“Come home.” Tom’s words reverberated in Nik’s ears. “Will you come home?”
Before he had left New York, Nik had set parameters under which he and Tom would get back together. Basically, it amounted to Tom doing back flips through rings of fire while juggling puddles dressed as ballerinas.
“That’s fair,” Nik assured himself.
One of Nik’s personal quirks that he was trying to free himself of was his continued reliance on absolutes. The world had to be, or at least appear to be, a particular way under Nik’s rule of law. There was a definite right way and wrong way to go about any given activity; any scenario in life came with its Nik’s-way-or-the-highway ultimatum.
Months ago he had told Tom that he would only come back if an offer of marriage was given.
“It won’t be marriage,” Tom concluded on the phone. Nik had already made the effort of letting Tom go, he had set actions into motion, and now he was being offered something he desperately wanted...but under a new scenario. Perhaps Tom’s offer was not in the manner that Nik had previously prescribed but was that just another “absolute?”
Nik was striving to live a life more like water. Water was never absolute.
That evening Nik’s friend Charles invited him to a Hula exhibition. Charles was a delightful, rotund gay man who truly embodied “Aloha.” He was continuously jolly and generous. Nik sometimes resented this as it reminded him of how often he was not jolly and generous.
The Halau Hula Ka No’eau performed the exhibition. A Halau is a Hula school and this particular one was very well respected consisting of students both young and old, haole and local. It was neo-classic Hula, which basically meant they allowed themselves to wear different, more modern clothes. It was beautiful. So fluid and strong.
When the missionaries came to Hawai’i they nearly drove Hula out with the dinosaur. It was too sexual, too pagan, and they just plain didn’t get it. They were absolutely not going to permit this activity in the place they had stolen. The Christian god had rules and, by god, Hula wasn’t in god’s plan. Though apparently usurping lands through illegal and immoral means and raping cultures was.
But life and love persevered and the Hawai’ians found a way to keep Hula alive.
Life is chaotic and uncertain and Nik was trying to wrap his mind around that concept. One has to take risks and challenge oneself and not be afraid to fail. He had come to Hawai’i as an experiment. It seemed that the experiment was failing but that was part of the journey.
It becomes harder the older one gets to make big moves. More is at risk. Nik had abandoned all of his safe holds: steady income, retirement, health insurance, friends, everything. He moved to this place “just to see.”
But, he thought, one has to be as willing to abandon an experiment with the same freedom as one picks one up. Perhaps this was reckless or erratic. Perhaps he should have more determination and stubbornness. But he was also trying to be more comfortable in his own skin. Yes, there were things that needed work but perhaps just because a person didn’t fit in the parameters of greater society didn’t necessarily mean he was “wrong.”
He had also given up surfing. It was not surfing that Nik enjoyed as much as it was the experience of the surf camp many years ago. He enjoyed learning new things in new places. He had confused that for a love of the sport itself. Yes, he loved surfing, but he loved the camp aspect, of learning, more.
He had, he realized, a certain amount of adventure A.D.D. And maybe that was OK. Maybe he didn’t have to absolutely be this or absolutely that. Maybe he could be a little this and a little that, sometimes this, and used-to-be-that.
But then there was Tom’s request and proposal.
“The thing is, we have a lot to work on: individually and collectively.” In a case of perfect contradictions, Nik and Tom found each other. Tom was both everything that Nik was looking for in a man and everything that drove him completely bananas. Tom was stubborn and prone to an over-masculinized emotional aloofness. He was always just out of reach keeping Nik in pursuit. Here, even now, Tom was calling shots and changing the game. And this drove Nik up a wall, but was also so much a part of what he loved about Tom. Some eight years later, the two were still trying to figure each other out. And that was, Nik felt, kinda cool.
But it was also frustrating for Nik. Part of him was habitually trained to set life goals and become frustrated and disenfranchised when those goals seemed unattainable. He had so allowed the goal-oriented ideology of America to dictate his life experience. He wanted “things” and those things spoke of status and worth. It had not been enough for Nik to enjoy figuring it all out along the way, but this was changing.
He had thought that a future with Tom was out of the question and here he was reversing his earlier decision. Moving back to the mainland to take a next step with Tom was certainly risky. But everything about Nik’s life these days was risky.
“It’s not marriage but we can work at this.” Nik had wanted marriage. He wanted promises and contracts and things a person could hold up and show the world. But that wasn’t the reality of life, he was discovering. Nothing is certain. Tomorrow could never come to pass. And that was OK. But in the time one is given, shouldn’t a person pursue love with reckless abandon? And if it didn’t work out, fine, at least a person tried.
Life was like water. To stay rigid and rooted too aggressively, to be too absolute, was the source of all unhappiness. One had to train oneself to change shape and direction as life’s tides ebbed and flowed. It was, after all, a journey, not a destination.
Nik had to give Tom an answer.
“Yes. Yes, I’ll come home.”
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Sunday, July 29, 2007
Where the Mongooses Play
Running one evening Nik found himself rather overwhelmed by his utter inability to secure a job. This was an island full of pot smoking hippie surfers, for god’s sake, and he was a 30-something resourceful man with a Masters. How was this happening?
Yes, it was true his heart was elsewhere and that was it’s own problem. But come on he just wanted a decent job to pay some bills. It really shouldn’t be that hard.
Nik stopped at his favorite meditative spot overlooking the Pacific. There playing amongst the amazing plant life was a family of mongoose. He watched how one clearly wanted to be left alone as two others leapt and wrestled him to the ground.
The Mongoose had been brought to Hawai’i to help rid the island of its rat crisis. The problem that no one seemed to address was that mongooses are day feeders and rats, nocturnal. So, before anyone knew it the island was overrun with rats and mongooses. Oops.
How carefree they were. Somehow they managed to wile away the hours cavorting and canoodling and yet were able to manage to still eat and sleep. And these bastards didn’t have a job.
Nik met Jessica at the office of Aloha Medical. The office looked like the company had been found out by the Fraud Division of the FBI and they were trying to make a run for it. Boxes and boxes were randomly strewn besides unplugged and half-cannibalized Xerox machines. There seemed to be tremendous confusion about the office juxtaposed with an eerie sense of ease with its workers. That is, except Jackie.
Jackie was nervous.
“You know,” she stammered, “I only briefly looked over your resume when I told the agency to send you in. But yesterday I looked it over more carefully.” Jackie examined Nik closely. He made the point of dressing up in order to make a good first impression.
“You’re wearing a tie.”
“Yes.”
“We’re more casual than that.” Nik had recently attended a job fair that was supposed to be “casual” as was told he was underdressed and not welcome. Now he was overdressed. Perhaps Roommate Rick was on to something with the whole nudist thing. If we were all naked all the time we could never be criticized for our clothing choice.
“So,” she continued, “You were an Executive Assistant? In New York City? For six years?”
“Thereabouts. Yes.” Smile #15.
“Uh huh. It’s just…well, you know this is just an admin support job. Um, filing and such. I’m just worried…I don’t know how challenging this will be for you.” Was she actually talking him out of the job? And was it working?
Nik needed a job. He needed money, any money, to coming in instead of hemorrhaging as it had been. So, he took the position.
“He was an Executive Assistant and now he’s doing admin support?” boomed an employee from around the corner. Apparently, Jackie had sent out a floor-wide email announcing Nik’s arrival.
“Shhh,” echoed another, “he’s right around the corner.”
“I’m just saying, why would he want to do this?”
Why indeed? Already Nik was having doubts and making discoveries about himself. He had told himself that it didn’t matter what he did for money. A job was a job. He knew if he moved to Hawai’i that he would have to make sacrifices, take a job that he didn’t necessarily enjoy for a lot less money than he was used to.
But Nik was a scientist, a journalist, and a fool.
As a small child, Nik’s mother told him that the stove was hot. Hm, he wondered, what does that mean? Hot?
‘Ah?!” he shivered in pain as he laid his bare hand on the red irons, “yeah, that’s, uh, that’s hot.”
“Everyone told you that’s what you’d find in Hawai’i,” Tom reminded him. “Why didn’t you listen?”
Furthermore, the job Nik had been offered would be even less that the low rate he had been quoted. He was now sacrificing the sacrifice. Hawai’i would have to prove itself self-sustaining or it would have to be sacrificed.
The other problem was that Nik realized that there were definitive parameters to what he would accept, yes, life was a compromise but one had to draw a line in the sand. It was clearly not enough to live in paradise and just “do something.” And yes, he wished he could have foreseen this. But that just wasn’t who Nik was.
Would his friends think him a fool if he left? If he stayed? Maybe they thought he was a fool already.
Let it go, he reminded himself. Just let go.
So, after two days of mind-numbing work, he told Jackie that he would be quitting. The look of utter despair that washed over her face nearly broke Nik’s heart. It was part “why can’t I keep anyone around” and part “dear god, take me with you.”
If there was a hell Nik was sure that it was the administrative end of the healthcare industry. Redundancy and bureaucracy had turned ordinary, decent human beings into mindless automatons. And those machines were cracking under the pressure of having no real pressure. It wasn’t ease that Nik had noticed that first day. It was soullessness. He was somewhat disturbed by the similarities between the two.
Boxes and files were mislabeled or just plain lost. And what could be found was buried under a mountain of “compliance.”
The employees of Aloha Medical stared blankly at their computer screens hoping the surge of electricity would arc forth and end their misery. The dark office had the stench of death all around it. Nik was certain he had actually met Death in the break room having a cup of decaf.
“Someone die,’ Nik asked.
“Nope.”
“…Just…hangin’ out then?
“Yup.”
“Is someone sick?”
“Oh, it’s not their bodies. They’re fine. It’s a healthcare office, after all. No, it’s their souls, their will to live. D’you see Bill in Ops? Ooh ah, that bastard’s gonna kick it before lunch.”
True enough, Bill was the saddest creature Nik had ever seen. Profoundly overweight and so pale he was nearly grey, Bill spoke in the fragile tones of someone at the funeral of a person they barely knew.
But then there was Jeremy. Jeremy was a floppy-haired surfer boy in his late 20s. He worked IT for the office. Cocky without really knowing it, Jeremy was likely to pull office pranks on Death just for a laugh.
“PPPPLewgh!”
“Ah, come off it, Jeremy,” Death would say as he sat on the woopy cushion, “Grow up.”
Nik had dubbed Jeremy his official office crush. These were bys that Nik wasn’t necessarily interested in having sex with (besides they were most often straight), but rather a point of focus to pass the endless hours.
Jeremy was adorable and smelled like a mix between musk and citrus, like oranges in a locker room. He found reasons to linger around Nik for longer than Nik was comfortable with. Cut boys frequently made Nik anxious. Either Jeremy knew this and enjoyed it or was blissfully unaware of his own physical proximity. In either case, it made Nik Shiver like a nervous poodle. Jeremy would lean in close to set up Nik’s second workstation (why Nik needed two workstations was unclear but Nik wasn’t complaining).
“So, here’s your [techno-babble],” Jeremy said.
Nik could feel the heat coming off Jeremy and it made his voice crack. “Uh huh, “ squeaked Nik perfectly unaware about what had just been explained to him.
“And, of course, your shortcut to [techno-babble].”
Nik giggled in agreement.
“So, you’re all set. Again.” Jeremy said and laid his hand on Nik’s shoulder.
The harder Nik tried in life to be cool the more ridiculous he appeared. He tried to spin his chair around to face and thank Jeremy but slammed his knee into the desk. Trying to play it off he stood up promptly but having hit a funny bone he trembled and stumbled into Patricia, the dotty Accounts Payable maven.
But thank god for office crushes. They’re perfectly silly, meaningless things and yet as essential as oxygen.
But then there was Bill, who clearly was not getting enough oxygen, figuratively or literally.
“Yeah,” Bill sighed, “Gotta go to Maui tomorrow.” Sigh. “Uh, so I need those…” Something distracted Bill. A thought. He looked longingly out the window. If he jumped would anyone care? “…Uh, those, uh, accreditations. From Julie. Did you get those? The accreditations? From Julie.”
“I’m sorry, Bill, this is only my second day. I don’t know who Julie is or what an accreditation is.” And I really don’t care, Nike thought.
“I can never get Julie’s attention. I just need those damn accreditations, um, before tomorrow, you know?”
If ever there was a case for euthanasia, Bill was it. Nik wanted to say something reassuring like, “Gee, dude, it’s going to be OK.” But Nik wasn’t sure that this was true for Bill.
So the next day, Nik quit. He did, after all, have his coaching job.
Angela raised her hand.
“Yes, Angela?” Nik asked the four-year old.
“Which is better for flying? Um, the green one or the red one?” Given that he had just been trying to explain Essential Actions to children, a conspicuously challenging endeavor, he expected an amount of confusion. But not on his part.
“Um…what?” He asked trying to be supportive.
“If, if, if, um, Mom says that, um, I’ll get lickens if we color on the walls.” Nik thought they had just been talking about flying. Angela was like a tiny nuclear reactor. Particles were smashing and popping inside her tiny core. She could barely control the tremulous energy.
“…Yes, well, perhaps we shouldn’t color on the walls then.” Nik tried to get the conversation back on track. “So, if we want our friends to play with us, but they don’t seem like they want to play, what might we try to do to get them to…” No’uana raised her hand. “Yes, No’uana?”
