawaii. Alcohol, women, loneliness, a job I hated – that’s how I ended up on this airplane.
“Oh man, may car….,” I mutter to no one in particular. Dorothy, my existentialistic co-pilot has nodded off. I just recalled that I left my 1968 Buick Skylark in the “short-term” parking lot at the airport in Flint. I’d bought it the day I arrived home, for seventy-five dollars, and it had proven to be extremely reliable transportation. Despite it’s rusting body and numerous inoperable factory options it had a weird kind of charm. Soon to be classified an abandoned vehicle, I just hoped hoped it would get picked up at the police auction so it wouldn’t have to suffer the indignity of being crushed.
Still three hours from Honolulu I am in the throes of a terrific hangover. The pounding in my temples feels less like a hangover and more like the harbinger of an impending cerebral hemorrhage. If someone didn’t know better the shaking in my hands might be mistaken for the final stages of some neuromuscular disease. From experience I know that the only cure is to keep drinking.
Without waking Dorothy I make my way to the forward booze station. There I find a spirit of conviviality and soon strike up a conversation with a dentist from Buffalo. He and his wife are on their way to Honolulu to see the Hawiaan Open. Somewhere along the line I explain the bizarre saga of myself and Dorothy. I notice that as he listens he cannot disguise a look of increasing discomfort and it is soon clear to me that the good tooth doctor is minimally impressed with our hutzpa and, instead, is likely entertaining some questions regarding our sanity. Meanwhile, a pretty stewardess has overheard my story and, unlike the dentist, she thinks it’s amusing and wonderful and voices her approval for such spontaneity. One bloody mary goes very fast and as I order the second it seems the entire crew knows our story.
Finally, having traversed enough time zones that our eight hour flight has been reduced to a three-hour trip, we are in the neighborhood. Everyone rushes to the left side of the airplane to catch a glimpse of Oahu. It really begins to sink in. In just a few short hours and with a total absence of planning I have traveled a third of the way around the globe. With my mind clearing I am much more cognizant of certain practical issues which could turn this otherwise award-winning drunk story into an outright disaster. Since I don’t have any siblings, my mother just filed bankruptcy, and my father is remarried to a woman that feels children should become financially independent of their parents by the age of sixteen, it dawns on me that I could be here for some time. Too, the band that I’ve been traveling with has about six-thousand dollars worth of my musical equipment in the back of their bus. If I don’t meet them for our next gig, in Roanoke, Virginia in about three weeks, I feel certain that they will burn or sell my my gear. Welcome, strangers, to paradise.
On the ground, as we prepare to deplane, the friendly stewardess brings Dorothy and I a bag full of apples and corned beef sandwiches on rye bread. As I’m thanking the attendant Dorothy suddenly becomes frantic, screaming that she’s lost her glasses.
“I haven’t seen you wearing glasses,” I remark with curiosity.
“I only wear them when I have to see really well,” she shoots back.
Given the level of her agitation I quickly surmise that she is one of those people who, out of vanity, walks around half blind much of the time. After all the other passengers are off the plane we are still searching for her specs but, ultimately, to no avail. Dorothy is condemned, it appears, to live out her Hawiaan experience in a state of uncorrected myopia.
In the airport there is the traditional “aloha” welcome with leighs from a grass-skirted bunch who we soon learn represent a manufacturer of Hawiaan shirts. For anyone who wants to partake there is a free shuttle-bus ride straight to the factory where, according to their spokesman, we can all get great deals on such native garb. For Dorothy and I, now with less than forty dollars in cash, it is a sales pitch that falls on deaf ears.
Dorothy, proving to be resourceful if unstable, has what she considers a foolproof plan for shelter. On the plane she’d gone on a great length about “youth hostels”, a form of lodging with which I’d been only vaguely familiar. On a trip to Europe the previous year, a gift from her wealthy parents, she told me that she’d stayed at a succession of these places. According to Dorothy youth hostels are operated by some sort of non-profit, international society and, in her opinion, we’d certainly find one in Honolulu. She described them as extraordinarily inexpensive and on the order of a glorified crash pad, a bed and breakfast for the down and out. I just hoped her instincts were right. Our alternative would likely involve a charge of misdemeanor vagrancy.
Since our minimalist approach to tourism does not involve having to wait for any luggage we get a jump on our fellow travelers and quickly find ourselves standing on the sidewalk in front of the airport. The air outdoors is balmy, sweet, and exhilarating. Inhaling deeply I marvel at the wonder of modern air travel. In a mere eight hours it was as if we’ve been transported, literally, to another world! Momentarily, I can’t help but get caught up in the contagious excitement of a busy airport: cars and busses coming and going, wide-eyed travelers moving in and out, business types racing to catch their flights, and on and on. The airport is an invigorating panorama. On the other hand, soon my psyche is finding it impossible to repress the disconcerting realities that surround this strange little excursion. I am in a bizarre state of dissonance, one moment feeling like a giddy vacationer and, alternately, struggling to subdue feelings of outrageous foolishness and abject panic. This mixture of wildly conflicting emotions, coupled with relative sobriety, has produced a condition of near paralysis. Standing on the sidewalk, in front of the airport, I am temporarily helpless.
Sensing my detachment the intrepid Dorothy volunteers to begin canvassing pedestrians for information on a youth hostel. Dorothy, I already sense, possesses the type of exceptional interpersonal skills that could best be described as “conniving”; I am in good hands – if anybody can find us a place to stay it’s probably Dorothy.
Before long Dorothy is waving to me excitedly from a few yards away, motioning me in her direction. Catching up she introduces me to Amy. Pregnant and with long, stringy hair Amy is clad in a drab, maoist-type peasant garb. She speaks in a friendly but detached sort of monotone and her vacant-eyed look gives the impression of some Woodstock refugee or former Manson family member. Good news, though! Not only is there a youth hostel in Honolulu but, as Amy explains, it’s right across the street from the University of Hawaii and right on the bus line. In fact, according to her, the bus should be along at any moment. We thank her profusely for her help and I immediately begin to regain some of the feeling I’d recently lost in my extremities.
