Oh Wow
A hyped-up version of this is going into my soon-to-be-released anthology of Honolulu stories. But I can't wait. :-)
The other night, I was waiting for the bus across from the Blaisdell Arena, where The Who played so memorably last August. I was sitting on the well-known beige bench beside the green plastic trash can, next to the Mercedes dealership, near the ecru Hawaiian Electric Company offices and their floodlit multi-storied parking structure filled with repair vehicles. And the defunct 100' tall European-designed once state-of-the-art white energy windmill blade, mounted as a sculpture or memorial. I sighed in the balmy air. The sky was dark with luscious stars, and the full-faced, anguished moon kept appearing through intermittent wispy, low, greyish tropical clouds. Palms stirred, dim, living, rustling, in the wind, on both sides of dark Ward Avenue. Two lines of creosoted brown telephone poles stretched away from the ocean, ever-narrowing toward the pinpoint perspective of the black streetlight-lit heart of darkness, like telegraph wires to cosmic, spiritual enlightenment, Light At The End Of The Tunnel, Destination At The End Of The Spinning Galaxy. I smiled, totally happy with this vision.
Tommy arrived, not surprisingly, a brown Hawaiian lean older Frank Sinatra in black crewcut with two missing teeth and wildly enthused if absent unignorable huge brown eyes. As usual, he wore a black leather jacket and fake black leather penny loafers. He came from the Jack-in-the-Box and--more to the point--the highly-welcoming low-key local bar behind it, across Kapiolani Boulevard.
Tommy is one of my all-time favorite people. He is a native Hawaiian who lives in the Hawaiian homestead sites way, way up the steep mountain at Papakolea, near storied Punchbowl volcano crater and its dead soldiers and ancient ghosts, along with the rest of his amazingly extended family-- and consequently he rides my bus route, Number 15, one of the very oldest on the island of Oahu. He is infallibly pleasant no matter how intoxicated he is, and his revelations in his various states of enlightenment remind me strongly of visiting Delphi in Greece and seeing the real oracle.
The black sky overhead loomed. A white explosion trailed across the universe like contraband Taiwanese fireworks.
Tommy grinned, larger and brighter and far more unsteadier than real life, brown eyes alight, witnessing the latest communication from God. "Sistah," he said, white teeth save the missing ones brilliant from ear to ear, clearly ecstatic, brown eyes warm as hot lava, "Did you make a wish?"
"Yah," I answered, truthfully, never missing one fucking falling star if ever I have chance to ride on the back of the cosmic Mustang Sally bucking fucker. "You?"
"Ah, sure..." Tommy smiled, absent soul, shaking his head. Although appearing often absent, Tommy is never less than highly-focused. He made hand motions while talking to himself, in some esoteric communion with Dionysos the Wine God, and then told me, with proud joy, both hands pointing outward in spontaneous shaka signs, "It's the night when All Wishes Are Granted."
We both laughed, floating up on the divine atmospheric perfume, and the bus arrived, ti leaves tied to bike rack for good luck, since da bus has been breaking down more than usual, lately. Francis, the regular driver, way-pleasant quiet Japanese-Hawaiian guy, has been driving the route for 20 years and is highly popular, but his doctor's views of his heart--and the City's paranoia re: liability concerning heart-seizured driver and out-of-control bus spinning down 2000 feet from jungled hairpin heights of Tantalus--may mean that he retires soon.
Our bus route is extremely traditional, in the Hawaiian sense.
And my wish got granted. :-)
The other night, I was waiting for the bus across from the Blaisdell Arena, where The Who played so memorably last August. I was sitting on the well-known beige bench beside the green plastic trash can, next to the Mercedes dealership, near the ecru Hawaiian Electric Company offices and their floodlit multi-storied parking structure filled with repair vehicles. And the defunct 100' tall European-designed once state-of-the-art white energy windmill blade, mounted as a sculpture or memorial. I sighed in the balmy air. The sky was dark with luscious stars, and the full-faced, anguished moon kept appearing through intermittent wispy, low, greyish tropical clouds. Palms stirred, dim, living, rustling, in the wind, on both sides of dark Ward Avenue. Two lines of creosoted brown telephone poles stretched away from the ocean, ever-narrowing toward the pinpoint perspective of the black streetlight-lit heart of darkness, like telegraph wires to cosmic, spiritual enlightenment, Light At The End Of The Tunnel, Destination At The End Of The Spinning Galaxy. I smiled, totally happy with this vision.
Tommy arrived, not surprisingly, a brown Hawaiian lean older Frank Sinatra in black crewcut with two missing teeth and wildly enthused if absent unignorable huge brown eyes. As usual, he wore a black leather jacket and fake black leather penny loafers. He came from the Jack-in-the-Box and--more to the point--the highly-welcoming low-key local bar behind it, across Kapiolani Boulevard.
Tommy is one of my all-time favorite people. He is a native Hawaiian who lives in the Hawaiian homestead sites way, way up the steep mountain at Papakolea, near storied Punchbowl volcano crater and its dead soldiers and ancient ghosts, along with the rest of his amazingly extended family-- and consequently he rides my bus route, Number 15, one of the very oldest on the island of Oahu. He is infallibly pleasant no matter how intoxicated he is, and his revelations in his various states of enlightenment remind me strongly of visiting Delphi in Greece and seeing the real oracle.
The black sky overhead loomed. A white explosion trailed across the universe like contraband Taiwanese fireworks.
Tommy grinned, larger and brighter and far more unsteadier than real life, brown eyes alight, witnessing the latest communication from God. "Sistah," he said, white teeth save the missing ones brilliant from ear to ear, clearly ecstatic, brown eyes warm as hot lava, "Did you make a wish?"
"Yah," I answered, truthfully, never missing one fucking falling star if ever I have chance to ride on the back of the cosmic Mustang Sally bucking fucker. "You?"
"Ah, sure..." Tommy smiled, absent soul, shaking his head. Although appearing often absent, Tommy is never less than highly-focused. He made hand motions while talking to himself, in some esoteric communion with Dionysos the Wine God, and then told me, with proud joy, both hands pointing outward in spontaneous shaka signs, "It's the night when All Wishes Are Granted."
We both laughed, floating up on the divine atmospheric perfume, and the bus arrived, ti leaves tied to bike rack for good luck, since da bus has been breaking down more than usual, lately. Francis, the regular driver, way-pleasant quiet Japanese-Hawaiian guy, has been driving the route for 20 years and is highly popular, but his doctor's views of his heart--and the City's paranoia re: liability concerning heart-seizured driver and out-of-control bus spinning down 2000 feet from jungled hairpin heights of Tantalus--may mean that he retires soon.
Our bus route is extremely traditional, in the Hawaiian sense.
And my wish got granted. :-)
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