Aloha Mannequins Page 3
The white officer offers her candy and begs her forth. The skinny Filipino cop tells the Japanese cops to talk to the nuts-O, but they shrug and don’t know how to speak Japanese.
The chubby daughter begs her mum to calm down. I hold her back, away from the bad news bears.
The mum makes the error of taking a swing at the fuzz, and they all take out their guns and shoot her in the kneecaps. She goes down with an “Aieeeeeeeee!” and they wrestle the old cuffs on her.
Everyone’s yelling something to someone.
Onlookers clap.
Many cars have pulled over, holding up traffic to watch, sitting on their car hoods, sipping sodas and chatting on cell phones. I can feel the Camera flying away, pulling back to reveal the scene as we Fade to Black and the credits roll over classical music…
When the police take the chubby girl and her mum away, I’m already gone – snaked away from the scene during the wild mess.
I make it a point with myself to hightail it back to HCC and meet with Warren. Can't be late. He hates that.
I step into the elevator and go to the 3rd floor. There’s a girl standing with me in this yellow painted elevator.
She’s ugly.
I mentally punch myself in the gut for thinking such evil thoughts.
The elevator opens and I walk down the cold hallway. The walls are lined with “Art” behind glass, of handprints and abstract blots. I pick up a discarded newspaper off the floor – The Honolulu Advertiser – and read the headline.
THE DOLPHIN MASTERS STRIKE AGAIN!
Apparently, there are these Save The Dolphins! enthusiasts, The Dolphin Masters. They believe that tourists AND local people pollute the oceans and aid in the purposeful extermination of all dolphins. They believe that THEY’RE the reincarnation of dolphins, and that humans are simply jealous of their large brains. A criminal psychologist on the morning news once said, “The worst thing we can do is underestimate them. They may be plotting a world-wide takeover, for crying out loud.”
Today – in the wee moon hours of the morning – they jumped a young couple carrying surfboards, hitting them with electric guitars. Witnesses say the same bizarre thing in identifying these horrible people:
“They were wearing these bright blue, full-body dolphin costumes…”
Yeesh.
These people are worst than the Mirovingian Vampires that prowl the streets at night in Waikiki, sucking people’s gore.
I don’t think I’ll come back next semester. I like the class – love the cool teacher – but I feel like I’m wasting my time. I could be working on my writing. That feels much more productive. The problem is that I KNOW what I want to do with my life. No need to take class after class, hoping for a revelation of my future. I know what I want. Which can also be a problem. Because you end up not wanting to do anything else. It’s not that you’re lazy. You just would focus on your craft – what you love – and work hard at it – rather than working a 9-5 job folding clothes and getting spat on by customers from the mainland.
Warren’s class is silent.
It’s dark inside.
It’s a computer room. The monitors all look like portals to some bright, happy dimension. I can her Mr. Rogers yapping, saying something about “layers” and “RGB” and “pasting”. Is he talking about new birth control methods? I realize that he’s talking about the photo-editing program Photoshop. My ears hurt from all the technical talk. I’ve neglected using the Left side of my brain for so long now.
I see Warren sitting near the door, almost spilling out into the hallway. He sits with his head resting on his palm, other hand moving the mouse around in tiny circles. Why does he put himself through this shite? It’s always hard for me to watch: Heartbreaking, even.
That’s it.
I’m not coming back next semester.
Warren and I meet up with his father in the parking lot, and he takes us to our dart competition, at a bar across the street called Se LeVi. Being in a dart league does nothing for my self-esteem. Each time I miss a target, each time I miss a bull’s eye, I can feel the eyes of my captains, Warren & Dave, whipping my spine with thick wet noodles.
And it hurts like a mother.
It’s always the same. You see the same people. Samoans and Hawaiians laughing so loud, glass breaks and wood splinters. Team members call each other assholes if one of them misses an important throw, and bitches if they DO hit something! And that’s just the women.
It’s all in good fun.
As long as you’re drunk.
I once tried flirting with one of our competitors. She was older, and taken by another (one of the best – but not much liked – dart players).