From the windows of our bus we first begin to see the beauty that is Hawaii. Honolulu is ringed by lush, verdant mountains that are shrouded at their tops by rain-filled clouds. A fellow passenger explains that while the sun shines practically every day, almost like clockwork there is a gentle rain that falls in the afternoon as the clouds roll down from the mountains. Everywhere I look I see vibrant, wonderful new shades of green. The sensory input, especially to anyone whose spent an inordinate amount of time in Flint or Detroit, is akin to swallowing a hit of acid. Whatever happens, this is certainly an antidote for the mid-winter blahs.
Near the University we exit the bus and, after asking some directions, soon find ourselves at 331 Seaview Avenue. A barracks of sorts, single story and with screens not windows, is literally touching the sidewalk. This, we later learn, is the men’s dorm. Following a dirt path we wind around to the back to find an identical building, the girl’s dorm, and a small office.
As the screen door of the office slaps behind us we enter to find Mr. Akawa, the hostel’s director, seated behind a cluttered desk. A noisy electric fan, sitting on his desk, blows directly into his face before he rises stiffly to greet us.
“Welcome,” he says with a thick Japanese accent, “how may I help you?”
Wearing baggy, fatigue-colored shorts and a pointed cap that appears to be of military issue he looks as though he’s just stepped off the set of “Bridge Over the River Kwai”. As we explain ourselves he says little but, when he does speak, his manner is gruff and business-like. He explains that his assistant, Charlie, handles most of the details and points to young, Italian-looking kid reading a magazine over in the corner. At the mention of his name Charlie turns his head slowly and, with a cold stare, gives us a slow-motion sort of nod. With his close-cropped hair he radiates a menacing aura, looking more like an inmate than an employee. Finally, in another corner of the room, Mr. Akawa points out a three-legged dog that he warns will take off one of our legs if we mistakenly move too quickly in it’s general direction. The dog, he explains, is their to provide security. The only thing missing, it occurs to me, is a fire-eating midget on a unicycle. As if my life hadn’t been weird enough for the last day or so, the ambience in this place is straight out of a Fellini movie. Excusing himself, Mr. Akawa says that Charlie will explain the rates, some rules and regulations, and sign us in if we elect to stay.
Speaking in a soft voice Charlie advises us that men and women are not to enter each other’s dorms, drugs and alcohol are strictly forbidden, and there is a maximum allowable stay of eleven days. The eleven day limit, he adds , is routinely waived if we keep our “nose’s clean”. I notice that while he makes a conspicuous lack of eye contact as he speaks to us he does, occasionally, make furtive glances at Dorothy’s breasts. Rates include clean towels and linens and the use of a communal kitchen and showers. After an initial fee of nine dollars (for which we become official members of the International Youth Hostel Association – whatever the hell that means) the one night occupancy rate, he tells us, is a dollar and-a-half!. At first I think I’m dreaming. Is he kidding – this is Honolulu, this is Hawaii! It crosses my mind that this place must be a lot worse than it appears, but who cares? I’m ecstatic and we have the paperwork filled out in record time.
Having overcome the obstacle of finding a place to stay I now turn my attention to the subject of Dorothy and I. Is she someone with who I have anything in common? If so, am I about to experience an incredibly wild sexual affair in this equatorial Eden? If it turns out that we have nothing in common is there still a possibility that we could have wild sex? Is she a gay? Even if she is, wouldn’t a little straight sex be the least she do for me under the circumstances? Who is this crazy person, Dorothy, and am I ever going to get laid?
Dorothy and I are both overdue for a shower so we split up to get clean. Out in the dorm room, after a hasty shower, I spot a lower bunk that looks vacant and grab a seat. There are enough bunk beds to accommodate forty or so guys and now, in late afternoon, the room is alive with activity. Scanning the place I sense it’s genuinely international flavor; there are people of all different shapes, sizes, and colors and a cacophony of strange accents and languages fills the air.
A few bunks away two oriental men who’ve been laughing and carrying on an animated conversation in their native tongue look my way and give me a polite nod.
“Hey guys, what’s goin’ on? I’m from Michigan. Where are you from?”, I query. They simply smile, nod again, and continue to chatter and giggle amongst themselves.
From across the room a friendly voice chuckles, “You’re wasting you time, believe me. They don’t know two words of English between them.” Looking in the direction of the voice I see a long, smiling fellow lying on an upper bunk with a book in his hand.
“Oh well”, I joke, “I guess I can’t say anything to offend these guys.”
He laughs and replies, “So you’re from Michigan, huh? I’m a fellow Midwesterner. From Chicago – my name’s Kurt Hart, what’s yours?”. I walk over to introduce myself and shake his hand. With a chuckle, Kurt adds, “Yeah, those two had better learn to speak the language. They could be here for a long time.”
From somewhere – obviously not straight from the two men – Kurt has learned the details of their unlucky predicament. He explains that they are brothers traveling from Korea who’d saved for a couple of years to vacation in Hawaii. They’d purchased two round-trip tickets from Korean Airlines to make their journey and were just about to head home when the airline went belly-up. Their family, apparently not flush with cash (like my own), hasn’t been able to raise the money to get them out of here. Holding a couple of utterly worthless tickets and not speaking any English, they’ve basically been scratching their behinds and hanging out for the last five weeks while the clan back in Korea is working overtime to buy them new tickets. It’s more comedy than tragedy and the two brothers seem to be taking it all in stride. For the first time in a day or so I can’t help but laugh aloud.
“So what are you doing in Hawaii?”, I ask Kurt.
Back in Chicago, he explains, he’d been a librarian whose avocation was marathon running. One day, disgusted with his life of confinement in the library, he simply walked out. A few days later, equally disgusted with Chicago’s polar winter, he was on a plane bound for Honolulu. Hawaii, he explains, is a great place to train for marathon running. He offers me a protein shake of some sort, which I decline, and says that he lives on nothing but these and raw vegetables.
“You’ll love Hawaii”, he tells me. “I’ve been here three weeks and I’ve never felt better.” The cadaverous Kurt, speaking in a deep baritone, seems a kind and gentle spirit. “So what are you doing in Hawaii?”, he inevitably asks.
“Well, speaking of marathons, I was sort of on a marathon drunk”, I begin. I explain to Kurt that I was at a party, bored out of my skull, dead drunk and depressed about everything imaginable. As I start to recount the details of my little unplanned holiday, including the stranger named Dorothy, I nervously anticipate Kurt’s reaction. In a condition of absolute sobriety this is the first time I’ve had to explain myself. Kurt, however, is only smiling from ear to ear and laughing quietly in disbelief.
