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
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