“Are we doing something after school?”
“Well, I think you’re going with your Mom.”
”Will you help Mommy?”
“Um.”
“What are we gonna do at the store?”
“I don’t…I don’t know, um…” Nik stared back at the group of four little girls. Nik realized that his authority was slowly slipping. For god’s sake, man, these girls could barely feed themselves and they’ve completely usurped your control of this class!
He had to think fast. Suddenly Nik had a flash. Regardless of a person’s age, sex, place on the earth, whether you were fat Bill or a mongoose, we all just want to feel like our needs are being addressed. That we have identified a goal and are active in our lives to achieve it.
“OK, Nu’uana why don’t you ask Angela to, um, go with you to the store with Mom. Now, it’s very important that she go with you. And Angela, you don’t want to go because you’ll get, um…”
“Lickins?”
“Yes, lickins, you’ll get lickins.” Something in Angela’s hyperactive eyes had lit up and her focused narrowed.
“I don’t want lickins,” she said, quite determined. Nik figured for this purpose wanting to avoid something was as clear as wanting to gain something.
For the next hour, the troupe of young girls had straightened up and was now active participating in the active play.
Running back to his meditation spot, Nik once again saw the mongoose family. This time he realized that they weren’t just playing but actively vying for attention or supremacy in the pack. They were working, yes, but it just so happened that their work was play.
This was part of the key, Nik thought. He would be more focused in his goal. He would work to find a way to make his play his work and his work his play.
Yes, it was true his heart was elsewhere and that was it’s own problem. But come on he just wanted a decent job to pay some bills. It really shouldn’t be that hard.
Nik stopped at his favorite meditative spot overlooking the Pacific. There playing amongst the amazing plant life was a family of mongoose. He watched how one clearly wanted to be left alone as two others leapt and wrestled him to the ground.
The Mongoose had been brought to Hawai’i to help rid the island of its rat crisis. The problem that no one seemed to address was that mongooses are day feeders and rats, nocturnal. So, before anyone knew it the island was overrun with rats and mongooses. Oops.
How carefree they were. Somehow they managed to wile away the hours cavorting and canoodling and yet were able to manage to still eat and sleep. And these bastards didn’t have a job.
Nik met Jessica at the office of Aloha Medical. The office looked like the company had been found out by the Fraud Division of the FBI and they were trying to make a run for it. Boxes and boxes were randomly strewn besides unplugged and half-cannibalized Xerox machines. There seemed to be tremendous confusion about the office juxtaposed with an eerie sense of ease with its workers. That is, except Jackie.
Jackie was nervous.
“You know,” she stammered, “I only briefly looked over your resume when I told the agency to send you in. But yesterday I looked it over more carefully.” Jackie examined Nik closely. He made the point of dressing up in order to make a good first impression.
“You’re wearing a tie.”
“Yes.”
“We’re more casual than that.” Nik had recently attended a job fair that was supposed to be “casual” as was told he was underdressed and not welcome. Now he was overdressed. Perhaps Roommate Rick was on to something with the whole nudist thing. If we were all naked all the time we could never be criticized for our clothing choice.
“So,” she continued, “You were an Executive Assistant? In New York City? For six years?”
“Thereabouts. Yes.” Smile #15.
“Uh huh. It’s just…well, you know this is just an admin support job. Um, filing and such. I’m just worried…I don’t know how challenging this will be for you.” Was she actually talking him out of the job? And was it working?
Nik needed a job. He needed money, any money, to coming in instead of hemorrhaging as it had been. So, he took the position.
“He was an Executive Assistant and now he’s doing admin support?” boomed an employee from around the corner. Apparently, Jackie had sent out a floor-wide email announcing Nik’s arrival.
“Shhh,” echoed another, “he’s right around the corner.”
“I’m just saying, why would he want to do this?”
Why indeed? Already Nik was having doubts and making discoveries about himself. He had told himself that it didn’t matter what he did for money. A job was a job. He knew if he moved to Hawai’i that he would have to make sacrifices, take a job that he didn’t necessarily enjoy for a lot less money than he was used to.
But Nik was a scientist, a journalist, and a fool.
As a small child, Nik’s mother told him that the stove was hot. Hm, he wondered, what does that mean? Hot?
‘Ah?!” he shivered in pain as he laid his bare hand on the red irons, “yeah, that’s, uh, that’s hot.”
“Everyone told you that’s what you’d find in Hawai’i,” Tom reminded him. “Why didn’t you listen?”
Furthermore, the job Nik had been offered would be even less that the low rate he had been quoted. He was now sacrificing the sacrifice. Hawai’i would have to prove itself self-sustaining or it would have to be sacrificed.
The other problem was that Nik realized that there were definitive parameters to what he would accept, yes, life was a compromise but one had to draw a line in the sand. It was clearly not enough to live in paradise and just “do something.” And yes, he wished he could have foreseen this. But that just wasn’t who Nik was.
Would his friends think him a fool if he left? If he stayed? Maybe they thought he was a fool already.
Let it go, he reminded himself. Just let go.
So, after two days of mind-numbing work, he told Jackie that he would be quitting. The look of utter despair that washed over her face nearly broke Nik’s heart. It was part “why can’t I keep anyone around” and part “dear god, take me with you.”
If there was a hell Nik was sure that it was the administrative end of the healthcare industry. Redundancy and bureaucracy had turned ordinary, decent human beings into mindless automatons. And those machines were cracking under the pressure of having no real pressure. It wasn’t ease that Nik had noticed that first day. It was soullessness. He was somewhat disturbed by the similarities between the two.
Boxes and files were mislabeled or just plain lost. And what could be found was buried under a mountain of “compliance.”
The employees of Aloha Medical stared blankly at their computer screens hoping the surge of electricity would arc forth and end their misery. The dark office had the stench of death all around it. Nik was certain he had actually met Death in the break room having a cup of decaf.
“Someone die,’ Nik asked.
“Nope.”
“…Just…hangin’ out then?
“Yup.”
“Is someone sick?”
“Oh, it’s not their bodies. They’re fine. It’s a healthcare office, after all. No, it’s their souls, their will to live. D’you see Bill in Ops? Ooh ah, that bastard’s gonna kick it before lunch.”
True enough, Bill was the saddest creature Nik had ever seen. Profoundly overweight and so pale he was nearly grey, Bill spoke in the fragile tones of someone at the funeral of a person they barely knew.
But then there was Jeremy. Jeremy was a floppy-haired surfer boy in his late 20s. He worked IT for the office. Cocky without really knowing it, Jeremy was likely to pull office pranks on Death just for a laugh.
“PPPPLewgh!”
“Ah, come off it, Jeremy,” Death would say as he sat on the woopy cushion, “Grow up.”
Nik had dubbed Jeremy his official office crush. These were bys that Nik wasn’t necessarily interested in having sex with (besides they were most often straight), but rather a point of focus to pass the endless hours.
Jeremy was adorable and smelled like a mix between musk and citrus, like oranges in a locker room. He found reasons to linger around Nik for longer than Nik was comfortable with. Cut boys frequently made Nik anxious. Either Jeremy knew this and enjoyed it or was blissfully unaware of his own physical proximity. In either case, it made Nik Shiver like a nervous poodle. Jeremy would lean in close to set up Nik’s second workstation (why Nik needed two workstations was unclear but Nik wasn’t complaining).
“So, here’s your [techno-babble],” Jeremy said.
Nik could feel the heat coming off Jeremy and it made his voice crack. “Uh huh, “ squeaked Nik perfectly unaware about what had just been explained to him.
“And, of course, your shortcut to [techno-babble].”
Nik giggled in agreement.
“So, you’re all set. Again.” Jeremy said and laid his hand on Nik’s shoulder.
The harder Nik tried in life to be cool the more ridiculous he appeared. He tried to spin his chair around to face and thank Jeremy but slammed his knee into the desk. Trying to play it off he stood up promptly but having hit a funny bone he trembled and stumbled into Patricia, the dotty Accounts Payable maven.
But thank god for office crushes. They’re perfectly silly, meaningless things and yet as essential as oxygen.
But then there was Bill, who clearly was not getting enough oxygen, figuratively or literally.
“Yeah,” Bill sighed, “Gotta go to Maui tomorrow.” Sigh. “Uh, so I need those…” Something distracted Bill. A thought. He looked longingly out the window. If he jumped would anyone care? “…Uh, those, uh, accreditations. From Julie. Did you get those? The accreditations? From Julie.”
“I’m sorry, Bill, this is only my second day. I don’t know who Julie is or what an accreditation is.” And I really don’t care, Nike thought.
“I can never get Julie’s attention. I just need those damn accreditations, um, before tomorrow, you know?”
If ever there was a case for euthanasia, Bill was it. Nik wanted to say something reassuring like, “Gee, dude, it’s going to be OK.” But Nik wasn’t sure that this was true for Bill.
So the next day, Nik quit. He did, after all, have his coaching job.
Angela raised her hand.
“Yes, Angela?” Nik asked the four-year old.
“Which is better for flying? Um, the green one or the red one?” Given that he had just been trying to explain Essential Actions to children, a conspicuously challenging endeavor, he expected an amount of confusion. But not on his part.
“Um…what?” He asked trying to be supportive.
“If, if, if, um, Mom says that, um, I’ll get lickens if we color on the walls.” Nik thought they had just been talking about flying. Angela was like a tiny nuclear reactor. Particles were smashing and popping inside her tiny core. She could barely control the tremulous energy.
“…Yes, well, perhaps we shouldn’t color on the walls then.” Nik tried to get the conversation back on track. “So, if we want our friends to play with us, but they don’t seem like they want to play, what might we try to do to get them to…” No’uana raised her hand. “Yes, No’uana?”
“Are we doing something after school?”
“Well, I think you’re going with your Mom.”
”Will you help Mommy?”
“Um.”
“What are we gonna do at the store?”
“I don’t…I don’t know, um…” Nik stared back at the group of four little girls. Nik realized that his authority was slowly slipping. For god’s sake, man, these girls could barely feed themselves and they’ve completely usurped your control of this class!
He had to think fast. Suddenly Nik had a flash. Regardless of a person’s age, sex, place on the earth, whether you were fat Bill or a mongoose, we all just want to feel like our needs are being addressed. That we have identified a goal and are active in our lives to achieve it.
“OK, Nu’uana why don’t you ask Angela to, um, go with you to the store with Mom. Now, it’s very important that she go with you. And Angela, you don’t want to go because you’ll get, um…”
“Lickins?”
“Yes, lickins, you’ll get lickins.” Something in Angela’s hyperactive eyes had lit up and her focused narrowed.
“I don’t want lickins,” she said, quite determined. Nik figured for this purpose wanting to avoid something was as clear as wanting to gain something.
For the next hour, the troupe of young girls had straightened up and was now active participating in the active play.
Running back to his meditation spot, Nik once again saw the mongoose family. This time he realized that they weren’t just playing but actively vying for attention or supremacy in the pack. They were working, yes, but it just so happened that their work was play.
This was part of the key, Nik thought. He would be more focused in his goal. He would work to find a way to make his play his work and his work his play.
Monday, July 16, 2007
Acting, Abracadabra, and Amanda Van Arden
“Acting is an ancient and magical craft,” incanted the woman poised with conspicuous theatricality in the studio. She had an air about her, that was true, but one could argue that the air was a tad polluted.
“You are following in the footsteps of brave men and women before you and you must not take this journey lightly.” Amanda Van Arden was the kind of chain-smoking, wizened hag that one often finds lurking in the shadows of Actors Equity. She was likely, between hacking fits, to recite for you her entire resume, including tasty tidbits about how Lee Strasberg loved her “method” — “…if you know what I mean, dear.”
“Acting is what? Action!”
Nik agreed with most of what Amanda Van Arden preached…well, at least in theory.
“You have to know what you want and relentlessly pursue it from your opponent.”
This was true, but what made Nik cock his head in uncertainty was the rather unsettling fact that Amanda Van Arden was pontificating to a group of 10-year olds.
The Actors!Plus Talent Agency was one of those thinly veiled organizations that took wads of money from wealthy mothers who sent Johnny to become a famous Hollywood celebrity — and thereby ensuring that Mom could continue to be rich. The unpopular truth that Honolulu was about as far as one could get from Hollywood rarely hushed across the lips of those who walked through the hallowed gates at Actros!Plus.
What, Nik wondered, was the “Plus?”
“Amanda Van Arden is our top acting coach here and you’ll learn a lot from her, I can tell you.” Marjorie didn’t know a damn thing about acting. She found her way into Actors!Plus as a teen model and now, 15 years later, had become something akin to an Office Manager. “We all end up somewhere,” She shrugged with a comic snort.
“Yes, Marjorie, we surely do.” Nik had been hired on as a substitute acting coach (and, it should be noted for fear and fun: “Runway Instructor”) for the studio. He felt this a dubious distinction, as he was certain the Pineapple Mafia was using the agency as a front for something dastradly. Perhaps they were smuggling leis and Guava through Cuba. Perhaps that was the "Plus."
Amanda Van Arden would stalk around the studio, presumably peering deep into the souls of her pre-teen thespians. The young actors would shiver and shake though it was yet unclear whether it was due to fright or a full, immature bladder.