“So what are you gonna do?”, he asks when I’m finished.
“Hell, I don’t know. I’m pretty short on cash. Maybe I’ll just get a job and stay for awhile. I”ve got a bunch of musical equipment in the back of a band’s tour bus, though. If I don’t show up to work with ’em in about three weeks, in Virginia, I can pretty much kiss my shit goodbye……”.
He laughs again and adds, reassuringly, “You’ll figure it all out. Might as well relax and enjoy yourself while you’re here. Hey, you’re in Hawaii. Enjoy it while you can.”
Listening to me and laughing all the while, as I talk to Kurt, is a clean-cut guy a few bunks away. Shaking with laughter he enthusiastically walks over and extends his hand.
“Brent Dewar – Brent Dewar from Sydney, Australia”, he offers. “I couldn’t help overhear your story. It’s terrific – ya’ actually got drunk and flew off to Hawaii with some gal ya’ don’t even know?!!.” He obviously finds the tale wildly amusing and the behavior almost commendable. “I’m serious, more folks should act like that, act on instinct in other words. I mean it sounds crazy but hey, don’t get me wrong, I think it’s the way to go!” “Hey Graham!”, he shouts looking towards the door. “Come here, buddy, I want to introduce you to Guy. He got drunk at a party in Michigan and just flew off to Hawaii with a broad he’d just met….”.
After introducing me to an Australian pal Brent tells me that as a gift for graduating from business college his parents gave him a low-budget trip around the world. Now on the last leg of his trip he’s stayed at youth hostels all over the globe. Brent appears to be about my age (twenty-four) and has the kind of likable, outgoing good-nature that likely made him the life of many an Australian frat party and will surely make him a fortune in business.
“Hey, Guy”, he begins, “Graham and me are going down to Wakaiki tomorrow and – “.
“Hey – whose shit is this?”, a loud voice barks.
Turning around I see a tall, African American glaring around the room as he stands next to the bunk where I’d briefly sat and left my travel bag.
“Ah, that’s mine,” I stammer. “What’s the problem?”
“The problem is, this is my bed! What are you, new or somethin’? Beds are assigned. Shit, man.”
Apologizing and explaining that nobody had told me, I grab my bag. Waving to the other guys in the dorm I head towards the office to ask Charlie where I’m supposed to sleep.
Charlie, who again speaks to me without once looking me in the eye, informs me that there’s a bit of a problem in that regard. The hostel is overbooked. I’ll be sleeping in a two-man tent pitched on a grassy area between the office and the rear of the men’s dorm. Hey, I’m from Michigan, I’m a camper, what the hell?
Exiting the office I see Dorothy for the first time since we showered. She’s standing a few feet away talking to some guy whose head, held at an angle, bobs perpetually up and down as they converse.
“Hey, what’s up?”, I interject.
“Oh, Guy, this is Doug”, Dorothy answers. “We’ve been talking about life. He’s got some great stories. It’s like he’s from all over, from everywhere and from nowhere….”.
Dorothy seems strangely enchanted by, what I would term, Doug’s condition of homelessness.
After Doug and I exchange greetings I mention to Dorothy that I’ll be camped out in the tent for a few nights.
“Hey, cool man,” says Doug. “You must be my new roommate. I’ve been sleepin’ in the tent for the last couple of days.”
“Yeah,” I respond without much excitement. “Well, it’ll be an experience I guess.”
Since I’m hungry, and sober, this seems like a good time to grab some dinner and begin the overdue process of actually getting to know Dorothy.
“Hey, I’m not in the mood for a corned beef sandwich. What do you say we go grab something to eat?”, I ask her. “The guys told me there’s a little café around the corner with great Chinese food.”
“Yeah. I”m hungry, too”, she responds. Turning to Doug, she blurts, “Hey, Doug”, why don’t you come with us to eat? It’ll be fun. We can all really get to know each other.”
Terrific! As if I won’t have more than enough time to get to know Doug. For the next few nights, anyway, we’ll be sleeping in what amounts to a goddamned pup tent together.
“Oh man, I’m pretty broke,” Doug mercifully replies. ” I’ve got some sandwiches in my pack. I’m cool. I’ll catch you guys later.”
“Hey, money’s not a problem. We’ll buy,” says Dorothy.
We’ll buy?!! Is she crazy? At my expense, and with the last few dollars I have, she’s throwing a dinner party and inviting another stranger? While it’s occurred to me that if I act quickly I might be able to get a cash advance on my Visa card (they’re usually a day or two behind in processing), if not, there may not be another decent meal in our foreseeable futures.
Before I can voice an objection, or simply strangle her, Dorothy smiles at me and says, “Oh, I borrowed thirty dollars from this girl I met from Australia. She gave me her address and I’m gonna pay her back.”
Back at Carl’s apartment Dorothy had resolutely stated, when I’d paused for a moment to consider Hawaii versus Florida, that she’d pay me back, too. Her list of creditors had suddenly become international. And, on the plane, I’d suggested that we should get temporary, menial jobs if it meant surviving. Dorothy had agreed. But I was beginning to doubt Dorothy’s credibility, now, where matters of money were concerned. Watching her whimsically disburse borrowed money she appeared, more and more, an irresponsible and inveterate mooch. To her credit I suppose, securing a loan from anybody staying at a youth hostel seemed akin to getting a sip of water from someone else’s canteen while stranded on a deserted island. It was arguably a triumph, a mooch of major proportions. And, not without imperfection myself I remained committed to having sex with her if humanly possible.
Over dinner Doug regales us with his the details of his itinerant lifestyle. For the last few years he’s been riding freight trains around California, doing odd jobs, and usually sleeping on park benches. Small in stature and looking pale, though only twenty-two Doug’s visage is already beginning to reflect the hardships of his hobo existence. While, to me, the story of his life feels like some dismal, dust bowl saga Dorothy appears inexplicably bewitched by his tale. I’m aware that Doug and I are equally bewitched by the vision of Dorothy. Petite, with Native-American ancestry that lends her beautiful dark eyes and skin, she fills out her jeans and top in a way that makes it difficult to concentrate on the chicken show-yu.
