I sit back down on the bench and look quick at Mark. His expression is somber and his eyes wet. I had no idea my words could move a grown man.
“Is this about what happened at Kanemitsu’s last night?”
“Yup,” I whisper.
Mark speaks softly. “That line about your Mom near the end, I can totally relate.”
He’s frowning and seems more sad. We sit in silence, reliving our own painful memories. And despite the solemn mood, I’m astonished at all the firsts. First time a hot guy paid attention to me. First time I told anyone about my passion for writing rap. First time I told anyone about some of my family problems. Somehow I don’t feel so alone.
Instead I feel connected and grateful. Also butterflies. But not the usual few. A thousand of them.
At 9:15 p.m. on Saturday, September 7—two hours before Kanemitsu’s—Mom and I were closing up the restaurant. And I still sorta had my act together. Sorta because I’d been on the verge of losing my marbles for months. See, I’d been ninety-nine percent sure that my dad was having an affair. I figured the definitive proof of his goings-on would present itself soon enough since Moloka’i is small. With only about six thousand people on this thirty-eight mile long, tenmile wide island, how could it not? Besides, everyone knows everyone. What I didn’t know was that before this night was done the truth would be fully in my face. And it would all go down at Kanemitsu’s.
On that day, I was exactly one year and three months shy of eighteen. Adulthood was approaching. But my dad’s attention had slipped away awhile back. And with it so had my sense of wellbeing, my sense of how things were supposed to be. Of who I was. Of my value. I couldn’t figure out how I’d been managing to keep myself together.
I was thinking about this as I carried the last of the dirty dishes from the dining area to the sinks in the back. Whenever I think about something deeply, my mind just naturally gets a rhyme going.
My self is sliding away.
Self-worth, astray.
Self-confidence, flying like an angry jay.
Self-esteem, on the way to faraway.
Self-respect, not sticking around for these rainy days.
Two hours before Kanemitsu’s, I still had a full head of hair.
And all the customers had gone home.
I’d let my hair out of the bun that had been sitting on top of my head, so tight it felt like I’d been balancing a donut up there. I tilted my head back and shook out my thick black locks.
Aah.
My waist-length Indian hair flowed down my back like the river Styx. Some of my Gujju aunties on the mainland called it sahrus var—good hair. My mom called it vagrun var—wild woman hair. I didn’t call it anything. Mostly I tried to tame it by making it into a bun or a French braid or a ponytail.
Except when I was alone. Then I let my hair down. Loose and free.
I was thinking about where to start cleaning first—the floors, the table tops, the bar counter—when I heard a garbled male voice.
“Hey there little lady pretty Hawaiian.”
My mom was supposed to be the only other person in the restaurant. And she was in the back. Startled, I whipped around to see who it was, grabbing my hair to push it back up.
“No, leave it down. It’s gorgeous,” mumbled a balding, forty-something-year-old pasty white man. He looked like a happy clown with his sunburned nose and big smile.
Probably a tourist. He must be drunk, ignorant, or both. I bet both. Because first of all, everyone on Moloka’i knows I’m not Hawaiian. I’m the only Gujarati girl on the island. Second, guys never notice me. Pretty lady? Gorgeous hair? What was he talking about? Moloka’i boys won’t even look at me. To the fine local studs my age, I’m a sixteen-year-old dorky four-eyed flat-chested curry-eating non-Hawaiian nobody.
“Let’s you and me take a drive,” he suggested, winking. He propped his elbows on the bar. He tracked me with his beady eyes.
That’ll take chloroform.
“Tempting,” I said, pulling up my glasses by the hinges. Then I crossed my arms and shifted my eyes and chin slightly up and to the right. As if I was actually contemplating his offer.
Not.
I looked back at him. With a bogus pout I said, “Sadly I have to stay and clean up.” And with that, I continued the closing process, ignoring him and his stalker eyes. I shut off the stereo. Silence replaced Leahi’s Island Girls. I switched off half the lights—a nice contrast to the bright, loud, busy evening I’d spent waitressing. Fortunately, the rowdy mainland visitors were gone. Unfortunately, they left behind their boozed-up compatriot.
I looked at him out of the corner of my eye. He hadn’t moved from his spot at the bar. I grabbed the broom from the tiny closet in the hallway and started sweeping vigorously, hoping he’d get the hint and leave.
In case you haven’t noticed, Mr. Drunk-Ass-Creep, West End Cafe is closed now.
He hadn’t noticed.
He pushed himself off the bar and stood up. For a couple of seconds he swayed like a coconut tree in the trades. Must’ve been all those Primos he ordered. He recovered his balance, then staggered towards me. His red golf shirt with Kaluakoi Resort, Moloka’i embroidered on the left chest was untucked and lifted up on one side. Ugh, I could see his hairy beer belly. Smirking, he slurred, “At least gimme one hug. C’mon, make this old man happy.”
I didn’t expect that he’d have the chutzpah to actually do it.
But as soon as he was close enough, he threw his arms around me. Locked in. And squeezed. One of his thick, calloused hands tumbled down my back and crash landed on my okole. Luckily I was still holding the broom, which I used to shove him away. He stumbled back and wobbled, like he was balancing on a tightrope.
Please don’t fall. I don’t want to deal with this. Get out!
He found his footing, gave me major stink eye and yelled, “What the hell! You’re too skinny anyway, you crazy bitch.”
He lurched out, slamming the screen doors behind him.
Drive safe, s’kebei.
Thank God. I shut and locked the front entrance, turned around and leaned my back against the door. The humidity hit me like a ton of bricks. My uniform—a black t-shirt with the restaurant’s name printed in large white cursive letters on the front—clung to my skin. Not fast enough, I hoisted it up and off. I chucked it onto the bar and pulled up my hot pink tube top. AA cups require frequent tube top manipulation to prevent slippage. But I refuse to be denied the right to rock my style. And, just because I’m flat as an anthurium, why shouldn’t I enjoy the natural ventilation a tube top offers? Luckily my baggy jeans were already cool—as in temperature and excellence—by virtue of their
