Reality slapped me in the face, and I was back at that table, arm wrestling. Loyd was jumping up and down, grinning, excited. Broomhelda shook her head like a crazy person, hair whipping, sweat flying everywhere. She was moaning in capital letters. And then God smiled down on me. Broomhelda's wrist exploded in a rain of blood. Her bone stuck out – veins wiggling around like excited worms. Loyd screamed and ran up the stairs. Broomhelda gripped her wrist. She didn't shriek. She just looked mildly disappointed.
“Goddamn,” she went. “That's the third time this year. Oh, well.”
Loyd came running back and wrapped her wrist with a bandage. He was crying violently. It was embarrassing. Broomhelda sat back and exhaled and looked at me, squinting, nodding her head and going, “Hmmm. Hmmmm.” She smiled to the love of her life. “Loyd?”
“Yes, lover?”
“Pay this man.”
Loyd handed me an envelope and smiled at me and messed my hair up like a dad would his son. The envelope burned in my hand – a reminder of the sad amount inside. The Devil, complete with red leotard and plastic pitchfork, was leaning in the doorway and smoking a cigar. He was counting money, fanning them like playing cards. He laughed at me and said, “So, I hear your selling your soul for $200? Deal!”
He threw the money in my face. The bills exploded into smoke, as did the Devil. I looked away and shuddered. Broomhelda got up.
“Lover, help me put on that purple dress I like,” she said. “We have a party to go to.” As she walked by, she put a hand on my shoulder. “You just taught me a valuable lesson.”
We had a moment. It was nice.
As they went upstairs and got dolled up, I thought about that priest on the TV. If I could turn to my personal gamer, I'd say:
“Give me a hand here. Help me out. Help me win this game.”
But how to do it? How to suddenly – turn around?
Broomhelda and Loyd came back down, wished me luck, and drove off in their beat up, white truck. The thing was a dinosaur – a time traveler right from the 1930s, and it looked like it was having a seizure as it rattled off into the night. So there I was, waving them away, all alone in that field.
Well, not totally alone. Did I mention I was surrounded by a whole mess of smelly-ass, weirdo pigs?
It was a full moon.
An hour went by.
Keep your brain open. Get ready. Get ready for anything queer.
My legs hurt. I was instructed to just stand there in the middle of those pigs, next to the woods, and keep my peepers open. So that's what I did. Well, for a little while. After a few minutes of standing, I said to hell with it and goofed around. I sat on a pig to rest my legs, even rode around on one. They didn't like it and started shrieking. So I got off and apologized. Did they understand me? Did they also have – dare I say it – human brains? I thought, If I see a pig with a human face, I'll shit.
I reached into my pocket...looked around out of habit...and pulled free a bottle of whiskey. I gulped half of it down and started to feel real good. When the field started to spin, I heard a motor – a truck coming my way. I narrowed my eyes to get a better look. Were they already back so soon? Did they forget something? It was their truck, yup, but Loyd wasn't driving. What I saw behind that wheel froze my bones.
The white truck was driven by a werewolf – the first I'd ever seen with my own eyes. All the strength went out of my legs. I wanted to scream like a little girl. The werewolf was HUGE and barely fit inside the truck. It parked – those ancient brakes complaining. The werewolf got out. It was eating someone's leg. It took a final bite and threw the leg away and stretched and yawned. I ducked, and the pigs cried out. My mouth jumped.
“Shut up, you pigs. For the love of all that's holy, keep quiet.”
I grabbed one – Sandy – and put my hand over her mouth.
“Please, you'll get me eaten out.”
The werewolf saw my tiny car and looked around and sniffed the air, then shrugged and tore my car apart – yanking out the tires and engine. My soul gave up. All I could do then was sit there and expect to die. The werewolf opened the fence and started taking some pigs, filling the back bed of the truck. The monster went to get more. It was getting too close to me. What if it finds me? What do I do? Fight the damn thing? Am I mentally ill? Maybe I can make a run for the woods. Maybe, maybe, maybe. Then the pigs in his truck start crying and such, running here and there. I saw Loyd and Broomhelda in that truck – looking like they were trying to eat those screeching hogs.