When I can get a word in edgewise Dorothy and I share a few laughs and, to a limited extent, talk about a plan. Dorothy, however, is clearly keeping me at arms length. Her focus on Doug may be a device, I consider, to avoid having an unwanted relationship with myself based only on a feeling of indebtedness. On another level, the idea that she may actually find this cretin attractive is even more disturbing. At ant rate, feeling reasonably dejected after dinner I spot a liquor store kitty-corner from the café. Grabbing a pint of peppermint schnapps I’m hoping that it will both ease my pain and incline Dorothy to become a little more forthcoming – physically, if not emotionally.
Back at the hostel I suggest to Dorothy that she and I take a walk and find someplace to discreetly adjust our attitudes with a little booze. In front of Doug, however, she naughtily proposes that it would be more fun if she snuck in the tent so we could all party together. Great. Already I’m extremely bored and irritated with this little menage-a-trois. Catching me too tired to argue Dorothy, once again, prevails.
In the tent we share the bottle and, for the most part, listen to Doug as he continues to dominate the conversation with a further accounting of his nomadic life. He does offer one interesting nugget of information. Rumor has it, he says, that the shifty-eyed Charlie is under investigation for allegedly having raped a female lodger. This is one of the few things to come out of Doug’s mouth that I completely believe. With an insidious laugh and squeaky voice that make me think of Fagan in Oliver, he generally strikes me as having the credibility of a jailhouse snitch.
Still, while he and I both do our best to flirt with Dorothy I feel that Doug is gaining the most ground. I am arguably handicapped, however, as no one else appears to give a damn that our tent is located dangerously close to the front door of the office. While Dorothy frequently laughs with wild abandon and Doug indiscriminately uses his flashlight to point around the tent, I find myself wondering where I’ll be sleeping tomorrow night. Even with the booze I am unable to whole-heartedly participate in such high-spirited revelry. For Dorothy the highlight of the evening appears to be when Doug – using his flashlight – demonstrates his mastery at palming coins. He is truly a flim-flam man and I remind myself to sleep with my travel bag, which contains my clothes and wallet, under my pillow tonight.
With Dorothy having made a safe exit, I consider that in one night we have managed to break the only two rules set forth by the management. The night air is warm and moist and I find myself thinking about my ex-wife. Caring, intelligent, honest, and very horny most of the time, I wish I were traveling with her instead of Dorothy. I fall asleep my first night in Hawaii surrounded by strangers, knowing Dorothy only slightly better than I did the night we met.
Feeling the heat of the sun, I open my eyes slowly and gaze motionlessly at the vibrant flora that constitutes the floor of my abode. Very close to my face, I notice that one leaf is oddly changing colors. Realizing that it’s a chameleon the size of a small iguana I yell, “Shit,” and sit bolt upright with a jolt. Simultaneously the chameleon leaps and disappears under the edge of the tent.
“Hey, what’s up man?,” ask a bleary-eyed Doug.
“Oh, a lizard – or a chameleon, or whatever the hell they call them. He was sleeping next to my head. Startled the shit out of me,” I explain.
“Man, they’re everywhere around here. They don’t bite. Better get used to ’em,” he laughs.
“Yeah, you’re probably right,” I grumble. I don’t feel like telling Doug that I’ve got a pretty serious reptile phobia. Speaking of reptiles, as I gaze at Doug, it occurs to me that a little chameleon shouldn’t bother me; I’m already sleeping next to a very large snake.
Under a sky of piercing blue the dew is just beginning to turn to steam as I head for the shower. Entering the dorm I see Brent who, along with a cheery hello, offers to share some of his boxed cereal with Dorothy and I if we feel like having breakfast. I accept while silently thanking God for the good will of the Australians.
Eating breakfast at the picnic table with Brent, Graham, and Dorothy we all agree to go to Waikiki together. Doug, thankfully, has chosen to sleep late. At the other end of the exceptionally long table, as we eat, is a short, red-haired fellow sipping a cup of coffee.
“Hey Ron,” says Brett in a good natured tone, “we’re all going to Waikiki. Why don’t you come along. You don’t wanna sit around here all day by yourself.”
“Naw. I don’t feel like doing much of anything today. I’m just gonna hang out here”, he says flatly. “Thanks anyway.”
Speaking under his breath, Brent explains, “That’s Ron. Got here a few days before I did. He’s from Vancouver and – get this – his wife ran off with his brother. Sits around all day doin’ nothin’ except grinding his teeth. Sad case.”
Ron, probably weighing the relative merits of suicide versus double homicide, just continues to sip his coffee and stares straight ahead. There is a deadness in his eyes, as if they’re incapable of being focused. He gives the appearance of someone who, having heard that there was shortage of misery in paradise, has brought enough for everyone.
Taking the bus towards downtown we disembark at Ala Moana Mall, much nearer the ocean but still a considerable distance from the beach. The mall, we learn, is a hub of commerce in the downtown area and almost every bus makes a stop here to load and unload passengers. While it is not yet noon the mall is already mobbed.
Still wearing my brother-in-law’s sweater I am not only distinguishing myself, amongst the throng, by looking singularly idiotic but I am also near the point of collapse given the heat. As the rest of the group heads in one direction to grab an Orange Julius, I spy a T-shirt shop.
“You go ahead”, I tell Dorothy firmly, “get an Orange Julius. I’ll catch up with you guys.”
I do not want Dorothy’s company at the moment. Since we are both almost completely out of money I sense that this is a scenario that could turn ugly. Being female, and especially being Dorothy, I’m sure that regardless of our dire financial straits she will not be able to enter a retail clothing establishment, simply watch as I purchase something for myself, and then leave without feeling enormously slighted. Our resources, still intertwined, must be conserved. And whereas my getting out of this sweater is bordering on a legitimate, medical emergency Dorothy looks perfectly comfortable in her short-sleeved, flimsy blouse.
Obviously catering to tourists, like everything else in Honolulu, the store specializes in t-shirts of the pricey, air-brushed variety and the distinctively Hawaiin aloha shirts. Spotting a bargain rack I look only for price and size. All emblazoned with messages or pictures I don’t care if I find something that identifies me as a member of the American Communist Party. I settle on a green shirt which bears the phrase, “Here Today, Gone to Maui”. After paying for my shirt I am left with about four dollars and fifty cents. Finances notwithstanding, with the exception of my hiking boots (which I’m now wearing without socks), I look slightly more like an authentic tourist.