“You need to know who you are, where you are, and what you are doing.” Amanda Van Arden had the students work on a scene in which a boy and a girl discuss packing for summer camp. They say that they will pack shorts, comic books, towels, candy, and Avon’s bug screen, which coincidentally both of their mothers love because of its economical value and long-lasting insect fending attributes.
“I DON’T BELIEVE YOU!” Amanda Van Arden wailed madly at the children. “Where are you? Where ARE you?”
The baffled 3rd grader looked to his peers for guidance but none was to be given. “I’m at Actors!Plus trying to…”
“No. No no no no no no. In the scene. Dear. Where will you be doing the scene?”
“Um, wherever they’re shooting the commercial, I guess.”
At that moment, Nik realized that he loved children.
“Listen to me, you have to show me who, what, when, where, why. You have to DO something. Acting is action.” It’s funny how words can mean different things to different people. To Nik, “doing something” as an actor might mean “putting an asshole in his place.” He could do that, he thought. To Amanda Van Arden “doing something” meant:
“Well, look, it’s summer, right? You’re hot. Fan yourself. You’re talking about bug spray. Swat the bugs away. And for god’s sake, you have a list of things you are packing. PACK THEM. I can tell you, I won’t be here in your audition giving you the answers. You’re gonna have to come up with it all by your lonesome.” After 15 minutes of questionable “teaching” Amanda Van Arden’s students looked like escapees from a mental ward. They were swatting and panting and moving invisible boxes and offering imaginary candies to their scene partners who, uncertain of what they were eating, would bite into…something.
There are few books that Nik has ever been excited about. The upcoming Harry Potter finale had Nik on pins and needles. It is the Holy Grail of any writer to be able to grab the attention of the masses and enthrall them with a magical, literal or figurative, world. Oh, how he had hoped to hone his craft one day to such a place as JK Rowling’s. To write with such mastery, to know one’s audience, and contour the story as they grow. Brilliance incarnate.
He remembered how as a child the Star Wars movies had captured his attention with such reckless abandon. Should he be a 10-year old now (though many would argue he still was) he would most certainly wish for nothing else that to go to school at Hogwarts.
“But why can’t I become a wizard, Mom?”
“Because those things only happen in the movies, Nik.”
And the vicious cycle would repeat.
Perhaps it is the attempt to create magic, or rather the illusion of magic, that sets storytellers apart. Nik feared losing that part of him and wanted quite desperately to ensure its survival. And here before him were a dozen youngsters, young storytellers, with that same wish: to hold on to their imagination a little longer. How could he not want to teach?
But he would not, absolutely not, teach them Amanda Van Arden’s psychobabble rubbish.
“Well, Nik, why don’t you take them for a while.” With grand regalia Amanda Van Arden pulled her tattered swivel chair to a prominent judging position to watch Nik’s tutorial. She didn’t want to judge him harshly, but if she didn’t who would?
“I want you to say something true of the other person.” Nik began his lesson on Repetition. It was as much a challenge for the students as for him. And the fact that the vulture Amanda Van Arden was perched behind him made no difference. The young actors latched onto the idea. Together they went through the practical steps of the activity, stayed focused, identified a goal and worked toward it in real, tnagible ways. Not hocuspocus. Truth. Finally! Something they could understand. A particularly precocious child, often bored throughout the class, found new confidence in himself. He stood a little taller in his chair.
At the end of class Amanda Van Arden offered up her best, most gracious clap. “That was amazing, how did you do that?”
Nik wanted to say, “Well, Amanda Van Arden, I took something that a sane human being could actually do and I told them how to do it.” But instead he said, “Oh, you know, magic” and smiled Smile #42 with a wink. After all, they were going to be colleagues.
He couldn’t piss her off.
Not just yet.
“You are following in the footsteps of brave men and women before you and you must not take this journey lightly.” Amanda Van Arden was the kind of chain-smoking, wizened hag that one often finds lurking in the shadows of Actors Equity. She was likely, between hacking fits, to recite for you her entire resume, including tasty tidbits about how Lee Strasberg loved her “method” — “…if you know what I mean, dear.”
“Acting is what? Action!”
Nik agreed with most of what Amanda Van Arden preached…well, at least in theory.
“You have to know what you want and relentlessly pursue it from your opponent.”
This was true, but what made Nik cock his head in uncertainty was the rather unsettling fact that Amanda Van Arden was pontificating to a group of 10-year olds.
The Actors!Plus Talent Agency was one of those thinly veiled organizations that took wads of money from wealthy mothers who sent Johnny to become a famous Hollywood celebrity — and thereby ensuring that Mom could continue to be rich. The unpopular truth that Honolulu was about as far as one could get from Hollywood rarely hushed across the lips of those who walked through the hallowed gates at Actros!Plus.
What, Nik wondered, was the “Plus?”
“Amanda Van Arden is our top acting coach here and you’ll learn a lot from her, I can tell you.” Marjorie didn’t know a damn thing about acting. She found her way into Actors!Plus as a teen model and now, 15 years later, had become something akin to an Office Manager. “We all end up somewhere,” She shrugged with a comic snort.
“Yes, Marjorie, we surely do.” Nik had been hired on as a substitute acting coach (and, it should be noted for fear and fun: “Runway Instructor”) for the studio. He felt this a dubious distinction, as he was certain the Pineapple Mafia was using the agency as a front for something dastradly. Perhaps they were smuggling leis and Guava through Cuba. Perhaps that was the "Plus."
Amanda Van Arden would stalk around the studio, presumably peering deep into the souls of her pre-teen thespians. The young actors would shiver and shake though it was yet unclear whether it was due to fright or a full, immature bladder.
“You need to know who you are, where you are, and what you are doing.” Amanda Van Arden had the students work on a scene in which a boy and a girl discuss packing for summer camp. They say that they will pack shorts, comic books, towels, candy, and Avon’s bug screen, which coincidentally both of their mothers love because of its economical value and long-lasting insect fending attributes.
“I DON’T BELIEVE YOU!” Amanda Van Arden wailed madly at the children. “Where are you? Where ARE you?”
The baffled 3rd grader looked to his peers for guidance but none was to be given. “I’m at Actors!Plus trying to…”
“No. No no no no no no. In the scene. Dear. Where will you be doing the scene?”
“Um, wherever they’re shooting the commercial, I guess.”
At that moment, Nik realized that he loved children.
“Listen to me, you have to show me who, what, when, where, why. You have to DO something. Acting is action.” It’s funny how words can mean different things to different people. To Nik, “doing something” as an actor might mean “putting an asshole in his place.” He could do that, he thought. To Amanda Van Arden “doing something” meant:
“Well, look, it’s summer, right? You’re hot. Fan yourself. You’re talking about bug spray. Swat the bugs away. And for god’s sake, you have a list of things you are packing. PACK THEM. I can tell you, I won’t be here in your audition giving you the answers. You’re gonna have to come up with it all by your lonesome.” After 15 minutes of questionable “teaching” Amanda Van Arden’s students looked like escapees from a mental ward. They were swatting and panting and moving invisible boxes and offering imaginary candies to their scene partners who, uncertain of what they were eating, would bite into…something.
There are few books that Nik has ever been excited about. The upcoming Harry Potter finale had Nik on pins and needles. It is the Holy Grail of any writer to be able to grab the attention of the masses and enthrall them with a magical, literal or figurative, world. Oh, how he had hoped to hone his craft one day to such a place as JK Rowling’s. To write with such mastery, to know one’s audience, and contour the story as they grow. Brilliance incarnate.
He remembered how as a child the Star Wars movies had captured his attention with such reckless abandon. Should he be a 10-year old now (though many would argue he still was) he would most certainly wish for nothing else that to go to school at Hogwarts.
“But why can’t I become a wizard, Mom?”
“Because those things only happen in the movies, Nik.”
And the vicious cycle would repeat.
Perhaps it is the attempt to create magic, or rather the illusion of magic, that sets storytellers apart. Nik feared losing that part of him and wanted quite desperately to ensure its survival. And here before him were a dozen youngsters, young storytellers, with that same wish: to hold on to their imagination a little longer. How could he not want to teach?
But he would not, absolutely not, teach them Amanda Van Arden’s psychobabble rubbish.
“Well, Nik, why don’t you take them for a while.” With grand regalia Amanda Van Arden pulled her tattered swivel chair to a prominent judging position to watch Nik’s tutorial. She didn’t want to judge him harshly, but if she didn’t who would?
“I want you to say something true of the other person.” Nik began his lesson on Repetition. It was as much a challenge for the students as for him. And the fact that the vulture Amanda Van Arden was perched behind him made no difference. The young actors latched onto the idea. Together they went through the practical steps of the activity, stayed focused, identified a goal and worked toward it in real, tnagible ways. Not hocuspocus. Truth. Finally! Something they could understand. A particularly precocious child, often bored throughout the class, found new confidence in himself. He stood a little taller in his chair.
At the end of class Amanda Van Arden offered up her best, most gracious clap. “That was amazing, how did you do that?”
Nik wanted to say, “Well, Amanda Van Arden, I took something that a sane human being could actually do and I told them how to do it.” But instead he said, “Oh, you know, magic” and smiled Smile #42 with a wink. After all, they were going to be colleagues.
He couldn’t piss her off.
Not just yet.
Saturday, July 14, 2007
On Rain and other water
It didn’t usually rain in Kahala.
Today it rained.
Rainy days in Kahala were like sunny days in New York — so unexpected and shocking. It was as if one had been confronted by one’s mother screaming obscenities in a crowded restaurant. “Stop stop stop, what are you doing?!” a person might wince.
Merely a few miles away it could be a torrential downpour but it usually remained dry in Kahala. But not today.
Moreover it wasn’t doing anything to improve Nik’s mood. He was living in paradise; why was he so unhappy? Perhaps he needed a haircut. A trim was often the cure for the blues. Though, nine times out of ten, Nik usually received a bad haircut. It was not unlike getting slugged in the gut when trying get rid of a headache. At least the pain had been dispersed elsewhere.
“You don’t own anything.” Tom had frequently expressed his frustration with Nik’s supposedly numerous shortcomings. Not the least of which was the fact that he apparently didn’t own anything.
“Personally, emotionally, you don’t own anything. You didn’t own being an actor, you don’t own being a writer. You don’t own anything.”
But, he thought, he owned a car. That was something.
He bought Sara for $1200. It was an exceptionally reasonable price considering her condition. “Sara” was the name her previous owner had given her. Nik would have preferred to own a “Jeremy” or “Dirk” or some other pseudo-frat, male porn star name. But he got Sara. And as it turned out, Sara was just right.
She was a 1991 Toyota Camry and the first car Nik had actually owned himself. It felt good to have the title to something. Usually Nik wasn’t necessarily one to get off on ownership. He hadn’t any real desire as far as he could tell to own property, a house, or other major investment. Though he did want a dog rather desperately. Was that ownership? Or partnership?
Anyhoo.
Nik now owned a car and he felt surprisingly grown-up about the whole thing.
What he particularly enjoyed about driving in Hawai’i was that rarely did anyone drive faster than 35mph. Not only was this great for gas, but it had a wonderful impact on one’s ease and mood in traffic. He needn’t drive any faster. Where on the mainland, he wondered, had he ever needed to go in such a hurry?
His walking pace had also slowed to a crawl. In NYC he could beat a path like a speed walker. “Gotta get to Starbucks, gotta get to Starbucks.” Really? Had it all seemed that important?
“Do you surf?” Tracy was a delightful enough, shortish Asian woman who wore sunglasses at work. She was likely the kind of sassy chick to wear them at night and at church, which she probably disliked but felt obligated to go because of her overbearing mother-in-law.
Hair stylists frequently made Nik uncomfortable. Usually it was either a grotesque and unforgiving whack of cutting shears or the incomprehensible blather strangers make when forced to share air space. And Tracy was hacking away mercilessly and blathering.
And she was wearing sunglasses.
And she was opening a can of worms —
“Do you surf?
“Well, I’m trying to, learning to, I’m not really very good, you know, and I’m trying not to be self-deprecating or whatever but, you know, I move to this place...from New York. City. I came here, never been, not even on vacation, which is silly, I know — and the thing is, I don’t even know if I enjoy it, really, surfing, I mean...or this place — maybe I just feel obligated. I'm kind of unhappy. Sad. Lonely. And I need a job. And then there's surfing and it was sorta the reason I came. I think. Or maybe that's what I told people, told myself. I don't know. So, I guess, yes, the answer is yes? Maybe?” Nik didn’t think of himself as the kind of guy to titter on like a complete fool. Yet here he was. Tittering.
“Right. Well, I only ask ‘casue ya’ got sand in your hair.”
“Oh. Yeah. Sorry about that.”
Tracy peered from above her purple shades inspecting him. Then, with complete ease, smiled.
Breathe.
Smile.
Rinse and repeat.
Tracy removed her sunglass and set them, almost ceremoniously, on the counter. She continued snipping away.
Snip.
“You know…” She began.
Snip.
“My daughter, she go to school in New York. I never been. She say it kinda crazy.”
Snip.
“She call her friends all the time. She call me all the time. Wears me out.”