They're zombies, I thought. Praise Jesus!
The werewolf ran to save his pigs – ran and tore those zombies apart. Arms and guts flew high into the air. Loyd's torso landed right on my head. His nervous eyes were on me. Sandy licked Loyd's face. His jaw went up and down like he was trying to tell me a secret. I leaned in.
“I'm sorry,” I whispered. “I hope you make it into Heaven. Put in a good word for me.”
The werewolf very carefully got more pigs and filled the back of the truck until no more could fit, then it got in and drove off. I got up. My hands and legs shook. I just stood there for a long time, weeping with that pig oink-oinking at me. I almost died. Total shock. You know how people say you see your whole life flash behind your eyes? Lies. I saw nothing. 100% paralysis.
After a few minutes of me just staring into the night with my brain filled with static, another truck drove up to the house. Time to skedaddle. I put piggy down and ran to the woods. I hid behind a tree and watched as this other werewolf with large breasts got out and filled the truck with pigs. It zoomed away, and another truck came right up after it and did the same. Werewolves stealing pigs. Why? Were they gonna sell them?
I started thinking about the police and panicked and got out of there – ran fast as shit with my heart thudding in my ears.
I woke up at a bus stop across from the ocean. Morning time. Orange sky. Where was I then? Still in Waianae? Was I dead? Was I finally in Heaven? No idea. Too tired to think. I wasn't in the mood to ask the bum sleeping next to me with his head on my lap. I felt something in my pants and pulled it out.
The gun.
I “forgot” to use it.
Screams for help. Down the road, those same local thugs from earlier were beating up a white woman with canoe paddles. I ran up and shot my gun in the air and scared the bad men away. I gave the woman my gun.
“Don't let them spoil your stay. We're not all assholes. Hawaii no ka 'oi.”
And then I took the bus home.
Took me two hours.
Morning time.
I hate mornings. The world comes alive. Much noise.
Home was an apartment in the bad side of Kalihi. Low income housing (God, help me). I opened the front door. The TV was on. Was this on all night? My God, the electric bill, man, the electric bill! The newsman yakked: Werewolves were robbing banks last night, hijacking people in dark alleys, picking pockets, stealing infants to sell to the black market. Bad, bad stuff. It was depressing. But there was a bit of good news. A dolphin saved a drowning man. He was grateful. The reporter shoved a microphone in his face.
“How do you feel?”
The man hugged the dolphin.
“This angel saved my life!” he smiled. “Man's best friend, indeed!”
He kissed the dolphin and rode on its back, waving to the camera, blowing kisses, weeping in joy. The cameraman panned to a furious dog that barked at the dolphin. The reporter yelled at the beast's owner – a suspicious bearded man.
“Get that mad dog out of here! Can't you see this is a peaceful moment?”
I took off my clothes (left them there in the living room) and went for the shower. Before I could even stick my toe into the water, there was a knock at my door. It was Gia, my landlord, holding a crying baby.
“Where my rent stay?”
Her local accent was thick. Truth be told, it came out raw as all hell, sounding like, “Wea ma wrant stay?” But I'll spare you the confusion and write her lines (best as I can re
member them) as normal as possible without spoiling her charming character. Whenever she spoke to me, I always had to lean in a little and squint, as if it helped me understand her. She was small, but not to be messed with. I once saw her run into an apartment, pick up a guy and toss him over, right into traffic. No one called the cops. Not if they liked staying in her building.
“Ah! The rent,” I said, smiling like a gentle angel. “Yes, I have it right here. One second.”
I ran to the couch and searched through my pants and got out the envelope.
“Here you go. I've got some of it.”
“What you mean some?”
“I was robbed last night by werewolves. They held me at gunpoint. I had no choice. I had to give them the money. Lucky for you, I always hide some bills in my shoes.”
She snatched the envelope and looked inside.
“Unlucky for you, this not enough, brah.”
“I need more time. One more day. Please. I beg of you.”