Catching up with the group we hit the sidewalk, walking in the direction of the beach. As a group of people walks by going in the opposite direction Brent turns and, with a look of amazement, shouts, “Melissa, Melissa?!!”
A pretty young female turns around and, with equal surprise, clearly recognizes Brent.
“I can’t, I can’t remember your name,” she stutters.
“Wow,” he says, “This is wild. Brent Dewar from Australia. The hostel in Ottawa, remember?!”
Never one to forget a name the businessman-to-be explains that he and Melissa had met a few weeks before when they’d both been staying at a youth hostel in Ottawa, Canada. Melissa is from Nova Scotia. She, too, is traveling around the world.
After exchanging greetings Brent makes introductions and, of course, laughs heartily as he retells the strange story of Dorothy and I. My impression is that Melissa and her friends, as they listen without comment, find the whole story less entertaining and more on the order of an academic inquiry into some form of psychosis. .
Almost at the beach I see a bank across the street. Telling Dorothy and the others that I need to see if I they can determine my Visa card balance, I dart across the busy thoroughfare. Inside the bank, in reality, I manage to obtain a two-hundred dollar cash advance. Feeling a tremendous sense of relief I vow to keep my good fortune to myself; if Dorothy finds that I am this solvent she will quickly piss away what little money she has left and turn to me, that much sooner, for spending money.
At the beach, with Diamondhead in the background, the sun sparkles off the emerald green water and the white sand is almost phosphorus. Lined with palms and brushed with the fragrant, sea air the atmosphere is simply one of heaven. There is no postcard nor picture that can adequately convey the awesome beauty of this setting.
“Come on,” I yell to Dorothy excitedly, “let’s get our feet wet!” Even without socks, my feet feel as if they’ve been in an oven.
Kicking of my boots I race into the water, soaking my jeans up to the knees. While I am completely intoxicated by the experience, Dorothy reluctantly removes her clogs and wades ankle deep into the water.
“My God, is this great or what?!”, I exclaim to Dorothy. “Come on out,” I holler.
“There could be sharks out there. I’m not goin’ any further,” is her unemotional response.
And we could get hit on the head by an asteroid, too, I think to myself.
Taking the few short steps back to dry land Dorothy begins knocking the muddy sand from her feet with brisk, annoyed whacks.
“Yuch,” she snaps,”we should have brought some towels.”
Immersed in this bucolic setting and still able to complain she seem a paragon of petulance, the archetypical Jewish princess (even though she’s Catholic).
Dragging myself up onto the beach I rip off my shirt and sit next to Dorothy. As we watch Brent and Graham romping in the water I nod to a native-looking fellow sitting just to my left.
“New to Hawaii?”, he asks in a friendly tone.
“Yeah,” I answer. “Do you live here?”
“Born and raised. In fact I’ve never been off the islands,” he says.
I invite him to sit with us and he introduces himself as Russell. He’s actually half Hawaiin and half Japanese. Twenty years old and studying to be an electrician he says he spends much of his spare time at the beach simply watching the sea and the tourists. A small man, he speaks in a soft, friendly voice and has a pensive quality that reminds me of some oriental sage.
He accepts the story of Dorothy and I with an easy nonchalance and without any perceptible judgement. Hanging out at the beach he’s, no doubt, seen it all. Paradoxically, while the whole world dreams of going to Hawaii Russell’s dream is of visiting the mainland. He’s saving his money to make his first trip.
“I like the tourists,” he says, “but every year it gets more crowded. It’s, like, so commercialized, everywhere you look. I’ve got island fever,” he says as he looks out at the crashing waves.
As Dorothy gets up to get a drink of water from a fountain, Russell’s eye’s follows her.
“Then are you two, like, together, or what?”, he probes. While Russell has the demeanor of an aesthetic, he’s obviously no eunuch. Quickly he adds, “I hope you don’t take that as an offense. I was just curious.” His manner is gentlemanly and he seems truly embarrassed for having asked the question.
“No,” I chuckle, “that’s okay. No, we’re not really together. Not like that.”
As if apologizing for his perceived breach of etiquette Russell confesses that he just broke up with his girlfriend of three years about a month ago.
“Listen my friend, if you could get somewhere with Dorothy you’d have my blessing,” I say, just barely teasing. ” I can’t even hardly get her to talk to me. She’s a strange one.”
Obviously still uncomfortable for having asked the question, and with Dorothy headed our way, he suggests that Dorothy and I go to the Honolulu Zoo to get to know one another. Not only is it a great zoo, he says, but it’s right on the bus line and probably the least expensive tourist stop in Honolulu.
As Dorothy approaches from one direction Brent and Graham come running up from the water.
“Hey,” says Brent, “Graham and I are gonna go snorkeling up at Haunama Bay. It’s supposed to be beautiful. Why don’t you and Dorothy come along?”
“Thanks'”, I reply, “but you guys have got bathing suits and towels and everything. I think we’re gonna go to the zoo. We’ll see you guys back at the hostel.”
“Alright,” says Brent. “Well, have fun at the zoo. Be careful, though, they may try to put you two in a cage,” he cracks.
With Dorothy in agreement we say goodbye to everyone and head off for the bus stop.
Once seated on the bus I open a newspaper which I’d bought from a box near the beach. Thumbing through the paper I find an abundance of dead-end, low paying jobs that would at least keep us afloat for awhile and eventually pay for return tickets. While I’m excited by the plentitude of such jobs and attempt to discuss the possibilities with Dorothy, she says little and is clearly unenthusiastic regarding the prospect of gainful employment.
It crosses my mind to ask about her sister, Mary. From the beginning, like a trump card, I have been consciously reserving the topic of Mary in the event that Dorothy and I could find no other common ground for conversation. My two-year pursuit of Dorothy’s sister had culminated in one of those humiliating, teenage rejections that border on the traumatic. Was there any possibility that my name had ever come up in conversation? If I jogged some buried memory would I immediately be branded a loser, a loser with whom sexual relations would even constitute a break with family tradition? I couldn’t imagine Mary, sweet and down-to-earth, having a marginally substantive discussion with Dorothy about anything. Though the subject still makes my palms sweat these are desperate times.