Snip.
“It’s expensive. She say she afraid of losing her friends back home. She afraid of being alone. Of course. But thing is, fear is part of life, ya’ know? Change is part of life. Life change, you change, friends change.”
Snip.
“You gotta let go.”
Snip.
In truth, Tracy had done an OK job. “OK” being a relative term graded on a steep curve. But even so, the haircut had not had the magical mood altering affect Nik had hoped for.
“You don’t own anything.” Tom’s words rang through his head. What was ownership about? Did Tracy’s daughter own her friends? Should she have owned her life in New York? How does one purchase those things? And, it seemed, that not unlike designer clothing, one had to own the "right" clothes or one might as well not own anything.
Nik decided to take a quick dip in the ocean to wash the hair clippings off his head. One of his new hobbies had been searching for new fish to swim with and then identify later. This day he found what he would later ID as a white-spotted surgeonfish. It was an odd little thing. It looked a bit like the remnants of several other fish that had been spliced together to make it. “Just throw those pieces together and we’ll call it a day,” god must have said.
More peculiar still was the fact that it seemed almost annoyed by Nik following it. It would stop mid-swim, pivot, and stare as if saying, “Yeah, what? What d’ya’ want?”
“Say, little fish, I am looking for answers. About life.”
“You come to dis island looking for answers. Da island it give you answers but you too stupid to see it. You IN the answer and still don’t see it,” and the amalgamated creature paddled its fins.
“You’re an odd little fish, aren’t you?”
What was odd — other than that fact that he was conversing with a fish — was that while Nik was in decent shape, he couldn’t usually hold his breath underwater for very long. Perhaps it was a survival panic or perhaps he was not in the shape he thought. Whatever the reason, here on the island things were different. Here Nik felt submerged for hours. And he felt relaxed. Whether it was the effect of this island or his fascinating dialogue with the piggy-nosed tropical fish, he couldn’t be sure.
“You stupid, da island no dif’rent.”
“I didn’t say that last part out loud, did I?" Nik always feared speaking aloud his private thoughts.
“You no say nothin’ aloud, dum dum. You underwater.” The fat, spotty fish shrugged and swam away knowing full well that Nik would follow.
“It’s just, Tom always tells me I don’t own anything. And I’m trying very hard to figure out who I am. What I want. Where I belong. But it’s hard. And I feel pulled in so many directions. And I just want to belong, to have a home, a family, friends, a job, security, a few laughs. I want to hold on to something.” Once again, Nik found himself rambling.
“Grab hold of the water,” prodded the fish.
Nik tried, in vain, to grab the water.
“You can’t. No one can. It not yours to hold. Water is life. Sometimes it is dis, sometimes ice, sometimes it evaporate. Poof. Gone. But here you are, in da water. It is all ‘round you. Sometimes you swim, sometimes it pull you. But you cannot stay in one place. You cannot ask of da water to be something it is not,” he continued…
“Dese ideas: your career, dat rock, your friends, dat coral, your family, dat algae, your time, dat car; dese constructs don’t exist. Dey are lies. Dey are fabrications and fantasies created to give da illusion of security in a chaotic world. Do not live in da lie. Look at ya' body. It is water. Life is water, it is changing and inconsistent, but it will sustain you. But only if you let go of all of dat which you cannot hold."
“I’m just trying to figure out who I am.” Nik pleaded.
“Listen me, dum dum,” compelled the fish. “You. Already. ARE.”
“But I want to be happy.”
“Den let go.” And with that, the odd little fish swam away. Or was pulled by a current. Or both.
So...
After a while, Nik went home and showered.
He got dressed.
He called Tom.
He let go.
It didn’t usually rain in Kahala.
Today, it rained.
Picture 1: A wise or crazy white-spotted surgeonfish
Today it rained.
Rainy days in Kahala were like sunny days in New York — so unexpected and shocking. It was as if one had been confronted by one’s mother screaming obscenities in a crowded restaurant. “Stop stop stop, what are you doing?!” a person might wince.
Merely a few miles away it could be a torrential downpour but it usually remained dry in Kahala. But not today.
Moreover it wasn’t doing anything to improve Nik’s mood. He was living in paradise; why was he so unhappy? Perhaps he needed a haircut. A trim was often the cure for the blues. Though, nine times out of ten, Nik usually received a bad haircut. It was not unlike getting slugged in the gut when trying get rid of a headache. At least the pain had been dispersed elsewhere.
“You don’t own anything.” Tom had frequently expressed his frustration with Nik’s supposedly numerous shortcomings. Not the least of which was the fact that he apparently didn’t own anything.
“Personally, emotionally, you don’t own anything. You didn’t own being an actor, you don’t own being a writer. You don’t own anything.”
But, he thought, he owned a car. That was something.
He bought Sara for $1200. It was an exceptionally reasonable price considering her condition. “Sara” was the name her previous owner had given her. Nik would have preferred to own a “Jeremy” or “Dirk” or some other pseudo-frat, male porn star name. But he got Sara. And as it turned out, Sara was just right.
She was a 1991 Toyota Camry and the first car Nik had actually owned himself. It felt good to have the title to something. Usually Nik wasn’t necessarily one to get off on ownership. He hadn’t any real desire as far as he could tell to own property, a house, or other major investment. Though he did want a dog rather desperately. Was that ownership? Or partnership?
Anyhoo.
Nik now owned a car and he felt surprisingly grown-up about the whole thing.
What he particularly enjoyed about driving in Hawai’i was that rarely did anyone drive faster than 35mph. Not only was this great for gas, but it had a wonderful impact on one’s ease and mood in traffic. He needn’t drive any faster. Where on the mainland, he wondered, had he ever needed to go in such a hurry?
His walking pace had also slowed to a crawl. In NYC he could beat a path like a speed walker. “Gotta get to Starbucks, gotta get to Starbucks.” Really? Had it all seemed that important?
“Do you surf?” Tracy was a delightful enough, shortish Asian woman who wore sunglasses at work. She was likely the kind of sassy chick to wear them at night and at church, which she probably disliked but felt obligated to go because of her overbearing mother-in-law.
Hair stylists frequently made Nik uncomfortable. Usually it was either a grotesque and unforgiving whack of cutting shears or the incomprehensible blather strangers make when forced to share air space. And Tracy was hacking away mercilessly and blathering.
And she was wearing sunglasses.
And she was opening a can of worms —
“Do you surf?
“Well, I’m trying to, learning to, I’m not really very good, you know, and I’m trying not to be self-deprecating or whatever but, you know, I move to this place...from New York. City. I came here, never been, not even on vacation, which is silly, I know — and the thing is, I don’t even know if I enjoy it, really, surfing, I mean...or this place — maybe I just feel obligated. I'm kind of unhappy. Sad. Lonely. And I need a job. And then there's surfing and it was sorta the reason I came. I think. Or maybe that's what I told people, told myself. I don't know. So, I guess, yes, the answer is yes? Maybe?” Nik didn’t think of himself as the kind of guy to titter on like a complete fool. Yet here he was. Tittering.
“Right. Well, I only ask ‘casue ya’ got sand in your hair.”
“Oh. Yeah. Sorry about that.”
Tracy peered from above her purple shades inspecting him. Then, with complete ease, smiled.
Breathe.
Smile.
Rinse and repeat.
Tracy removed her sunglass and set them, almost ceremoniously, on the counter. She continued snipping away.
Snip.
“You know…” She began.
Snip.
“My daughter, she go to school in New York. I never been. She say it kinda crazy.”
Snip.
“She call her friends all the time. She call me all the time. Wears me out.”
Snip.
“It’s expensive. She say she afraid of losing her friends back home. She afraid of being alone. Of course. But thing is, fear is part of life, ya’ know? Change is part of life. Life change, you change, friends change.”
Snip.
“You gotta let go.”
Snip.
In truth, Tracy had done an OK job. “OK” being a relative term graded on a steep curve. But even so, the haircut had not had the magical mood altering affect Nik had hoped for.
“You don’t own anything.” Tom’s words rang through his head. What was ownership about? Did Tracy’s daughter own her friends? Should she have owned her life in New York? How does one purchase those things? And, it seemed, that not unlike designer clothing, one had to own the "right" clothes or one might as well not own anything.
Nik decided to take a quick dip in the ocean to wash the hair clippings off his head. One of his new hobbies had been searching for new fish to swim with and then identify later. This day he found what he would later ID as a white-spotted surgeonfish. It was an odd little thing. It looked a bit like the remnants of several other fish that had been spliced together to make it. “Just throw those pieces together and we’ll call it a day,” god must have said.
More peculiar still was the fact that it seemed almost annoyed by Nik following it. It would stop mid-swim, pivot, and stare as if saying, “Yeah, what? What d’ya’ want?”
“Say, little fish, I am looking for answers. About life.”
“You come to dis island looking for answers. Da island it give you answers but you too stupid to see it. You IN the answer and still don’t see it,” and the amalgamated creature paddled its fins.
“You’re an odd little fish, aren’t you?”
What was odd — other than that fact that he was conversing with a fish — was that while Nik was in decent shape, he couldn’t usually hold his breath underwater for very long. Perhaps it was a survival panic or perhaps he was not in the shape he thought. Whatever the reason, here on the island things were different. Here Nik felt submerged for hours. And he felt relaxed. Whether it was the effect of this island or his fascinating dialogue with the piggy-nosed tropical fish, he couldn’t be sure.
“You stupid, da island no dif’rent.”
“I didn’t say that last part out loud, did I?" Nik always feared speaking aloud his private thoughts.
“You no say nothin’ aloud, dum dum. You underwater.” The fat, spotty fish shrugged and swam away knowing full well that Nik would follow.
“It’s just, Tom always tells me I don’t own anything. And I’m trying very hard to figure out who I am. What I want. Where I belong. But it’s hard. And I feel pulled in so many directions. And I just want to belong, to have a home, a family, friends, a job, security, a few laughs. I want to hold on to something.” Once again, Nik found himself rambling.
“Grab hold of the water,” prodded the fish.
Nik tried, in vain, to grab the water.
“You can’t. No one can. It not yours to hold. Water is life. Sometimes it is dis, sometimes ice, sometimes it evaporate. Poof. Gone. But here you are, in da water. It is all ‘round you. Sometimes you swim, sometimes it pull you. But you cannot stay in one place. You cannot ask of da water to be something it is not,” he continued…
“Dese ideas: your career, dat rock, your friends, dat coral, your family, dat algae, your time, dat car; dese constructs don’t exist. Dey are lies. Dey are fabrications and fantasies created to give da illusion of security in a chaotic world. Do not live in da lie. Look at ya' body. It is water. Life is water, it is changing and inconsistent, but it will sustain you. But only if you let go of all of dat which you cannot hold."
“I’m just trying to figure out who I am.” Nik pleaded.
“Listen me, dum dum,” compelled the fish. “You. Already. ARE.”
“But I want to be happy.”
“Den let go.” And with that, the odd little fish swam away. Or was pulled by a current. Or both.
So...
After a while, Nik went home and showered.
He got dressed.
He called Tom.
He let go.
It didn’t usually rain in Kahala.
Today, it rained.
Picture 1: A wise or crazy white-spotted surgeonfish
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
At the Movies
One of the great perks about life in the beach house (aside from its proximity to the beach) was that there were two screening rooms. That main one occupied the largest room in the house, which had chairs and sofas on risers and a terrific sound system. The other was in Pete's room.
Pete, 40-something with thinning hair and a sallow complexion, was a film teacher at a local school — though which or what kind of school was indeterminate.
“I had taught at this one school,” Pete said as he and Nik sat on their beach watching the most profound sunset, “but then…” This was the third time Nik had asked about Pete's professional life. And the third clandestine response.
“But then WHAT?!” Nik wondered. A steady stream of “whats” ran through his mind. He had hoped it was something fantastic like, “…and then they found out I melt metal with my radioactive stare. And they just weren’t cool with that.” But what Nik “hoped was” and what “was was” was often very different. Then Nik's thoughts ran to the memory of a former classmate he had in graduate school, Derrick.
For years, Jack and Nik suspected something was amiss with their classmate, a classmate who used such now infamous acting warm-up exercises as Stirring the Pudding. Stirring the Pudding consisted of twisting one’s body in space while exclaiming, “I’m banana!” or “I’m Tapioca!” when asked what kind of pudding you were.
Jack and Nik were quite certain that anyone who stirred pudding couldn’t be trusted. Time would reveal that Derrick had in fact been charged with molestation while teaching at a school in New Mexico or somewhere.
Had Pete been fondling some student? Nik was determined to get to the bottom of this mystery.
There were several other peculiar things about Pete. For one, he didn’t talk with much detail or insight about the story or characters or craftsmanship of the films they watched. Pete, Parker, Nik, and sometimes Pali (the mysterious Pali would suddenly appear and evaporate with nary a sound) watched a movie every night and Pete was hard-pressed to say much more than, “That was good. I liked it.”
Another quirk of Pete's was that he chose to watch movies naked. Parker and Nik would cast a quick glance of reassurance to one another, like, “We’re cool with this, right?” “Sure, as long as he doesn’t —“
“You guys want to watch this in the nude?” The idea of watching Apacolypto without clothing seemed like a thematic choice — and Nik was all about a theme — but somehow they just couldn’t go there. And it wasn’t a matter of being uncomfortable, per se, it just seemed a bit odd.
