This one’s for you, Jules:
Beautiful people abound in Hawaii. They are everywhere. I honestly thought almost everyone there was worthy of a full-color poster.
I admit I was more than a little enamored with my companion and with the island itself. Perhaps my good feeling transposed itself onto everything and everyone around me. But, whatever the cause, I remember telling Michael how pretty everybody was. All the men and women there seemed to have perfectly chiseled features, light brown skin that glowed radiantly, dark piercing eyes and bodies that would not quit no how.
There were two rather notable butt ugly exceptions to my rule of thumb, and apparently, God thought it would be like really funny if I walked in on those two people engaged in a sex act. By the way, God, if you’re reading this, I gotta hand it to ya, that was a good one, man! I didn’t see it coming at all!
Here’s how it happened:
We were in Honolulu and we had just found a good parking spot on the street and got out of our rental car.
Of course, we don’t want to leave anything important in the car. Let’s see, we have our maps, the camera, our matching gilligan hats, money to blow on souvenirs. Everything seems to be in order.
“Honey, you have the keys, right?”
Hey, wait a minute. What’s that humming noise? Could it be…the engine? NO WAY! Yes, that’s it. The car is still running. Fuck fuck doublefuck.
The best laugh is that, under this extreme duress, I actually ventured to ask Michael who has OCD whether he was SURE his door was locked. Um. Yeah.
So, one idiotic question later, we’re still locked out of the rental car. We easily found a phone booth, and I dialed Avis’ emergency help line. It would seem that Avis’ Honolulu branch saves money by not hiring anyone to man the phones. I called them repeatedly with no luck.
So, we were stuck wandering about, searching for a phone-booth equipped with a telephone book so that we might find a locksmith to come and rescue our sorry asses. Now, while there are more than enough phone-booths in Honolulu, there seemed to be a definite shortage of booths with both a book and a functional telephone.
That’s when the bike shop on the corner beckoned to me. Due to what some might consider my questionable upbringing, I have no fear of motorcyclists. In the 70’s my Uncle Bobo used to hang out with some of the Hell’s Angels, and I got to meet a few of them on my grandmother’s front lawn. My favorite of these visitors was a kindly bearded guy with a formidable beer belly. He was a big fellow in every sense of the word and was ironically called “Shorty.” To my young Catholic mind he looked just like Jesus, if Jesus weighed more than 275 pounds and rode a Harley. Doubtless, people who have little or no appreciation for tattoos, piercings and excessive body hair promptly urinated themselves whenever they saw him coming. Yet, to me, he remained a big Jesussey teddy-bear.
But, I digress. Back to my story. As I said, the bike shop beckoned. I even entertained a fleeting hope that Shorty might be in there and we’d be reunited.
Well, if wishes were dragons, no one would ever have to ask for a light.
But, lo! Shorty was not there. In his place was a biker dude who had no Jesus beard. This man had only a mustache that seemed to want to wrap itself around his head. The mustache frightened me in its seeming inability to be tamed or groomed and above it were eyes that held no kindness for me. These eyes were not of the lamb of god. They held no love, no redemption. Only a warning that I should go away
A second later I noticed that there was a good reason for me to do just that. The reason took the shape of a girl who was busy at the biker’s waist. Her arms needed shaving and she was bobbing up and down, administering a perfunctory blow job to Mister Mustache. It seems I was intruding on their…their moment.
There was little passion here. In fact, I suspected later, after I’d had time to think on it, that the girl needed a bike part and this was Mustache’s payment for installing it. But, all I could think of at my moment of truth, standing in the doorway of the bike shop, was that I should not over stay my welcome.
So, how should I bow out gracefully given my situation? What should I say? Perhaps something stupid? Sure, why not.
Without further adieu and without any semblance of composure, I spat out what was foremost on my mind, “Do you have a phone I can use?”
I expected and got no response from either of them, only the continuing stony glare of Greasy Mustache Guy.
I took that as my cue to leave.
To make this long story a little shorter, I’ll just say it all worked out in the end. Soon after I left the bike shop, we found a locksmith. Fifty dollars later we were back to enjoying our vacation. Perhaps I even learned something from the experience, but I don’t even want to know what that might be.
So, God, if you’re still reading, just watch out. Someday I’m gonna get you back for that. Still though, it was a good one.