“So what’s your sister doing? I graduated with her, you know? ” I ask nervously.
Warming just a bit as she talks about her family she explains that Mary got married two weeks after graduation and has twin sons. An older brother, three years older than myself, is a pilot in the Air Force and is currently on a list of finalists to be chosen as an astronaut. Finally, and to my great relief, she says that she doesn’t recall her sister mentioning my name.
“Were you guys good friends?” she asks.
“Aah, we only had a couple of classes together, that’s about it. Basically, I knew who she was,” is my perjures response. Mary and I were together in band, school plays, student council, and about seventy-percent of our classes for four years.
With the sun blazing through the bus windows and the palm trees passing by, as I gaze at Dorothy I think of Mary. I also recall, for the first time in years, the rumor that a mutual, female friend of ours had shared. According to my friend Mary had been sexually molested by her father. Maybe, I consider, this is what makes Dorothy run.
At the zoo Dorothy, once again, seems preoccupied and supremely bored with my company. While I am animated and vocal about the dazzling sights, Dorothy seems to be somewhere else. She
has the emotional accessibility, almost, of a paid escort. Our afternoon at the zoo has hardly been the date-like experience that Russell had tried to orchestrate.
With the shadows growing long, in late afternoon, we leave the zoo and head for the bus stop. At a loss to make conversation with Dorothy and having waited for what seems like an eternity for the bus I decide to use a nearby payphone to call my father. In Flint I’d been staying in a spare bedroom at he and his wife’s house and, by now, I am probably presumed dead.
His reaction is not surprising. Though aware that I’m a bit unpredictable when mixed with liquor, he is still amazed that I ‘m actually in Hawaii. He asks me twice to repeat myself believing that he has somehow misunderstood what I’ve just said. Vaguely amused, and aware that I’d better have be in Virginia in a few weeks or risk losing my equipment and my job, to my relief he ends the conversation by saying that if necessary he’ll float me a loan to help me get home. I fail to tell him,
though, that I am have conflicting feelings about returning at all. There is a part of me that would just like to stay in this place indefinitely.
After waiting for more than an hour we can only presume that the bus has been hijacked or has broken down somewhere. Trekking in the direction of Waikiki and feeling, in true Bobby McGee
fashion, “faded as my jeans” I suggest we have a drink as we pass a little place called the Crow’s Nest. Lying, I tell Dorothy that Brent has loaned me twenty dollars. Once inside Dorothy slowly nurses a Pina Colada as I quickly down three beers. Suddenly the distance between Dorothy and I seems of much less consequence. This is due in equal part to the alcohol and to the friendliness of a pretty, blonde barmaid named Susan. She is a gregarious, extroverted sort who shares my sense of humor and who genuinely reminds me of my ex-wife (who was making a fortune as a barmaid when we met).
Rising from my stool to go the men’s room I feel extraordinarily light-headed, as if I’ve had far more to drink than three beers. Glancing in the mirror of the restroom, however, I realize that I’ve gotten an overdose of sunshine and not booze. While Dorothy’s Indian ancestry had allowed her to simply turn a darker shade of brown over the course of the day, the exposed parts of my body look like pieces of raw chicken that have touched a smoldering, iron skillet. Saying goodbye to Susan, Dorothy and I go out the front door to catch the last few minutes of a glorious sunset over Waikiki Beach.
Walking the short distance to the beachfront Dorothy and I can’t help but pause and look skyward as the colors reach a vivid climax. With the sound of the waves washing against the beach and the sky painted with flourescent ribbons of red and orange, it’s a setting of ethereal splendor.
The heat and the exercise, mixed with three beers and this placid imagery, combine to produce a barbiturate effect; I feel as though I cannot walk another inch. Flopping on a nearby bench I watch Dorothy pace idly up and down the sidewalk as she looks, I presume, for a University bus.
Soon a voice shouts, “Hey folks, how ’bout a ride?”
Turning my head I see an angular looking fellow braking hard on the pedals of what could best be described as a rickshaw attached to a bicycle.
“Wherever you folks are headed, that’s where I’m goin’,” he barks from the curb. “Too nice a night to take the bus. C’mon, how ’bout a ride in the pedi-cab?”
“I don’t know,” I answer, “we’ve gotta go all the way to the University.”
“Yeah”, he laughs, “that’s quite a ways – and uphill! Hey, how ’bout a ride to Ala Moana. You can catch your bus down there. Hey, you can’t visit Hawaii and not take a pedicab ride. It’s a tourist thing. You gotta do it!”
. After negotiating a three-dollar fare, including tip, Dorothy and I climb aboard. Wiry, tanned, and hyper-kinetic, the driver tells us his name is Buzz. Like a crazed tour guide he talks non-stop, mostly describing passing tourists in hysterically funny, insulting terms as they appear to be dangerously within earshot. It seems his job is to provide entertainment as well as transportation. With his pony-tail sticking out behind his ball cap he’s Don Rickles on three wheels.
He listens to our story as if it were nothing out of the ordinary. In his native California, he says, he’d been a short-order cook. He’d come to Hawaii for a vacation a year and-a-half ago, fell in love with the place, and just stayed. Within a few weeks he was raking in the dough pedaling tourists around Honolulu.
“Ya’ gotta love it,” he says emphatically. “Smell the air. Does it smell like that in Michigan?” he asks with a wry laugh. “I don’t think so. Yeah, go back to Nebraska you morons,” he barks at some passing innocents with cameras around their necks.
Dropping us off at the mall I feel as though I’ve absolutely gotten my three dollars worth and feel compelled to tip him fifty cents.
Having caught our bus and arrived back at the hostel we immediately see Brent who is ebullient even by his standards. While snorkeling at Haunama Bay he’d actually caught a ride on a sea turtle! He and Graham are going again tomorrow and Dorothy and I make tentative plans to go along.
As Dorothy and I sit across from each other at the communal picnic table, Doug saddles up next to Dorothy. Poring over the help-wanted section of the newspaper, which I’ve carried all day, I come across a few things that seem as though they might interest Dorothy. As I read them to her, aloud, she occasionally expresses a weak interest which I suspect is feigned.