This was at another bar, Emerald City, across from the Neal Blaisdell Center Concert Hall – here you can see Wrestling shows and Opera and concerts. I saw Metallica there once. Good times, especially when people you don’t know hand you hard liquor.
She was sitting at the bar, singing karaoke, and I would’ve made my move…but I was too drunk. Instead, I would speed-walk occasionally into the restroom and puke something awful into the toilet. Later, as Warren’s dad drove down the freeway at 12 in the morning, I threw up in the back-bed of his red pickup truck. But I didn’t want my hideous filth all over his truck, so I puked in my hands, and then tossed the mess overboard and onto passing cars. There was a puddle on the back-bed, so I smeared it here and there because I thought that would help it dry up quicker.
This is how I play darts.
These are my league nights.
Really, I come here to drink and take shots of whatever whenever, because I wanna be a part of the Laugh Pack. Just not too many 151 shots, please, oh please.
I am relieved each night it’s over. These things usually go on for 2-3 months, with us playing once a week on Thursdays (note: Nowadays, the other guys play 3-4 times a week). I love darts but I loathe playing in leagues! I don’t like being told when to do things. I wanna play when I feel like it. I can’t take the stress of competition. I can’t play, I say, okay? No way!
But there are good nights, though. This one happened AFTER a darts night:
To cheer me up, a pal (who shall remain nameless, and who hates me now because I’m an idiot) and I hop into his truck and drive to DHV. It looks like your ordinary video store, but step inside, my friend, and walk to the right, for here there be much porn, indeed.
The first thing that hits me is how bright the place is. It’s a rat maze of porn. A labyrinth. I expect to cut a corner and see David Bowie playing with a tiny, crystal ball.
I have never been here before, and I am shocked by the quantity – yet impressed by the quality of the products. Equally surprising, is the amount of Adult Cinema knowledge my friend has. He’s like the freakin’ scholar of porn. He knows exactly what he wants, and exactly where to go. I, on the other hand, find myself a tad uncomfortable. I see a young couple “reading” the back of a DVD box. They look at me – I quickly turn away and look at some crazy box covers. The couple walks past me, laughing. Are they laughing at me?! WHY? It’s because I look 14, I know it! Well, I’m not! I’m 25! Bastids.
I don’t want to be with people here.
Alone time, please.
I wish I had donkey eyes. The placement of a donkey's eyes enables it to see all four of its feet at once. If I had that super power, I could see anyone laughing at me behind my back. And I’d whip around and point and go AHA! Laughing at me, are you??
To relax, I find much entertainment while browsing the titties – I mean titles – on DVD covers: Blacks on Blonds, Browns on Yellows, MILFs, Zoo MILFs, Midgets on Acid, Vagina Wars, Toilet Babies, Japanese Screamers, Paranoid Creamers, Fart Eaters, Golden Showers, I Eat Doodoo, Old Couples (eww…), The Anorexic Playground, One in The Pink – One in The Stink, Touch my Tofu, Mothers & Daughters, My Ass is Haunted, Vomit Tryouts, Animal Fantasies….
One title that sticks to my mind in particular is Mother Makes my Entrance Wider with Devices.
So I open my eyes so very slowly and…
…see nothing but yellow.
So the front of the VHS is black while the back is yellow. Very mysterious. But also very good news for me. I don’t want to see any kind of animal sex. Ha! Although, it was exciting expecting to see it. That, I’ll never understand. Why do I want to see something I DON’T want to see?
Meh!
To be human.
I explore the area further. I see panties that you can eat, as well as condoms; dildos ranging from the size of a pinky to the size of an arm; candy shaped as you-know-whats; and underground magazines from The Honolulu Mongoose to Fat Girls Urinating Local Style. I bypass the homosexual area by putting my hand to the side of my face, and come to a long line.
It’s an autograph session…for someone named Diamond Head.
Hmph, I say under my breath. Must be a local porn star.
Because I don’t have my glasses on, I have to squint to get a good look at her “features”. I’d walk to the front of the line, but I’m afraid of angering all these women – Yessm, that’s right, women. It’s been said that women purchase more pornography than men. They all seem anxious, and I don’t want them mad because I don’t want my piss blown in. One of the women looks over her shoulder and tells the lady behind her that she just creamed her undies, she’s so excited.
