Off Center In The Attic

by Mary Deal

  “You like?” Moke asked. “Moke make?”

  “For you, Cuz,” Kamaki said.

  “No, you bring,” he said, holding up the turnips. “Many more.” He cupped both hands to show how many more he wanted. Surely, he liked turnips. He turned back to the stove and ignored them. They tried to get his attention and he only motioned to the turnips and said, “Nui 'ino.” Soon he began to mumble again and count on his fingers.

  Getting through to a pupule was going to take some doing. The next week they went again to the farmers market and bought a whole bunch of turnips. Moke was not home so they left them in Lina's blue shopping bag on Moke's lanai beside the front door. Two days later, the blue bag showed up at their front door containing several small jars of canned food in yellow brine. They had the pupule's smell on them. Lina and Kamaki hesitated but took them inside and sat down at the kitchen table to examine them.

  Finally, Lina said, “Brave husband, try one.”

  Once the lid was off the jar, out wafted a most delicate odor they never thought could come from something connected to a pupule. The scent was tantalizing. Kamaki pinched out a piece and bit into it. As he chewed slowly, he continued to say, “Um-m…umm!”

  Lina knew from the look on his face that he had just had a taste of heaven. She begged for a bite and Kamaki held a wedge to her mouth. She bit into it and chewed slowly and swallowed. “'Ono loa!” she said. “Such delicious flavor.”

  Turnips. They were turnips, the ones they had purchased for Moke. They ate more. It was not dinnertime but they brought other foods out of the fridge and ate a small meal. Those pickled turnips enhanced the other foods.

  “That's why he want more,” Lina said. “He want make for us.”

  “We no see him cook again,” Kamaki said. “But he cook ono.”

  “Then why throw other times in back yard?”

  “Maybe he no can eat all.” Kamaki ate another piece. The little jar was almost empty.

  “But no have to cook to pickle, only leave sit in brine to cure.” Lina shrugged and ate the last bite of her turnip wedge.

  “Wonder what makes him huhu to mumble to himself and beat on table.”

  It was puzzling. They had to know more about this neighbor whom the other neighbors thought had a split brain but knew how to pickle turnips.

  “Why you no save?” Kamaki asked the next time he saw Moke throwing something out. “Why spoil?”

  Moke only smiled doubtfully and went back into his house. Lina and Kamaki decided to go over and see what they could do to help Moke avoid such waste. In Moke's kitchen, they watched him try to remember something. He would repeat several words, lose his train of thought and start over. Then Lina figured out that he was trying to remember some ingredients. “You try memorize cookbook?” she asked.

  Moke had cookbooks haphazardly cast aside. He picked up one. “No good,” he said. “Brine too strong.” He tapped his chest. “My brine good. Make my brine.”

  “You cook brine to pickle vegetables?” Lina asked, surprised. She had just learned something from this pupule.

  “My recipe… my recipe,” he said. He flagged a hand toward several other cookbooks. “No good.”

  In his strange way, Moke was telling them that he had developed his own recipe for pickling. Lina and Kamaki finally understood and smiled at each other. Moke had been throwing out his brine if it did not turn out after he cooked it. Throwing it out in the back yard and making that stench.

  “Why you no use garbage disposal?” Kamaki asked.

  “No got.”

  “Why you throw in back yard?”

  “Same as farm in country,” he said. “Throw in field.” So that was how his habit of throwing the brine into the back yard got started.

  “You need to use the sink, Bro,” Kamaki said, nicely using another familiar local term.

  “No got grinding machine,” he said.

  Now that they knew for sure, they could not be upset with the man. He was elderly and a little pupule but doing something he loved to do.

  “Why you pickle? You no eat regular food?”

  Again, Moke only smiled. Up close, though his teeth were ugly with stains, he still had them all. He opened the fridge. Inside sat containers most likely filled with leftovers or cut vegetables ready to cook. He had plenty of food and the containers were stacked neatly. He was eating well.

  “Why you pickle?” Kamaki asked again.

  “Income,” Moke said.

  “Income? You sell?”

  “Maybe tomorrow.” That meant he was not ready to sell or, perhaps, he had not perfected his creation. He looked frustrated with himself.

  “Where's recipe?” Lina asked.

  “No got.” He stirred the pot and did not look up.

  “You no use recipe?”

  He looked a little sheepish and feebly pointed to his head.

  “You memorize it?” Kamaki asked. “He makes recipe as he goes,” he said to Lina. “That's why he throws in yard. Sometimes doesn't make good.”

  Moke danced in his youngish feeble way. “Yeah!” he said, swinging his arms. “Yeah!”