Doug, in a conspiratorial whisper, has overheard our conversation and begins to describe his own plan for salvation. It’s a scam involving stealing the tickets off luggage at the airport and then claiming, to the airlines, that his luggage has been stolen. He is then reimbursed for the supposed
loss. Snickering, he says, this is how he paid his way to Hawaii. While I am not paying particular attention as he describes the vagaries of his felonious pastimes, Dorothy is rapt. Doug begins to look more like Bobby McGee every day. Sunburned and tired from the heat, I excuse myself and go to bed early.
Falling asleep I accept the fact that Dorothy and I ever having any sort of romantic involvement is completely out of the question. Our relationship has become increasingly awkward and, after just a couple of days, no longer even qualifies as a comfortable form of companionship. Back at Carl’s I’d wanted to escape more than just the cold. I was looking for the comradery of an old friend and, when Carl declined the invitation, I’d drunkenly seen Dorothy as an acceptable substitute for my ex-wife. Not only is Dorothy unlike my ex-wife in every conceivable way but, further, she is proving herself a lousy substitute for the companionship of a cocker spaniel.
The next morning Dorothy and I take the bus make to Haunama Bay with Brent and Graham. Ringed by high, rocky cliffs Haunama Bay, with its translucent and aqua-colored water, is indescribably beautiful. Like Buzz, gliding blissfully through life on his pedi-cab, I am finding it more difficult every day to think about leaving this place. Still, I have to be prepared for any eventuality. Since I really don’t want to borrow from my Dad I calculate that if I budget carefully, and if I earn just a few bucks over the next two weeks, I can easily buy my own ticket home. And though I’m willing to help Dorothy to a degree, I think I’ve made it clear to her that my resources are limited and that I am no longer willing to be viewed simply as a rich uncle. If she doesn’t show a little initiative I refuse to be at all concerned about how -or if – she ever gets home. She can swim the Pacific and hitchhike to Michigan for all I care.
Dorothy and I spend the next few days hanging out at Waikiki and, ostensibly, searching for jobs. While I read the newspaper and frequently use the payphone to inquire about particulars, Dorothy routinely dismisses any possibilities that would apply to her with a variety of preposterous objections. It is plain that we are involved in a charade of sorts. Despite the fact that she’d agreed to this whole idea it would be an understatement, now, to say that Dorothy is not earnestly seeking work.
By the morning of the fifth day, as we walk along the sidewalk in front of Wakaiki, the pressure
beneath the surface of our non-relationship has been like the prolonged rubbing of tectonic plates beneath a fault line. An earthquake is inevitable. Though I’ve still got about a hundred and seventy-five dollars stashed away I tell Dorothy that, after paying for tonight’s lodging, we will be broke. I add, with sarcasm, that if she can’t click her heels to get our asses home we had better take whatever temporary kinds of jobs we can find.
At this Dorothy turns to me and snaps, “I don’t wanna get a job, man!” Her annoying tone is reminiscent of one of those laughably overblown, hippie-type caricatures from an old episode of Dragnet.
Both her facade and my patience are now totally shattered. I ask her abruptly, then, just what she plans to do for food and shelter.
Turning away from me Dorothy growls, “I’ve gotta make a phone call!”
Dialing from a pay phone next to the beach Dorothy’s collect phone call to her father offers a glimpse into a relationship in which boundaries and roles seem strangely blurred. Berating him and ranting almost violently, she demands that he send her money it’s as if she were scolding a child for his bad behavior.
“You owe me!” she shouts repeatedly. The abusive manner in which she speaks to her father is some sort of family dynamic which I find both alien and disturbing. Had I ever spoken to my parents in this way I would certainly been put up for adoption or, at least, beaten passionately. Even if the rumors I’d heard about her father are true it is inconceivable to me that a child, under any circumstances, could talk to a parent in this way. The image of Dorothy as simply a lazy opportunist is giving way to a picture of a diagnosably narcissistic monster. It’s as if she’s auditioning for the lead in a remake of “The Bad Seed”.
After putting Dorothy momentarily on hold, her father comes back on the line to say he’s prepaid a ticket for her and that her return flight leaves tomorrow morning. Hanging up without as much as a thank you, Dorothy and I stand on the sidewalk with very little to discuss. If she and I had never shared in one true, powerful human emotion we share, now, in our mutual disgust for each other. Both wanting to avoid any unnecessary conversation I hand her bus fare back to the hostel and Dorothy and I go our separate ways.
Dorothy and I had enjoyed a rare degree of incompatibility and I find myself surprisingly glad to have her leaving. Humorless and parasitic – though extremely good looking – ultimately our association had only served to magnify the virtues of my former wife while keeping me irritably horny.
Thumbing through my newspaper, I find an ad that catches my eye. “Get Cash Daily. No experience necessary. Will train. Apply ‘The Cab Company’. At the bottom there is a phone number.
Driving a cab certainly seems an unlikely vocational choice, even temporarily. I’ve only been in Honolulu a week and, thus far, I haven’t even been to the other side of the island. And unlike the mainland where streets city streets usually form a grid I’ve already realized that the island streets of Oahu are something of an asymmetric maze. Finally, any new arrival to Hawaii quickly finds a remarkable lack of consonants in most street names. Made up of long strings of vowels separated, invariably and insufficiently, only by some combination of the letters “n”, “k”, or “l” the names are confusingly similar. Aware that the phrase “no experience necessary” was not meant to describe a thorough lack of experience with the geography I find myself willing to downplay this shortcoming at the prospect of getting “cash daily”.
Using the pay phone I dial the number. A perky sounding female voice on the other end of the line quickly informs me that The Cab Company is “desperate” for drivers and encourages me to come to their office immediately. When I nervously ask about general requirements she simply evades the question by restating, in a very encouraging tone, that they are “really looking for drivers” and then asking me if I’d like directions to their office. I get the feeling that these people, for one reason or another, may really be desperate. And for the last week or so my life has been nothing if not a tapestry of implausible events woven together by a thread of mutual desperation. So what else is new? Maybe I’ll actually get a job. With nothing to lose and with directions in hand I am soon on the bus and headed for The Cab Company.
Across town I enter the office somewhat apprehensively to see a heavy-set women seated at a desk. After we exchange greetings I explain that I’d called about a driver’s position about thirty minutes ago.