“Uh…no, we’re —“
“— We’re OK.”
“— We’re OK.”
“OK,” Pete concluded as if to say, “OK, but you don’t know what you’re missing.” Did having one’s genitals exposed to the experience somehow enhance a movie? Would this catch on in multiplexes in Duluth? “Come watch Godzilla — in 3D — and in the nude! Now in phallicvision!”
The interesting thing, however, about Pete's film knowledge was that, while he couldn’t talk about how a particular shot or scene embodied the essence of a character (such as the icy, soulless resolve of the girl in The Page Turner as she is being groped by the adulterous cellist), he did know when any given movie was made, who made it, and what the juicy story surrounding the making of it was. Nik could see how a high school student might find this exciting.
Was that it? Did he teach high school? Or community college? One day, Nik would know the truth!
This night’s selection was Nicholas Cage’s The Weather Man, a dark comedy that snuck through the box office a few years ago. In preparation for the movie Nik went to the kitchen to retrieve a bag of popcorn.
Greeting him in the center of the kitchen sat the largest cockroach he had ever seen.
Now, Nik had encountered roaches, rats, and all sorts of unpleasantness during his tenure in New York. And it should be noted that to live in Hawai’i is to live with nature. Truly. Once can’t escape it, and, it could be argued, why would one want to escape it? It’s usually a beautiful thing.
But this was a monster.
“Darth Vermin.” Nik froze in his tracks. Darth Vermin’s cape whipped with a demonic life, blown by wind that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. The beastie’s gaze was steely and unflinching.
“I shall feed on your fear, “ echoed Darth Vermin through some form of mechanical respirator. “That, and whatever crumbs you slobs leave on the counter.” Nik backed away slowly. It was entirely possible that Darth Vermin was reading his mind so Neal wanted to appear as casual as possible. Upon reaching the kitchen archway he sprinted through the screening room.
“Roach! Big! Very scary!” If the roommates had any doubt about Nik's queerhood they were dashed at this moment. Fast as a bunny he darted to his bedroom to arm himself with a slippah.
“Don’t worry. I got it.” Nik attempted to sound brave but almost certainly sounded like a weepy Sally Field character.
Like Luke walking into the cave on Dagobah, Nik cautiously crept back into the kitchen not knowing what horror lay before him.
Alas, his nemesis was gone.
Was this yet another test by the island? There were many fears, Nik knew, that he needed to face — not the least of which was a cockroach with Jedi powers.
The next day Nik had an interview with a talent management company for an acting coach position. The ad had been somewhat vague about salary or time commitment. The company featured actors ages 4-17 and, while Nik had never worked with kids that age, Nik thought this would be an excellent opportunity to make use of the past several decades of his life.
It was the strangest interview Nik had ever been to in his life. The two women sat in front of him explaining the company and curriculum but hadn’t asked him any questions.
“Do you have any questions for us?” Talia queried.
“No, I think you spelled it out.” And she had. For the past half hour she had. Through her rather detailed description Nik had the nagging fear that this was essentially Hawai’i’s version of New York’s Actors Express, a kind of fast food for the industry, flipping actors like so much meat in a fryer. This job would not be about instilling young, eager actors with an appreciation for a dazzling art form. He would not be honing the craft of pre-teen thespians. No, this was about rich parents who thought Johnny was absolutely adorable and assumed that the rest of the world would think so, too.
“Betsy is a model but wants to act and direct,” a Prada-wearing mother would say.
“Betsy is 8, Mrs. Cunningham.” Nik imagined saying. “At best, she’ll be a Producer by 10.”
Nik was jolted back to the interview.
“Do you have any questions for us?” How many times was she going to ask? “No,” Nik wanted to shout, “don’t you have any questions for me?” He feared the inquiry would come off as bitchy and so just smiled and listened.
He was ready to discourse on the virtues of Practical Aesthetics over all other techniques. He could sing the praises of Repetition work as the single greatest acting tool there was. He could ramble on and on about how his approach to movement was about freeing an actor’s confidence and comfort rather than simply “walking funny,” as other approaches might imply. Weren’t they interested in those things? Apparently not. So, using smiles #37 (of course) and 14-19, with a pinch of 82 he maneuvered his way through the remainder of the interview.
In all, he couldn’t be sure how it went. It didn’t go badly but it wasn’t a knock out.
He remembered what Becky had said the day prior. “Don’t worry, something will come up.” He just wanted a job. A full-time, salaried job with acceptable benefits. He wasn’t greedy but he wasn’t just going to take a bunch of dinky jobs for pennies. Why couldn’t he find this job?
There was a quote Nik remembered and had written on a Post-it his desktop. “The only thing that overcomes hard luck is hard work.” He did seem to be a having a string of bad luck. Or was he creating the bad luck? Was he deliberately sabotaging his own success? Had he always done so? Are we not the architects of our own destinies? Sure, he thought, in every life a little rain must fall but if you don’t go outside you’ll never see the sunshine, either.
So, Nik decided that he would start overcoming some of these obstacles in a more active way. Over the next few days he would march down to Waikiki and stick his nose into every restaurant and hotel he could find. He would nag the temp agency he was with and set up an interview with another one. He was going to turn this around. He didn’t need luck. What was luck anyway?
Nik also resolved himself to go surfing the next morning and to make the day count.
However, that next morning…
“Small Surf Forecast and Box Jellyfish Warning in Effect” read the morning’s Honolulu Advertiser. But Nik was undaunted. And who knew he would ever find himself living in a place where he needed to heed Box Jellyfish warnings? Reading about how Box Jellyfish stings could lead to almost certain death, Nik meandered into the kitchen to get a bowl of cereal.
Breakfast was not merely the most important part of Nik's day, it was a near-religious experience. He would go to bed at night and dream of cereal, of its many colors and sugars. And this morning he was particularly ebullient and was not going to let negativity interrupt his morning ritual. However, blocking his path this morning was non-other than Darth Vermin.
“I've been waiting for you, Nik. We meet again, at last. The circle is now complete. When I left you, I was but the learner; now I am the master.”
This time Nik was not afraid. Moreover, nothing would keep him from his Fruity Pebbles, not even a Dark Lord of the Sith.
“You can't win, Darth. If you strike me down, I shall become more powerful than you could possibly…oh, to Hell with it.” And in one swift motion, Nik smashed the roach with his newspaper.
A lucky strike?
In his experience, there’s no such thing as luck.
May the Force be with you!
Pete, 40-something with thinning hair and a sallow complexion, was a film teacher at a local school — though which or what kind of school was indeterminate.
“I had taught at this one school,” Pete said as he and Nik sat on their beach watching the most profound sunset, “but then…” This was the third time Nik had asked about Pete's professional life. And the third clandestine response.
“But then WHAT?!” Nik wondered. A steady stream of “whats” ran through his mind. He had hoped it was something fantastic like, “…and then they found out I melt metal with my radioactive stare. And they just weren’t cool with that.” But what Nik “hoped was” and what “was was” was often very different. Then Nik's thoughts ran to the memory of a former classmate he had in graduate school, Derrick.
For years, Jack and Nik suspected something was amiss with their classmate, a classmate who used such now infamous acting warm-up exercises as Stirring the Pudding. Stirring the Pudding consisted of twisting one’s body in space while exclaiming, “I’m banana!” or “I’m Tapioca!” when asked what kind of pudding you were.
Jack and Nik were quite certain that anyone who stirred pudding couldn’t be trusted. Time would reveal that Derrick had in fact been charged with molestation while teaching at a school in New Mexico or somewhere.
Had Pete been fondling some student? Nik was determined to get to the bottom of this mystery.
There were several other peculiar things about Pete. For one, he didn’t talk with much detail or insight about the story or characters or craftsmanship of the films they watched. Pete, Parker, Nik, and sometimes Pali (the mysterious Pali would suddenly appear and evaporate with nary a sound) watched a movie every night and Pete was hard-pressed to say much more than, “That was good. I liked it.”
Another quirk of Pete's was that he chose to watch movies naked. Parker and Nik would cast a quick glance of reassurance to one another, like, “We’re cool with this, right?” “Sure, as long as he doesn’t —“
“You guys want to watch this in the nude?” The idea of watching Apacolypto without clothing seemed like a thematic choice — and Nik was all about a theme — but somehow they just couldn’t go there. And it wasn’t a matter of being uncomfortable, per se, it just seemed a bit odd.
“Uh…no, we’re —“
“— We’re OK.”
“— We’re OK.”
“OK,” Pete concluded as if to say, “OK, but you don’t know what you’re missing.” Did having one’s genitals exposed to the experience somehow enhance a movie? Would this catch on in multiplexes in Duluth? “Come watch Godzilla — in 3D — and in the nude! Now in phallicvision!”
The interesting thing, however, about Pete's film knowledge was that, while he couldn’t talk about how a particular shot or scene embodied the essence of a character (such as the icy, soulless resolve of the girl in The Page Turner as she is being groped by the adulterous cellist), he did know when any given movie was made, who made it, and what the juicy story surrounding the making of it was. Nik could see how a high school student might find this exciting.
Was that it? Did he teach high school? Or community college? One day, Nik would know the truth!
This night’s selection was Nicholas Cage’s The Weather Man, a dark comedy that snuck through the box office a few years ago. In preparation for the movie Nik went to the kitchen to retrieve a bag of popcorn.
Greeting him in the center of the kitchen sat the largest cockroach he had ever seen.
Now, Nik had encountered roaches, rats, and all sorts of unpleasantness during his tenure in New York. And it should be noted that to live in Hawai’i is to live with nature. Truly. Once can’t escape it, and, it could be argued, why would one want to escape it? It’s usually a beautiful thing.
But this was a monster.
“Darth Vermin.” Nik froze in his tracks. Darth Vermin’s cape whipped with a demonic life, blown by wind that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. The beastie’s gaze was steely and unflinching.
“I shall feed on your fear, “ echoed Darth Vermin through some form of mechanical respirator. “That, and whatever crumbs you slobs leave on the counter.” Nik backed away slowly. It was entirely possible that Darth Vermin was reading his mind so Neal wanted to appear as casual as possible. Upon reaching the kitchen archway he sprinted through the screening room.
“Roach! Big! Very scary!” If the roommates had any doubt about Nik's queerhood they were dashed at this moment. Fast as a bunny he darted to his bedroom to arm himself with a slippah.
“Don’t worry. I got it.” Nik attempted to sound brave but almost certainly sounded like a weepy Sally Field character.
Like Luke walking into the cave on Dagobah, Nik cautiously crept back into the kitchen not knowing what horror lay before him.
Alas, his nemesis was gone.
Was this yet another test by the island? There were many fears, Nik knew, that he needed to face — not the least of which was a cockroach with Jedi powers.
The next day Nik had an interview with a talent management company for an acting coach position. The ad had been somewhat vague about salary or time commitment. The company featured actors ages 4-17 and, while Nik had never worked with kids that age, Nik thought this would be an excellent opportunity to make use of the past several decades of his life.
It was the strangest interview Nik had ever been to in his life. The two women sat in front of him explaining the company and curriculum but hadn’t asked him any questions.
“Do you have any questions for us?” Talia queried.
“No, I think you spelled it out.” And she had. For the past half hour she had. Through her rather detailed description Nik had the nagging fear that this was essentially Hawai’i’s version of New York’s Actors Express, a kind of fast food for the industry, flipping actors like so much meat in a fryer. This job would not be about instilling young, eager actors with an appreciation for a dazzling art form. He would not be honing the craft of pre-teen thespians. No, this was about rich parents who thought Johnny was absolutely adorable and assumed that the rest of the world would think so, too.
“Betsy is a model but wants to act and direct,” a Prada-wearing mother would say.
“Betsy is 8, Mrs. Cunningham.” Nik imagined saying. “At best, she’ll be a Producer by 10.”
Nik was jolted back to the interview.
“Do you have any questions for us?” How many times was she going to ask? “No,” Nik wanted to shout, “don’t you have any questions for me?” He feared the inquiry would come off as bitchy and so just smiled and listened.
He was ready to discourse on the virtues of Practical Aesthetics over all other techniques. He could sing the praises of Repetition work as the single greatest acting tool there was. He could ramble on and on about how his approach to movement was about freeing an actor’s confidence and comfort rather than simply “walking funny,” as other approaches might imply. Weren’t they interested in those things? Apparently not. So, using smiles #37 (of course) and 14-19, with a pinch of 82 he maneuvered his way through the remainder of the interview.
In all, he couldn’t be sure how it went. It didn’t go badly but it wasn’t a knock out.
He remembered what Becky had said the day prior. “Don’t worry, something will come up.” He just wanted a job. A full-time, salaried job with acceptable benefits. He wasn’t greedy but he wasn’t just going to take a bunch of dinky jobs for pennies. Why couldn’t he find this job?
There was a quote Nik remembered and had written on a Post-it his desktop. “The only thing that overcomes hard luck is hard work.” He did seem to be a having a string of bad luck. Or was he creating the bad luck? Was he deliberately sabotaging his own success? Had he always done so? Are we not the architects of our own destinies? Sure, he thought, in every life a little rain must fall but if you don’t go outside you’ll never see the sunshine, either.