I turn so I can find my pal and tell him the news, when suddenly there’s a ruckus. A woman with a heavy pigeon (local) accent raves.
“I no understand why you gotta come to my island and try dominate. Why you no can stay in Maui? I get kids, too, you know! I gotta support my family! And feed my kids foods!”
Her friend backs away, fearful. “No, Tasty, no. Not like this.”
The other women circle Diamond Head, as if to protect her from any sudden movements made by dear Tasty. The porn star stays in her seat, hands folded neatly on the table. I can see that some of the women already have fists for hands. Diamond Head SLAMS HER HAND ON THE TABLE – all jump back in awe.
“DON’T CHALLENGE ME!”
For a second Tasty is shocked. She then gets herself together and jabs a stick-like finger into Diamond’s chest.
“You goat.”
Diamond grabs her hair and the two go at it gorilla style – banging into the walls and making a mess – the other women cheer and hoot and hiss and spit. My pal stands over my shoulder, his face nothing but two wide eyes. People are screaming behind the walls of porn, “Emergency! Emergency!” The women are knocking down whole walls, hands on throats, kicking each other in the gut. Diamond had those pointy, metal heels and kicked with her eyes shut tight with rage.
Blood guns out from under Tasty’s dress and splats on the floor. They both fall and I can see a large purple gash in Tasty’s upper thigh.
An autographed copy of Diamond Head’s new DVD slides to my feet. Its title is “Who’s Eating Gilbert’s Ass-Grapes?” Starring Diamond Head, MangoGO, BJ Simpson, Braddah Kimo, Tuna Girl, and Cabbage Inside. A security guard rushes in laughing and separates the two.
Tasty is furious.
“ROAAAAAR!”
She reaches under her skirt and flings a handful of yellow in Diamond’s face. The security guard takes the girls away, proudly.
My pal buys what he needed (3 DVDs at $29.99 each) and we both have a good laugh in the truck. Then we speak about darts and I tell him how much I hate it now. I’m in a slump. I use to be good – not really good – but good enough. Now I can’t even throw a fit. What the F’s the matter with me? I can’t clear my mind. My brain is so polluted with filth that I’m throwing tuna. My dart games are a mess. I see better games in my stool.
My Team: Warren, Dave, Me, Barry, and Warren’s girlfriend, Janet. They’re all getting better. Improving.
I have access to the best advice from all the grand masters on the island. One of the grand masters, at Scores, tried to help me. He changed my throw and everything – “Throw faster,” “Stand this way” – and it fucked me up like something weird. I’m hopeless. Not even a grand master blaster can release the pressure. Not even the Dart God can resurrect my game from the Darts Graveyard.
“The Black Building”
THE SUN’S PUNCHY. The street’s busy and yelling. What time is it now? 2:3o pm. Work was easy. Hopefully, I can save enough money to go skydiving. Once I do that, I can rest with the dead. Crash & Burn. Fall & Bounce. The End.
When I die I want my funeral to be outdoors, and I want the theme song from The Exorcist playing in the background on a loop and on a large television screen shall play my favorite movie/book Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas. My friend Brandy will tell everyone to stand and do a handstand because I think handstands are funny and everyone will do it because I’m dead and they feel bad.
I wish to be put into a coffin made of crystal and shaped like an amazing penis. It shall be lowered vertically, via crane, into the vagina-disguised grave, then raised, then lowered again, then raised again. This goes on for an hour, while everyone – still doing handstands – hops about here and there.
I stand outside the gothic stronghold, this black building – I don’t even know what it’s called. I thought it was Nortuary. I think it’s actually Galaxy.
Tourists walk past.
Why must they always be walking clichés? DON’T wear kaki shorts/DON’T wear rattan hats/DON’T put on layers of coconut lotion (I hate it!) 5 inches thick. And please, oh please, put your loud ass, spoiled, CRYING, younglings on a leash! Strap on those mouth cover-ups that they put on crazy mental people, like Anthony Hopkins.