“You know what? I had enough of you already, Lars. My sister stay coming over from Samoa. I get no problem giving your place to her. So you better straighten up, brah, or else you out of here.”
“No!” I begged. My hands were together in prayer. “Please. I'll have your money. Just one more day. Please. I'll pawn some stuff. I'll have the rent – you'll see!”
She grunted.
“I give you until five o’clock. You lucky I nice.”
I got on my knees and kissed her hand.
“Thank you, thank you! You are a delight!”
Then she was gone. I thought about going back to the farm and doing what the werewolves had done: I'd steal me a pig and sell it for big bucks. No, no, no. Think about it, dummy. There would be no pigs left. Anyway, the cops would be there. Forget it. Kiss your home goodbye. You are screwed. I walked around my apartment, looking at what I could pawn.
I had nothing.
I was friggin' poor, man.
Goddammit.
There was one thing I could do. One thing that could help the situation.
That job at the gas station.
The very idea made my stomach hurt. I got on the ground and curled into a ball and took a nap.
I give up. God? Kill me now. I don't wanna live no more. This isn't living. This is surviving.
Kids running and laughing outside my door woke me up. I put on my cleanest clothes and went down to that blasted gas station, hands in my pocket, kicking invisible trash as I went. Just for money, I kept telling myself. Just do this for the money. Just for a little while. Just until I become a famous zombie hunter and can afford to buy my own fancy house. Yesss, that's it. No worries.
Well, guess what?
I got to my interview late.
My dad's friend was waiting outside his auto shop with his arms folded across his chest, holding a giant wrench. I got the impression he was trying to appear “manly”. When I opened my mouth to say something uninteresting, he shook his head and pointed his wrench at me and told me to go home. I shrugged and did as I was told. I remember feeling, somehow, dad's eyes on my back, burning lasers of hate and disappointment. Strange; I was sure he was nowhere around. I slid on some motor oil and fell onto a race car held up by cinder blocks. Well, that pretty car done tipped over and rolled into traffic and was hit by a big semi-trailer truck hauling a house. I ran before Dad's friend could put his oily hands on me.
I went home expecting my landlord to be standing there with that damn baby. No one was in my place but a dead cockroach. I got whatever I could find to pawn: Junk vases, forks and spoons, old toys, watches, etc. Too bad I didn't have my weapons. I was obtuse enough to leave those in the trunk of my ex-car.
So I went.
The lady at the pawnshop laughed when I poured the crap on her desk. I explained my living situation. I was crying. She gave me a hundred dollar bill to wipe my tears...said I could keep it. I thanked her and ran out to pay my landlord.
When I got home, a big Samoan man was throwing all my stuff on the street.
Gia – always holding that crying, chubby baby – had a baseball bat.
“Stay back!” she said. “You late! I no like any trouble. No try attack me. I good with this here bat. You know what I mean? I giving your place to my sister. You out of here, brah.”
I reached into my pocket.
“No! I got some of the rent money. See?”
She snarled at me and walked close and took my money and stuffed it in the baby's diaper.
“This not even close to enough, stupid.” She called out to the big Samoan man. “Sunny! Get this guy off my land.”
He walked toward me, smiling and pounding his fist into his hand. I stumbled back, fell on my ass, and crawled back.
“No. Stay back. Jesus. Don't let him put his hands on me!”
He reached down and grabbed the front of my shirt.
Someone jumped on his back and started strangling him.
It was my dad.
Gia started screaming. She put the baby in a stroller and ran toward Dad, her bat in the air. Dad kicked her in the face and sent her crashing to the ground. She crawled back to her baby. The Samoan thug was leaning over, coughing up blood. Dad put him in a headlock, squeezing until the big guy got drowsy and slowly fell to the ground. Dad was whispering into his ear, “Shhh, sleep, sleep....”
People looked out from their windows, cheering and clapping and throwing confetti into the air.
Dad jumped off the thug and grabbed me by the neck.