So, Nik decided that he would start overcoming some of these obstacles in a more active way. Over the next few days he would march down to Waikiki and stick his nose into every restaurant and hotel he could find. He would nag the temp agency he was with and set up an interview with another one. He was going to turn this around. He didn’t need luck. What was luck anyway?
Nik also resolved himself to go surfing the next morning and to make the day count.
However, that next morning…
“Small Surf Forecast and Box Jellyfish Warning in Effect” read the morning’s Honolulu Advertiser. But Nik was undaunted. And who knew he would ever find himself living in a place where he needed to heed Box Jellyfish warnings? Reading about how Box Jellyfish stings could lead to almost certain death, Nik meandered into the kitchen to get a bowl of cereal.
Breakfast was not merely the most important part of Nik's day, it was a near-religious experience. He would go to bed at night and dream of cereal, of its many colors and sugars. And this morning he was particularly ebullient and was not going to let negativity interrupt his morning ritual. However, blocking his path this morning was non-other than Darth Vermin.
“I've been waiting for you, Nik. We meet again, at last. The circle is now complete. When I left you, I was but the learner; now I am the master.”
This time Nik was not afraid. Moreover, nothing would keep him from his Fruity Pebbles, not even a Dark Lord of the Sith.
“You can't win, Darth. If you strike me down, I shall become more powerful than you could possibly…oh, to Hell with it.” And in one swift motion, Nik smashed the roach with his newspaper.
A lucky strike?
In his experience, there’s no such thing as luck.
May the Force be with you!
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
A Bit on Words and Names
He got dressed that morning in shorts, slippahs (flip flops), and a black T-shirt. He wasn’t exactly sure what the day would hold but this seemed like a balance between New York and island living. He had found it hard to tell what occasion required what dress, if any at all.
Also, finding it hard to refer to himself as “he,” “his,” and “him” (particularly since he was living in a house full of hims) he chose a word, a name. Henceforth in the story he would be called Nik. It was a decent enough name, he thought. There weren’t many Niks. The ones he did know, personally or professionally, were usually N-I-C-K, a less interesting though acceptable spelling of the name. Plus, all of the letters in either spelling could be found in Hawai’ian.
The Hawai’ian language consists of 10 vowels (five with a kahako, or extended vowel sound, and five without) and eight consonants, h, k, l, m, n, p, w, and the ‘okina. The ‘okina is a glottal stop, appearing in words like “Hawai’i,” and actually looks like the mirror image of an apostrophe (but for our purposes the apostrophe will be substituted).
It was a beautiful, melodic language, Nik concluded. Particularly in song, it was the kind of language that seemed to float on the trade winds. For the year prior to his move, Neal had tried to study up on the language. He memorized words and phrases in pidgin, a hodge-podge rural speak. But, he realized, the grave difference between laboratory study and field experience is that the prior rarely helps much with the latter.
“You go Ewa, take Kalakaua, then left at Ala Moana, right at Piikoi, an’ right at Kona Iki. Da kine mall gots choke stores, brah.”
“…Right…so…am I going in the right direction?” Nik just wanted to get to the mall. In New York you could go to any corner to find any number of coffee places, even a Starbucks would be welcomed at this point. At least in the mall he could find coffee. And if he could find coffee all would be mellow with the world.
Again, the surfer tried to give him directions. It all just sounded like a convergence of too many vowels. The “a” was a perfectly lovely letter but he wasn’t sure so many were necessary. Choke vowels. He nodded to the surfer not wanting to appear ungrateful or, worse, uncool.
There were several things Nik liked about island life. He loved how people on the street were easy to smile or throw a shaka in passing. Attendants at gas stations seemed to genuinely love what they were doing. He loved how at night it seemed to be sunny. Cars on the street never drove faster than 35mph and Jack Johnson was ubiquitous on the radio. Neal loved the fact that no matter how many times he showered he found sand in the creases of his skin. And his hair looked incredible with dried salt water in it.
He wasn’t sure, however, whether he liked the professional world.
“Don’t worry, something will turn up,” chirped Becky, the receptionist at the temp agency, as if she were vomiting sunshine.
“Yes, but if I don’t worry I’ll have nothing to do.” Indeed, Nik had been a worrier of grand proportions. In elementary school he had stolen a Colorform Scooby-Doo from the classroom. So worried was he about getting caught that he promptly returned it the next morning. Still to this day he was convinced that the infraction would turn up on his record. Guilt and worry were old friends Nik hoped to some day ditch at a party on the other side of town.
He hung up the phone with Becky promising himself once again that he wouldn’t panic until Saturday. He still at a few days left to do the miraculous: find a job. He preferred an office job. Something about post-it notes and a surplus of writing implements comforted him. Plus, his utter inability to print or fax anything at the moment deeply disturbed him.
He needed to organize something. Nik was nothing if not organized. Once again, as he had for the past several days, he sat at his computer imputing nonsensical appointments into his iCal.
“OK, 5:00am go surfing; 7:00am shower; 8:00am emails; 9:00am…oh god, what do I do at 9:00am?" He hadn’t any interviews or temp jobs lined up.
“Hi, Becky, it’s Nik.”
“Hi, Nik. Let me check with the ladies and see if they have anything for you.”
Pause, pause, pause.
“NIk? Nothing today. They haven’t heard back from the jobs they submitted you for,” Becky said with an audible smile and, he imagined, a cute tilt of the head.
“Did they tell them that I was awesome,” Nik considered saying but instead chose, “Um, OK” instead.
“Don’t worry, something will turn up.”
Back at the computer. “9:00am,” he typed, “go to coffee shop." But, ah! He noticed a 2:00pm job fair for a cruise line. This was interesting. Nik had always wanted to be a pirate. Well, either that or an intergalactic, cyborg spy. Both seemed like admirable professions. Instead he chose theatre. A less glamorous and far less lucrative option. As such, he found himself doing office work. How had he gone from pirate to paper-pushing, go-fetch boy? Not that working on cruise ship would get him any closer to piracy.
Nik had a grossly overactive imagination and only a loose grasp on reality. There was the fantastic world Nik imagined (the perfect Hawai’i, the free-as-a-bird life of a surfer) and then there was the backhand, bitch-slap of reality. While this would be a job on a ship, waiting tables on Norwegian Cruise Lines wouldn’t offer much yo-ho-ho-ing. The more likely scenario would have Nik schlepping tuna salad to toothless 80-year olds on their billionth wedding anniversary. Plus, you would be stuck on a boat. What if he got scurvy? Do people still get scurvy? Nik was sure they must and surer still that he would be the lone asshole to spread it.
“You should bartend,” roommate Parker had offered. “Some of ‘em make six figures.”
“Oh, but that would be successful and, you know, I don’t really do ‘successful.’ I like to live hovering just above the poverty line. I believe if you keep your expectations low you won’t ever be disappointed.” Nik thought he was being witty. He often thought he was being witty.
But Parker wasn’t sure this was a joke.
Frankly, Nik wasn’t either.
Though, in truth, Nik had gone to Bartending School in New York. He even worked in a gay bar for all of two nights. But he quickly discovered that the job required one to actually talk to people, a practice Nik was mortally adverse to.
“Bartending School?” squinted Keith, who had bartended since he was able to reach the tap. It was rumored that he had shaken his first martini whilst still in the womb. “And what do they teach you at ‘Bartending School’?”
“You know, how to mix stuff. Drinks or whatever.”
“Like?”
“Like, I dunno.”
“Like, how to pour a beer?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“But you know how to pour a beer.”
“True.”
“Then guess what, you’re a bartender. The rest of the job is mastering bullshit.”
Like most schools, what they teach you is rarely what you actually need to know. What Nik needed was a class in bullshit. It wasn’t that he couldn’t lie. He was a writer, after all. It was improvisation that was the problem. He could always think of the most cleaver thing to say several hours and several rewrites after the conversation. At an early age Nik had learned, in lieu of actual dialogue, that he could get through most interactions with a well-timed, enthusiastic smile. He had developed and perfected 112 different smiles for most any occasion.
There was the smile to use when meeting new people.
The smile to use when meeting new people he wanted to sleep with.
The smile for after having slept with the new person and now trying to get them to go home.
The smile when he was listening.
The smile for when he was pretending to listen.
Ad nauseam.
There were big, full-bodied smiles; coy, seductive smiles; mischievous or pensive smiles. He knew the right muscles to use to select Smile #37, used during job interviews. “If they could only see Smile #37 I wouldn’t be stuck in this damn coffee shop!”
A woman turned from her book to look at him.
Had he said this out loud? He often feared one day devolving into “that guy” who has full conversations with himself. While riding the subway he would observe these people discoursing the value of peanuts as weapons or the politics on Mars and think, “Hello, brother, I’m coming to join you soon.” Though, he hoped, he hadn’t thought this out loud.
So, yeah, pirates. Nik had once taken a pirate name test online. It was one of those silly sites where a multitude of personal questions are asked and then some magical algorithm selects a name based on those answers. Nik's pirate name was Calico Sam Vane. Calico because he couldn’t choose just one favorite color and instead selected “multiple.” And Vane as in “weather vane” because apparently the algorithm knew he would go whichever way the wind blew. “Well,” he snapped, “I don’t know where the hell it got Sam from. Stupid algorithm.”
Nik arrived at the job fair and was greeted by China. Not the country, though that would have been impressive, no, this woman was about 50 (but was working damn hard to be 20). She hungered to be young and vibrant again. She was dedicated to perfecting her tan, despite the current and inarguable science saying that sun actually ages skin. No, China was sure her tan was the secret to a youthful life. Her eyes smiled brightly and eagerly but her face didn’t move, either due to Botox or conscious effort to simulate Botox. China explained that Nik’s current attire, the shorts and slippahs he chose to wear that morning, were too casual for this event.
“Oh, I didn’t realize,” he said using Smile #78.
“No worries. Everyone in Hawai’i is so laid back. I decided I had to draw some lines.”
“Oh, now someone was drawing lines?” Nik thought and hoped he hadn’t said out loud. He had been here for a week and hadn’t seen anything remotely resembling a line drawn by anyone.
“I thought it was more informal,” he lied using Smiles #37 and 104 – a brilliant combination.
She bought it. In fact, it was entirely possible that this cougar wanted to see him in even less clothing. China proudly handed him her business card and, with a purse of the lips that would make Jennifer Saunders impressed, all but begged him to come back in two weeks for the next session.
Nik left the office mildly ashamed and mildly aware that on a very real level he had deliberately sabotaged this event. Perhaps he didn’t want to work on a boat after all. He wandered around the harbor trying to salvage the trip downtown. He passed a great tall ship. If this were the ship he wouldn’t mind working on it so much. No, the cruise ship was not for him.
He stopped at a café and ordered a turkey panini in memory of New York. For some reason it reminded him of his friend Van, though they had never eaten paninis together before. New York also reminded him of Tom. Though pretty much everything reminded him of Tom. A kindly waitress brought the sandwich over to him.
“Mahalo,” she said.
The greatest words in Hawai’ian were Aloha, Ohana, and Mahalo. Aloha, as most probably know, is more than just a word; it’s an entire philosophy of welcoming and joy. It’s about breathing deeply, embracing the beautiful and chaotic world around you and sharing it with others. NIk understood that, in part, he had come to the island to learn this first hand. This is what he wanted to carry with him regardless of where he received his mail. Ohana means family (thank you Lilo and Stitch) and that family can be anyone and everyone. Nik realized that, worry as he did; he always had his family and friends. This was a tremendous comfort to him. But perhaps the greatest of all of these words was Mahalo. It is a word of thanks but it goes so much deeper than a flippant English “thank you.” It is about being grateful every waking day for another chance to do good. It is thanking another human being for even the smallest kindness – the holding of a door, letting another car pass in front of you, of a smile or shaka from a stranger. It is thankfulness in the infinite.
Another great word, he remembered, was lolo, which meant crazy.
So, Nik closed his eyes as he bit into his turkey panini and sent out a vibe from the deepest part of his soul.
“Aloha, my lolo ohana. Much mahalo for your love.”
Picture 1: A view of Koko Head and Hawaii Kai
Picture 2: A big canoe
Also, finding it hard to refer to himself as “he,” “his,” and “him” (particularly since he was living in a house full of hims) he chose a word, a name. Henceforth in the story he would be called Nik. It was a decent enough name, he thought. There weren’t many Niks. The ones he did know, personally or professionally, were usually N-I-C-K, a less interesting though acceptable spelling of the name. Plus, all of the letters in either spelling could be found in Hawai’ian.
The Hawai’ian language consists of 10 vowels (five with a kahako, or extended vowel sound, and five without) and eight consonants, h, k, l, m, n, p, w, and the ‘okina. The ‘okina is a glottal stop, appearing in words like “Hawai’i,” and actually looks like the mirror image of an apostrophe (but for our purposes the apostrophe will be substituted).
It was a beautiful, melodic language, Nik concluded. Particularly in song, it was the kind of language that seemed to float on the trade winds. For the year prior to his move, Neal had tried to study up on the language. He memorized words and phrases in pidgin, a hodge-podge rural speak. But, he realized, the grave difference between laboratory study and field experience is that the prior rarely helps much with the latter.