Why do you tourists wear all that shite anyway? Is it any more comfortable than dressing good and looking attractive?
I wipe the sweat from my brow.
Cars: “Honk-honk!”
Trucks: “Beep-Beep!”
Crosswalk signal: “Click click click!”
(You see, I don’t know how it is in other parts of the world, but in Hawaii, our signals click to inform the deaf that it’s ok to cross; actually, in Japan it’s more creative: Their crosswalks play a cute little tune!)
I see a person dressed as Batman, sitting at a bus stop. He is wearing slippers, and he smells like a bum. We make eye contact and I look away quick as a cat because I’m shy.
Half hidden behind a long fence that’s covered by a ratty black cloth, the black building looks so out of place – tucked away from the law offices and convenient stores and the Hawaii Convention Center and the Hard Rock Cafe. There are some trees loitering behind the little black building. Waikiki’s not so far off from here. I might walk there later at night and oogle at the pretty Japanese tourists.
I begin planning my day: Check out Black Building. Go to Hawaiian Brian's (a video arcade/pool hall/darts place) and work on my dart game with my other dart friends (who my main dart friends hate). Sheesh! Can’t we just get along?
Also, there’s someone there that I like, so that’s a plus. So she’s seeing someone else. Is it a crime to at least see her, I ask you? As you can see, I feel guilty for thinking this way. But that ain’t gonna stop me - Ha!
I walk past the shitty fence. It’s weird seeing the building so empty. It looks so dead. There are some of those giant spool/tables and bundles of extension cord. No cars; no people. Nothing else but a light coconut-lotion scent hangs in the air.
I look around and, stepping over a diaper, walk to the door.
It’s unlocked.
I look around again…and open it.
The first thing that hits me is the stench of lemon – some kind of thick air freshener. You can still smell out the alcohol underneath it,
though. I cough, hand over mouth.
Lint floats in the air. I wave it all away and walk deeper. I remember their policy: You can’t bring water, but you can bring beer.
It’s so stupid.
Things were on the floor: Batteries, a few empty bottles of Zima, paper balls that people with weak ears put in their…ears.
The deeper I go, the darker it gets. I swing my backpack around and zip it open, taking out my tiny, red flashlight that you can attach to a set of keys.
This is exciting. I’ve always wanted to be an explorer. As a wee one I had dreams of being an archaeologist – unlocking the mysteries of the pyramids and digging up talking, still-rotting and still-screaming Mayan skeleton heads. Better to go to the Pyramids of Giza, though, surely.
But we all know that Aliens built them, right? That they came down and created us out of an all-female species to make slaves that dug up their ever so precious gold – gold to save their dying planet. This is all true. Hands down. It’s in the bible – just disfigured after centuries of translations. The bible is a freak baby of a thousand fathers.
The bible is Freddy Krueger realized.
My heart races.
Ah! The thrill of discovery.
Now I know how Harrison Ford feels.
I see that I’ve come to the bathroom and gently squeak open the door.
My tiny beam of light bounces off the white urinals. Splash. There’s a flopping sound, coming from the...
...bathroom stall.
I freeze.
Someone’s here besides me.
Time to leave.
Or is it?
Might not even be a person. I mean, who makes a flopping sound, anywho?
I bend over and look under the closed stall.
No feet.
Feeling a bit more secure, I walk to the stall and open the door, slowly, with my foot, the red light shaking in my wet, cold hand. The door knocks against the wall with a soft thud.
The flopping sound ceases.
The toilet is a mess. Whoever used it last was surely going to hell. I aim the light at it. The lid is down, of course. Using my favorite tool (my foot), I lift it open – ready for any HEAVY stench of the Devil.
The flopping starts up again – in a mad FRENZY. Whatever’s in there is psychotic. I look in, and see something that’s not a goldfish (which is what I thought it would be). It’s the state fish, a Humuhumunukunuku Apua'a. I look in closer. It freezes. My light brings its eyes to a glow. Poor thing. At least the water looks “clean”. Should I call the humane society, or something? Can’t just leave it here like this. What if it’s claustrophobic? What if it’s a lover from a past life? Oh, God. That’s it! Must be.