“You got to the interview late! And on top of that, he said you broke a car?! My mechanic friend hates me now! Do you know what this means, boy? He's gonna screw me over on repairs! You have no idea how hard it is to get an honest mechanic! Can you even hear me? Usted entiende la boca americana? You ignoramus...I'm gonna strangle you so bad!”
Someone jumped on his back and covered his eyes.
It was Jerome. My zombie hunting buddy.
He had his hands all in my dad's mouth, stretching it wide open. Dad's tongue wiggled and much spit came out. He spun around, reaching back. He got hold of Jerome and tossed him into a trashcan. The police were on their way. Dad pointing at me.
“This ain't over, boy.”
And then he ran off.
I helped Jerome to his feet – picked those rats off him. He handed me Dad's wallet. It was full of hundreds.
“Bless your little heart,” I said, counting the bills.
Gia snatched the wallet from me.
“I believe this is mine,” she laughed.
I went for it.
“That's my money!”
She shoved her bat in my chest.
“This should cover your rent.”
“All of it? There's over a grand in there.”
She smiled.
“And what you going do about it, brah?”
Jerome shoved his finger in her face.
“Want me to break her neck, Lars?”
Gia's bodyguard stood next to her. I pushed Jerome's hand down.
“Screw it. Just help me pick up my stuff. I'm outta this piss hole.”
The cops circled us. Guns were drawn. Gia was real good about the whole thing. As she counted my money, she said I had nothing to do with the fight. That it was all Dad's fault. A cop with a thick mustache looked up at the apartment windows – at all those people – and yelled:
“You guys see where he went?”
Everyone nodded and pointed in his general direction.
The cop – who was at least seven feet tall – looked down at us and tipped his hat and said in his thick voice:
“Be not fearful, commoners. We'll do our best to remedy this irritating situation.”
Gia hugged the cop.
“You guys the greatest! Hawaii would be one mess without you.”
The cop hugged her back, and kissed her cheek.
“Just doing our job, ma'am. Now if you'll excuse me. I must say good day to you. Be sure to have my clam chowda ready when I stop
by tonight, lover.”
Jerome tossed my stuff into his car – just a few shirts, some pants, and a pair of clean socks. He said he came over to ask if I would be willing to help him in a few zombie jobs, maybe even be his permanent partner, start a business together.
I said it was a grand idea.
Jerome's trailer home was in the woods, in Kailua.
Things were great. I loved nature. Zombie hunting was fun. I felt alive. I had purpose. Zombie hunting is for me, I'd think while stumbling around in the woods, drunk and shirtless, watching as Jerome puked his beer all over the trees. This is my calling in life. My mind is made up. This is it! But staying with Jerome got to be a real problem. Live with someone long enough, and they'll irritate you. That's a promise. And what did I learn about Jerome?
My roommate was always dirty – always stinking. The guy never showered. I was disgusted all the time. I found myself holding my breath whenever he gave me instructions. He never washed dishes. He'd leave shopping bags here and there, sometimes right next to the garbage. He couldn't just pick it up and toss it in? Is it really that hard?
Then things got real bad.
Mentally.
Hungover in bed.
Talking to myself.
Cruel thoughts....
“How long can I keep this up? Is zombie hunting worth it? Will I make enough to buy my own place? (That's all I ever wanted: My own place.) Maybe I've been fooling myself. Was Dad right? Should I do something different? Maybe I should go back to school. Get a high-paying job somewhere. Something more normal. What if it's too late? Have I wasted my time – my years – my youth? But...what if my zombie hunting career does takes off? Possible, right? And if so, then I should keep at it. Let it grow. Put all my thought – my energy – into my business. Don't give up. Keep the faith. Keep working. Keep moving. I need more passion, dammit. That's the key to success – an intense passion!”
More brutal thinking:
“Why am I lying to myself? Do I have brain damage? How long can I keep dreaming? I feel myself slipping more and more. It's getting more difficult. Reality is winning. Why couldn't I have been born with a passion for engineering? Why couldn't I have been born with good parents? Supportive parents? Inspiring parents? I wish I was brainwashed with success principles when I was a kid. Smart parents would do that.”