“You go Ewa, take Kalakaua, then left at Ala Moana, right at Piikoi, an’ right at Kona Iki. Da kine mall gots choke stores, brah.”
“…Right…so…am I going in the right direction?” Nik just wanted to get to the mall. In New York you could go to any corner to find any number of coffee places, even a Starbucks would be welcomed at this point. At least in the mall he could find coffee. And if he could find coffee all would be mellow with the world.
Again, the surfer tried to give him directions. It all just sounded like a convergence of too many vowels. The “a” was a perfectly lovely letter but he wasn’t sure so many were necessary. Choke vowels. He nodded to the surfer not wanting to appear ungrateful or, worse, uncool.
There were several things Nik liked about island life. He loved how people on the street were easy to smile or throw a shaka in passing. Attendants at gas stations seemed to genuinely love what they were doing. He loved how at night it seemed to be sunny. Cars on the street never drove faster than 35mph and Jack Johnson was ubiquitous on the radio. Neal loved the fact that no matter how many times he showered he found sand in the creases of his skin. And his hair looked incredible with dried salt water in it.
He wasn’t sure, however, whether he liked the professional world.
“Don’t worry, something will turn up,” chirped Becky, the receptionist at the temp agency, as if she were vomiting sunshine.
“Yes, but if I don’t worry I’ll have nothing to do.” Indeed, Nik had been a worrier of grand proportions. In elementary school he had stolen a Colorform Scooby-Doo from the classroom. So worried was he about getting caught that he promptly returned it the next morning. Still to this day he was convinced that the infraction would turn up on his record. Guilt and worry were old friends Nik hoped to some day ditch at a party on the other side of town.
He hung up the phone with Becky promising himself once again that he wouldn’t panic until Saturday. He still at a few days left to do the miraculous: find a job. He preferred an office job. Something about post-it notes and a surplus of writing implements comforted him. Plus, his utter inability to print or fax anything at the moment deeply disturbed him.
He needed to organize something. Nik was nothing if not organized. Once again, as he had for the past several days, he sat at his computer imputing nonsensical appointments into his iCal.
“OK, 5:00am go surfing; 7:00am shower; 8:00am emails; 9:00am…oh god, what do I do at 9:00am?" He hadn’t any interviews or temp jobs lined up.
“Hi, Becky, it’s Nik.”
“Hi, Nik. Let me check with the ladies and see if they have anything for you.”
Pause, pause, pause.
“NIk? Nothing today. They haven’t heard back from the jobs they submitted you for,” Becky said with an audible smile and, he imagined, a cute tilt of the head.
“Did they tell them that I was awesome,” Nik considered saying but instead chose, “Um, OK” instead.
“Don’t worry, something will turn up.”
Back at the computer. “9:00am,” he typed, “go to coffee shop." But, ah! He noticed a 2:00pm job fair for a cruise line. This was interesting. Nik had always wanted to be a pirate. Well, either that or an intergalactic, cyborg spy. Both seemed like admirable professions. Instead he chose theatre. A less glamorous and far less lucrative option. As such, he found himself doing office work. How had he gone from pirate to paper-pushing, go-fetch boy? Not that working on cruise ship would get him any closer to piracy.
Nik had a grossly overactive imagination and only a loose grasp on reality. There was the fantastic world Nik imagined (the perfect Hawai’i, the free-as-a-bird life of a surfer) and then there was the backhand, bitch-slap of reality. While this would be a job on a ship, waiting tables on Norwegian Cruise Lines wouldn’t offer much yo-ho-ho-ing. The more likely scenario would have Nik schlepping tuna salad to toothless 80-year olds on their billionth wedding anniversary. Plus, you would be stuck on a boat. What if he got scurvy? Do people still get scurvy? Nik was sure they must and surer still that he would be the lone asshole to spread it.
“You should bartend,” roommate Parker had offered. “Some of ‘em make six figures.”
“Oh, but that would be successful and, you know, I don’t really do ‘successful.’ I like to live hovering just above the poverty line. I believe if you keep your expectations low you won’t ever be disappointed.” Nik thought he was being witty. He often thought he was being witty.
But Parker wasn’t sure this was a joke.
Frankly, Nik wasn’t either.
Though, in truth, Nik had gone to Bartending School in New York. He even worked in a gay bar for all of two nights. But he quickly discovered that the job required one to actually talk to people, a practice Nik was mortally adverse to.
“Bartending School?” squinted Keith, who had bartended since he was able to reach the tap. It was rumored that he had shaken his first martini whilst still in the womb. “And what do they teach you at ‘Bartending School’?”
“You know, how to mix stuff. Drinks or whatever.”
“Like?”
“Like, I dunno.”
“Like, how to pour a beer?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“But you know how to pour a beer.”
“True.”
“Then guess what, you’re a bartender. The rest of the job is mastering bullshit.”
Like most schools, what they teach you is rarely what you actually need to know. What Nik needed was a class in bullshit. It wasn’t that he couldn’t lie. He was a writer, after all. It was improvisation that was the problem. He could always think of the most cleaver thing to say several hours and several rewrites after the conversation. At an early age Nik had learned, in lieu of actual dialogue, that he could get through most interactions with a well-timed, enthusiastic smile. He had developed and perfected 112 different smiles for most any occasion.
There was the smile to use when meeting new people.
The smile to use when meeting new people he wanted to sleep with.
The smile for after having slept with the new person and now trying to get them to go home.
The smile when he was listening.
The smile for when he was pretending to listen.
Ad nauseam.
There were big, full-bodied smiles; coy, seductive smiles; mischievous or pensive smiles. He knew the right muscles to use to select Smile #37, used during job interviews. “If they could only see Smile #37 I wouldn’t be stuck in this damn coffee shop!”
A woman turned from her book to look at him.
Had he said this out loud? He often feared one day devolving into “that guy” who has full conversations with himself. While riding the subway he would observe these people discoursing the value of peanuts as weapons or the politics on Mars and think, “Hello, brother, I’m coming to join you soon.” Though, he hoped, he hadn’t thought this out loud.
So, yeah, pirates. Nik had once taken a pirate name test online. It was one of those silly sites where a multitude of personal questions are asked and then some magical algorithm selects a name based on those answers. Nik's pirate name was Calico Sam Vane. Calico because he couldn’t choose just one favorite color and instead selected “multiple.” And Vane as in “weather vane” because apparently the algorithm knew he would go whichever way the wind blew. “Well,” he snapped, “I don’t know where the hell it got Sam from. Stupid algorithm.”
Nik arrived at the job fair and was greeted by China. Not the country, though that would have been impressive, no, this woman was about 50 (but was working damn hard to be 20). She hungered to be young and vibrant again. She was dedicated to perfecting her tan, despite the current and inarguable science saying that sun actually ages skin. No, China was sure her tan was the secret to a youthful life. Her eyes smiled brightly and eagerly but her face didn’t move, either due to Botox or conscious effort to simulate Botox. China explained that Nik’s current attire, the shorts and slippahs he chose to wear that morning, were too casual for this event.
“Oh, I didn’t realize,” he said using Smile #78.
“No worries. Everyone in Hawai’i is so laid back. I decided I had to draw some lines.”
“Oh, now someone was drawing lines?” Nik thought and hoped he hadn’t said out loud. He had been here for a week and hadn’t seen anything remotely resembling a line drawn by anyone.
“I thought it was more informal,” he lied using Smiles #37 and 104 – a brilliant combination.
She bought it. In fact, it was entirely possible that this cougar wanted to see him in even less clothing. China proudly handed him her business card and, with a purse of the lips that would make Jennifer Saunders impressed, all but begged him to come back in two weeks for the next session.
Nik left the office mildly ashamed and mildly aware that on a very real level he had deliberately sabotaged this event. Perhaps he didn’t want to work on a boat after all. He wandered around the harbor trying to salvage the trip downtown. He passed a great tall ship. If this were the ship he wouldn’t mind working on it so much. No, the cruise ship was not for him.
He stopped at a café and ordered a turkey panini in memory of New York. For some reason it reminded him of his friend Van, though they had never eaten paninis together before. New York also reminded him of Tom. Though pretty much everything reminded him of Tom. A kindly waitress brought the sandwich over to him.
“Mahalo,” she said.
The greatest words in Hawai’ian were Aloha, Ohana, and Mahalo. Aloha, as most probably know, is more than just a word; it’s an entire philosophy of welcoming and joy. It’s about breathing deeply, embracing the beautiful and chaotic world around you and sharing it with others. NIk understood that, in part, he had come to the island to learn this first hand. This is what he wanted to carry with him regardless of where he received his mail. Ohana means family (thank you Lilo and Stitch) and that family can be anyone and everyone. Nik realized that, worry as he did; he always had his family and friends. This was a tremendous comfort to him. But perhaps the greatest of all of these words was Mahalo. It is a word of thanks but it goes so much deeper than a flippant English “thank you.” It is about being grateful every waking day for another chance to do good. It is thanking another human being for even the smallest kindness – the holding of a door, letting another car pass in front of you, of a smile or shaka from a stranger. It is thankfulness in the infinite.
Another great word, he remembered, was lolo, which meant crazy.
So, Nik closed his eyes as he bit into his turkey panini and sent out a vibe from the deepest part of his soul.
“Aloha, my lolo ohana. Much mahalo for your love.”
Picture 1: A view of Koko Head and Hawaii Kai
Picture 2: A big canoe
Monday, July 9, 2007
On the house, roommates, and a hike up the Judd and Nuuanu Trails
He lived in a fairly gnarly neighborhood. (He was growing fond of using words like “gnarly” and “bro/brah” and “howzit” though they sounded a bit odd coming from his mouth. His mouth created a sound not unlike a 13-year old, giggling schoolgirl.) Kahala, a suburb of Honolulu, was rather high-end. He had grown somewhat embarrassed at telling people where he lived. At a party he found himself increasingly reticent noticed people cocking their head.
“Oh, really?” asked a Hawai’ian woman. “What do you do?” The question implied that she assumed he must be lawyer, or doctor, or ran a successful porn business. None of which were remotely true.
“Well, currently I am unemployed.”
She squinted, not sure how this was possible given his proximity to Doris Duke’s mansion.
In truth, the home in which he lived was a modest beach house enclosed by trees. The homes around his were, of note, obnoxious. It was a lucky Craigslist find. Three other men and a dog inhabited the home. Though he was not sure whether the dog was actually paying rent.
The roommates, The Three P’s (Pete, the gay-P; Parker, the straight-P; and Pali, the probably-straight-but-could-go-either-way-P) were all very cool
“Don’t you live in a nudist house?” Someone had asked him.
“No.” Though he wasn’t sure how convinced he was. “It’s more like a locker room.”
“…At which gym?”
In truth, the naked issue wasn’t really an issue at all. The ad had said “occasional naked living” but he had already lived fairly nakedly with his partner. But this would be with strangers. Was that an issue? He had certainly kept this tidbit a secret from most everyone out of, what, embarrassment? Fear they would suspect it sexual? Did he suspect it was something sexual? He was certainly ready to move the next day had it appeared a questionable scenario. No, as it turned out it was really just about being free to walk from the shower to his bedroom and for his roommates to be free to do the same. There were, as it so happened, few doors to any of the rooms, so really it was simply a matter of convenience.
Besides, the house was a bit like a cave anyway. There were very few lights. Most everyone slept during the days anyway, which he found to be odd considering they were residing in a daylight kind of place.
“Hey, wanna go for a hike?” Parker was a sweet, Californian, elementary school teacher with an equally sweet Boarder Collie, Dog. Our hero had loved dogs all his life and was excited by the prospect of living with a dog. Dog, however, wanted nothing to do with anything or anyone that wasn’t Parker.
“Dog's a bit territorial about Parker,” Pete had told him.
“A bit?”
Parker waited at the door that lead to the lanai with Dog nudging a look in from behind Parker's legs. Dog seemed to be saying, “Um, if we’re going let’s go, dude.”
They took over in Parker's truck to the Judd trail, at the base of which was the spot where Jacob’s cabin was built for Lost (see photo). Parker was an accomplished shortboarder and our hero had hoped that this hike would kindle a new friendship and, subsequently, free lessons.
The hike was intermittently silent and chatty.
“I had long-term girlfriend on the mainland, but it just doesn’t work out here.” Parker said this without so much as a sentimental flinch. Yet, it hit our hero like a knife thrown by a drunk and angry carnie.
For the past month he had thought about little else except for the partner he had left behind. He hoped one day, and perhaps one day soon, they would find their way back to each other. He would make this work. Parker would be wrong. Wouldn’t he?
The hike was long and winding and sometimes they would take impromptu trails, and trails that weren’t really trails, and there were slips and trips and stumbles and falls (all performed masterfully by our hero and all observed with a judgmental eye by Dog). He prided himself on being in damn fine shape (he took jump rope classes, for god’s sake. Jump rope, people). But this hike, a winding, perilous climb with nothing to stop one’s fall down the treacherous side should one slip, was demanding a sweat and hefty tax of breathe. It was at times frightening and exhilarating. He could imagine easily getting lost or hurt and there might not be anyone around to help should an ankle get twisted or a nail get broken.