“Oh, yes,” she says excitedly, “I talked to you. I’m so glad you came in. We really need drivers . . . “.
Okay. I can see it in her eyes – they really are desperate. I don’t know if cab drivers have been
getting bumped off daily in Honolulu, or just what their problem is, but all I can think about is getting cash daily.
“I’ll just need you to fill out some paperwork for me. It’s just a couple of forms. You can sit right here at my desk.”
The application itself is a bare bones kind of thing that, remarkably, doesn’t even include any questions concerning my driving record. Just out of high school I’d worked as a janitor in a hospital and I recall that, before they’d felt comfortable in giving me a broom, the application had required that I list any moving violations I’d received over the previous three years. Considering the job description wouldn’t these folks make an attempt, however feeble, to determine wether or not my favorite pastimes include the reckless operation of motorized vehicles or driving while intoxicated? Though I assume they will eventually check driving records wouldn’t it make sense, right here, to try and weed out a few bad eggs who are fundamentally honest but who are a menace behind the wheel? The only sections that are remotely relevant to the job are a question concerning wether or not I have a valid driver’s license (and from which state it was issued) and the employment history section. Sensing their loose-as-a-goose approach to business management I hesitate only slightly on the latter before indicating, honestly, that for the last five years my only employment has been as a piano player.
When I am done with the application and a tax form I slide the papers across the desk towards the lady. While I’ve been writing she has been in perpetual motion answering the telephone, chain smoking, and using a radio to dispatch cabs to various locations. The radio, which sits right behind her desk, is an enormous thing with yellowed meters, filthy dials, and an oversized microphone that probably went out of production sometime between the invention of the wheel and – at the latest – the heyday of Al Jolson.
“All done?”, she asks, wheeling around in her chair.
“Yeah, I guess. I signed it. I think it’s all set.” The antiquated radio continues to fart, crackle, and pop with a stream of unintelligible white noise as we talk.
After a quick glance she looks up and says, “Great! Let’s get you started. I want to meet Larry. He’ll be training you.”
Training me? Is she trying to say that I’m hired?!! Do they train everybody that walks in the door simply in the event that they might, someday, be hired? Or is it possible that I may really have this job and that their standards are, in fact, even lower than I’d ever dreamed possible?
Turning to her radio she pages Larry over an intercom system. I hear her voice reverberating in the adjacent garage.
“Larry O’Brien. Larry O’Brien, come to the office please.”
Soon the door from the garage swings open and a short, round, freckle-faced man appears wearing a flourescent red aloha shirt and an olive colored beret. With a faint, dopey smile he looks like the type of eccentric character that should be playing the harmonica in a blues band somewhere. His goofy visage is completed by a large button on his shirt which identifies him as a member of “Norml” – The National Organization for the Reform of Marijuana Laws.
“I’m sorry, Guy,” says the lady behind the desk. “I didn’t introduce myself. My name’s Barb. Turning to the man in the beret she says, “Larry, this is Guy He’s here for training.”
“Cooool”, says Larry. “C’mon Guy. I’ll show ya’ around.”
Once in the garage it is obvious that Larry, however improbably, is some sort of supervisor. Drivers approach him with questions about scheduling and he gives casual orders to a couple of mechanics as they work on a taxi cabs. As he talks I detect a soft, east coast accent of some kind.
“Where are you from, originally?”, I ask.
“Oh. I’m from Philly. Lived in California for six years before I moved here. Been in Hawaii three years,” he answers. “I love it. The most laid-back place on the planet”. I suspect that Larry’s system contains enough THC that he would remain totally carefree should the Japanese, once again, start dropping bombs over at Pearl Harbor.
Larry shows me around, cracks jokes, and generally speak to me as if I am absolutely an employee of The Cab Company. While it’s not as if I’d applied for a job ferrying tourists back and forth to Oahu at the controls of a Boeing 737, even to drive a cab, the screening process around here seems absurdly lax; I’d had my background probed almost as thoroughly while applying for library cards. Larry’s tone notwithstanding, I feel my status is unclear.
Finally I just ask: “Larry, am I, like, hired…….or what?”
Looking at me with the vacuous stare of an oversized house cat Larry says nothing for a moment. I almost wonder if he’s understood the question.
“Oh, yeah, man, you’re in”, he finally says. “I like ya’ already. You’ll fit right in.”
He likes me? I’ll fit right in? For all these people know I might be a modern-day Jack the Ripper! Far be it from me, of course, to argue. Larry explains that drivers basically rent their cabs at a cost of fifteen dollars a day. The cabs have a full tank when they’re checked out and, at the driver’s expense, they must be refilled when they’re returned. All in all, it seems like a pretty good deal. Finally, according to Larry, the only thing standing between myself and the keys to a taxi is the satisfactory completion of some tests at the police department. One is a written test which deals with local traffic laws and the other is a ten-question, oral exam administered by a police officer in which I must correctly describe the most direct route from one location in the city to another. I can only get two wrong on each test and still pass. And if I don’t want to wait until next month to start driving a cab the tests are the day after tomorrow.
I knew it was all too good to be true. Whereas I might have a shot on the written test the oral section might as well be a hearing by the Vatican on my candidacy for sainthood; this is something I will certainly flunk – especially if I have to take it within the next forty-eight hours.
I tell Larry, “I’m screwed, buddy. I’ve been in Hawaii about a week. I took the bus over here and if I had to drive home I’d get lost. I’ll never pass this oral test.”
Larry just chuckles and takes some papers out of a tall desk.
“You’ll do fine, man,” he says. “I got somethin’ for ya’.” He hands me a pamphlet entitled “Safe Driving Laws of Hawaii” and another single sheet of paper. The piece of paper has a list, numbered one through twenty, of the most direct routes from one location to another in the City of Honolulu.
“Okay,” says Larry reassuringly, “ten of these will be on your oral test. You can memorize these, right?”
Once again I see a glimmer of hope. It won’t be easy but I need the job.
“Yeah”, I respond, “I guess so.”
“Now,” says Larry, “you’re first test question. Do you think the police department would be happy if they knew I was giving you this piece of paper?” He is looking at me with a silly grin.
“Probably not”, I answer.
“Very good,” he says, “you just answered you’re first question right. Tomorrow is orientation. Be here at nine o’clock.”