“I wonder, if I slipped down the side of this mountain and died, how long it would take for someone to find me.” He thought out loud.
“But it would be a beautiful fall,” replied the infectious Parker.
At one point, they had gone down an overgrown side trail in hopes of getting a better view of Honolulu. The excursion offered no other reward than a bruising smack on the head by an unyielding tree.
But, he thought, it was kind of like life. The road is uncertain. And sometimes you don’t know which way to go, and sometimes you go down the wrong road, but sometimes you have to go down the wrong road in order to know which one is the right road. And sometimes you find your way back to the car. And sometimes, and inevitably one day at one time, you will fall and never leave the trail at all.
But it would be a beautiful fall.
Picture 1: (Joe, this one is for you) The site of Jacob's cabin from Lost! Also shown: roommates, Parker and Dog.
Picture 2: Just some viney tree thing.
Picture 3: A view of Honolulu from the Nuuanu trail.
“Oh, really?” asked a Hawai’ian woman. “What do you do?” The question implied that she assumed he must be lawyer, or doctor, or ran a successful porn business. None of which were remotely true.
“Well, currently I am unemployed.”
She squinted, not sure how this was possible given his proximity to Doris Duke’s mansion.
In truth, the home in which he lived was a modest beach house enclosed by trees. The homes around his were, of note, obnoxious. It was a lucky Craigslist find. Three other men and a dog inhabited the home. Though he was not sure whether the dog was actually paying rent.
The roommates, The Three P’s (Pete, the gay-P; Parker, the straight-P; and Pali, the probably-straight-but-could-go-either-way-P) were all very cool
“Don’t you live in a nudist house?” Someone had asked him.
“No.” Though he wasn’t sure how convinced he was. “It’s more like a locker room.”
“…At which gym?”
In truth, the naked issue wasn’t really an issue at all. The ad had said “occasional naked living” but he had already lived fairly nakedly with his partner. But this would be with strangers. Was that an issue? He had certainly kept this tidbit a secret from most everyone out of, what, embarrassment? Fear they would suspect it sexual? Did he suspect it was something sexual? He was certainly ready to move the next day had it appeared a questionable scenario. No, as it turned out it was really just about being free to walk from the shower to his bedroom and for his roommates to be free to do the same. There were, as it so happened, few doors to any of the rooms, so really it was simply a matter of convenience.
Besides, the house was a bit like a cave anyway. There were very few lights. Most everyone slept during the days anyway, which he found to be odd considering they were residing in a daylight kind of place.
“Hey, wanna go for a hike?” Parker was a sweet, Californian, elementary school teacher with an equally sweet Boarder Collie, Dog. Our hero had loved dogs all his life and was excited by the prospect of living with a dog. Dog, however, wanted nothing to do with anything or anyone that wasn’t Parker.
“Dog's a bit territorial about Parker,” Pete had told him.
“A bit?”
Parker waited at the door that lead to the lanai with Dog nudging a look in from behind Parker's legs. Dog seemed to be saying, “Um, if we’re going let’s go, dude.”
They took over in Parker's truck to the Judd trail, at the base of which was the spot where Jacob’s cabin was built for Lost (see photo). Parker was an accomplished shortboarder and our hero had hoped that this hike would kindle a new friendship and, subsequently, free lessons.
The hike was intermittently silent and chatty.
“I had long-term girlfriend on the mainland, but it just doesn’t work out here.” Parker said this without so much as a sentimental flinch. Yet, it hit our hero like a knife thrown by a drunk and angry carnie.
For the past month he had thought about little else except for the partner he had left behind. He hoped one day, and perhaps one day soon, they would find their way back to each other. He would make this work. Parker would be wrong. Wouldn’t he?
The hike was long and winding and sometimes they would take impromptu trails, and trails that weren’t really trails, and there were slips and trips and stumbles and falls (all performed masterfully by our hero and all observed with a judgmental eye by Dog). He prided himself on being in damn fine shape (he took jump rope classes, for god’s sake. Jump rope, people). But this hike, a winding, perilous climb with nothing to stop one’s fall down the treacherous side should one slip, was demanding a sweat and hefty tax of breathe. It was at times frightening and exhilarating. He could imagine easily getting lost or hurt and there might not be anyone around to help should an ankle get twisted or a nail get broken.
“I wonder, if I slipped down the side of this mountain and died, how long it would take for someone to find me.” He thought out loud.
“But it would be a beautiful fall,” replied the infectious Parker.
At one point, they had gone down an overgrown side trail in hopes of getting a better view of Honolulu. The excursion offered no other reward than a bruising smack on the head by an unyielding tree.
But, he thought, it was kind of like life. The road is uncertain. And sometimes you don’t know which way to go, and sometimes you go down the wrong road, but sometimes you have to go down the wrong road in order to know which one is the right road. And sometimes you find your way back to the car. And sometimes, and inevitably one day at one time, you will fall and never leave the trail at all.
But it would be a beautiful fall.
Picture 1: (Joe, this one is for you) The site of Jacob's cabin from Lost! Also shown: roommates, Parker and Dog.
Picture 2: Just some viney tree thing.
Picture 3: A view of Honolulu from the Nuuanu trail.
The part where we meet the protagonist
He found himself on a beach. In Hawai’i.
“I think its Hawai’i,” he pondered.
He couldn’t be certain, but he had the kind of unpleasant awareness as one has before one is about to puke after a long nigh of boozing. Not that Hawaii, or wherever, was unpleasant. No, quite the contrary. It was glorious.
But how did he get here? And why?
He could remember saying that he was going to do it. “I’m moving to Hawai’i,” he told friends in New York.
“Wow,” they would say. “Have you ever been?”
“No.”
“Wow.”
He felt rather special at this. He was always the kind of shallow individual that wanted his life to be accompanied by “wow.”
But from that time it was a bit of a blur. He left a good job, great friends, the perfect man. There was too much Klonopin, and rum and Diet Coke, and general delirium to be sure. But here he was. A stranger in a strange land without friends or gainful employment. He had no other certainty of his place in the world than to peer out onto the vast Pacific.
"Wow,” he thought. “If a tsunami hit right now I’d pretty much be fucked.” Yes, he was also the kind of person to stand half-naked in paradise and recognize the dark fragility of his existence.
A brownish blob surfaced just ahead of him on the water. At first he though that it was a small, fat child or a particularly agile aquatic Hobbit. Then a pair of flippers flopped into view. Now, he had never seen an aquatic Hobbit and, in fact, was fairly convinced that they didn’t exist. And, though he was only marginally acquainted with children, he was rather secure in the thinking that they usually did not have flippers. Though it would be infinitely cooler if they did.
The monk seal bobbed its head out of the water as if to say, “No, asshole, I’m a monk seal. Dumbass.” It looked rather like an ugly, fuzzy dog. The kind that rich widows on the Upper East Side would dress up in designer frocks.
And then it disappeared.
Quickly, he put on his goggles (you know, the ones he bought when he was going to train for the triathlon. Yeah, like that happened). He ran to the water’s edge and was bitten by the cold of the Pacific. Nevertheless, he dove in and searched for the sea puppy.
“Perhaps I will find it, speak its language, and we could be friends. I could use a friend here. It could be like Flipper and we could solve mysteries and I could write a screenplay about it and make millions at the box office though that would likely drive a wedge in our relationship. I don’t think monk seals deal with celebrity like the rest of us. Silly seals.” At that point he realized he was under water and couldn’t normally breathe in this environment and should probably consider returning to the surface where he hoped there was still air in the world. Once there he discovered he was quiet far from the shore. In fact, the current had speedily washed him into a coral forest.
It wasn’t necessarily a picturesque and colorful reef like they are on the Discovery Channel but he had never been near one so the experience set him aback. Schools of fish swam beneath his feet. He felt sure several were Humuhumunukunukuapua'a, Hawai’i’s state fish and reportedly the longest word in the English language…even though it wasn’t English.
But should that surprise him? His Anglo kith and haole kin had robbed, raped, and never returned the phone call of the Hawai’ians. The islands were stolen, the Queen Lili’uokalani imprisoned, and the language and culture brought to the brink of extinction. And now here he was. One more haole, mainlander thinking he could become some kind of local surf god. Well, at least he had a tan. Perhaps he could blend.
But he was far from a surf god. He wasn’t even a surf altar boy. The term “kook” came to mind.
In the blur of transition into his first week on the island he had attempted surfing several times to no avail. In fact, the only thing he came away with was several cuts and scrapes from the coral, a ding on his kook surfboard, and a scolding – he wasn’t even sure he was being scolded by the elder surfer and so asked several times for his admonishment to be repeated.
“What?” He asked a third time.]
“You need to be careful!” The elder surfer’s inner eye rolled in disdain.
“Right. Thank you,” our hero replied, trying to appear as cool as possible as a giant wave toppled him once again off his board and intro the reef.
The view from the water, however, almost makes the humiliation worth it. The Diamond Head lighthouse stands guard just above the break. He had never been into lighthouses (though their phallic appearance had not alluded him) but for some reason this one seemed especially majestic. It was a beacon to wayward sailors. A way home. Was this his home? Had he left home and needed to find his way back? “It would be nice,” he thought, "to have the clarity of a lighthouse.”
Perhaps one day.
“I think its Hawai’i,” he pondered.
He couldn’t be certain, but he had the kind of unpleasant awareness as one has before one is about to puke after a long nigh of boozing. Not that Hawaii, or wherever, was unpleasant. No, quite the contrary. It was glorious.
But how did he get here? And why?
He could remember saying that he was going to do it. “I’m moving to Hawai’i,” he told friends in New York.
“Wow,” they would say. “Have you ever been?”
“No.”
“Wow.”
He felt rather special at this. He was always the kind of shallow individual that wanted his life to be accompanied by “wow.”
But from that time it was a bit of a blur. He left a good job, great friends, the perfect man. There was too much Klonopin, and rum and Diet Coke, and general delirium to be sure. But here he was. A stranger in a strange land without friends or gainful employment. He had no other certainty of his place in the world than to peer out onto the vast Pacific.
"Wow,” he thought. “If a tsunami hit right now I’d pretty much be fucked.” Yes, he was also the kind of person to stand half-naked in paradise and recognize the dark fragility of his existence.
A brownish blob surfaced just ahead of him on the water. At first he though that it was a small, fat child or a particularly agile aquatic Hobbit. Then a pair of flippers flopped into view. Now, he had never seen an aquatic Hobbit and, in fact, was fairly convinced that they didn’t exist. And, though he was only marginally acquainted with children, he was rather secure in the thinking that they usually did not have flippers. Though it would be infinitely cooler if they did.
The monk seal bobbed its head out of the water as if to say, “No, asshole, I’m a monk seal. Dumbass.” It looked rather like an ugly, fuzzy dog. The kind that rich widows on the Upper East Side would dress up in designer frocks.
And then it disappeared.
Quickly, he put on his goggles (you know, the ones he bought when he was going to train for the triathlon. Yeah, like that happened). He ran to the water’s edge and was bitten by the cold of the Pacific. Nevertheless, he dove in and searched for the sea puppy.
“Perhaps I will find it, speak its language, and we could be friends. I could use a friend here. It could be like Flipper and we could solve mysteries and I could write a screenplay about it and make millions at the box office though that would likely drive a wedge in our relationship. I don’t think monk seals deal with celebrity like the rest of us. Silly seals.” At that point he realized he was under water and couldn’t normally breathe in this environment and should probably consider returning to the surface where he hoped there was still air in the world. Once there he discovered he was quiet far from the shore. In fact, the current had speedily washed him into a coral forest.
It wasn’t necessarily a picturesque and colorful reef like they are on the Discovery Channel but he had never been near one so the experience set him aback. Schools of fish swam beneath his feet. He felt sure several were Humuhumunukunukuapua'a, Hawai’i’s state fish and reportedly the longest word in the English language…even though it wasn’t English.
But should that surprise him? His Anglo kith and haole kin had robbed, raped, and never returned the phone call of the Hawai’ians. The islands were stolen, the Queen Lili’uokalani imprisoned, and the language and culture brought to the brink of extinction. And now here he was. One more haole, mainlander thinking he could become some kind of local surf god. Well, at least he had a tan. Perhaps he could blend.
But he was far from a surf god. He wasn’t even a surf altar boy. The term “kook” came to mind.
In the blur of transition into his first week on the island he had attempted surfing several times to no avail. In fact, the only thing he came away with was several cuts and scrapes from the coral, a ding on his kook surfboard, and a scolding – he wasn’t even sure he was being scolded by the elder surfer and so asked several times for his admonishment to be repeated.
“What?” He asked a third time.]
“You need to be careful!” The elder surfer’s inner eye rolled in disdain.
“Right. Thank you,” our hero replied, trying to appear as cool as possible as a giant wave toppled him once again off his board and intro the reef.
The view from the water, however, almost makes the humiliation worth it. The Diamond Head lighthouse stands guard just above the break. He had never been into lighthouses (though their phallic appearance had not alluded him) but for some reason this one seemed especially majestic. It was a beacon to wayward sailors. A way home. Was this his home? Had he left home and needed to find his way back? “It would be nice,” he thought, "to have the clarity of a lighthouse.”
Perhaps one day.
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