  They were finally getting somewhere. “You write ingredients and measures?” Lina asked.

  Moke probably did not and could not remember correctly and that was why some days he threw out and some days danced happily instead. “No time,” he said.

  She studied him and his half-smile showed a little embarrassment. She could not believe what she was thinking. Moke did not know how to write. He only read enough to partially understand a cookbook. That was why he thought he had a better recipe. But he did have a better recipe. They had eaten his ono product and wanted more.

  A few days later, they peeped cautiously through their window as a morning rain shower let up. Moke was getting ready to cook again. They rushed over with pen and paper. As he worked with ingredients, Lina did her best to understand his crude way of measuring ingredients and wrote it all down. That batch did not turn out. Kamaki helped Pupule throw out the brine in the yard! Lina had tasted the brine and knew where to make the adjustments. They tried again the next day and surprisingly got it right.

  “Ah-h-h, now make sale,” Moke said. “Make retirement!” He took their hands and playfully swung their arms like children until he got tears in his eyes and left the room.

  That one statement and him leaving the room told them so much. From other rumors they had heard, they guessed that Moke had outlived his retirement savings. He was trying desperately in his loneliness to create something that would bring him a little income in addition to his meager Social Security check. He probably had no dental insurance and that was why his teeth were so dark. Who knew what else he suffered without?

  Kamaki did not waste time. He and Lina took two one-pint jars of turnips and contacted Aka, a friend and cook at a local tourist hotel along the Coconut Coast. When Aka tasted a wedge, he quickly finished it off and reached for another.

  “You like, you buy,” Kamaki said.

  Lina stood silent beside her husband but from her angle, could see into the kitchen and there stood one of their neighbors, the one who gossiped the worst about Moke. Lina motioned to Aka. “You give other man in kitchen. He try.”

  Aka thought that was a great idea. He carried both jars back to the other cook. A little later he returned with a smile showing all teeth. One jar was empty and he handed it back. “Other cook keep,” he said, referring to the second jar. “He like take home to wife. He say, 'Ono turnip!' ”

  Lina peeked again and saw the other cook finishing off a turnip wedge. By the look on his face, he loved it. Their busybody neighbor loved Moke's pickled turnips!

  Moke could be the most misunderstood person they knew. Lina was tired of hearing the neighbors talking poorly about him. Their derogatory conversations focused on others as well and it wasn't fair to anyone. People needed to practice patience and tolerance with one another. In her mind, on a larger scale, lack of the two qualities was why the world was in
such a sad state. If understanding began at home, the people of her neighborhood were about to get a good lesson.

  “You no sell anywhere else,” Aka said. It was a statement, not a question.

  “I going sell everywhere,” Kamaki said.

  “No, you no sell, only here,” Aka said. “More customer come this hotel, eat pickled vegetable.”

  Kamaki pulled his chin back like he was bracing himself. “Why you no tell bread man no sell anywhere else?”

  “Huh?” Aka said. “All tourist eat bread, all hotels.”

  “Okay,” Kamaki said. “So all tourist need eat pickled vegetable too.”

  “No sell anywhere else,” Aka said again. “Make too much competition for business.”

  Kamaki and Lina smiled at one another. Lina knew her husband was about to give Aka a much-needed lesson in remembering the meaning of aloha.

  “Okay,” Kamaki said finally. “No sell other hotels… one month. But friend needs make income. You sell plenty. Help old Island boy.”

  “Only one month? I want be first sell,” Aka said. He thought a moment and asked, “Old Island boy? How old this Island boy?”

  “One kahi'ko kanaka on Social Security,” Kamaki said.

  “Oh, that kine old Island boy,” he said. He finally understood. His expression softened.

  “Only one month,” Kamaki said. “You order one month supply, pay in advance, if you want sell only.”

  Aka nodded, knowing he needed to help a fellow Islander. “You bring fresh every week,” he said. “I help old kanaka.”

  A week later, Aka said the first time he put out a batch of Moke's pickled turnips in a Hawaiian smorgy, between the Huli-Huli Chicken and the Kalua Pig, they were consumed before the buffet period was half over. He placed a large order asking for different types of pickled vegetables. Shortly thereafter, Kamaki got other hotels from Princeville to Poipu to begin ordering.

  Lina and Kamaki sit on their rear lanai a lot now as trade winds rustle the palm trees. Kamaki cut a gate through the fence that separated their rear yard from Moke's. From the trees in his yard, Moke brings chilled coconuts with their ends lopped off, ready to drink. Finally, the neighbors became ashamed of how they treated Moke, especially the man who took Moke's pickled turnips home to his wife.

  Moke had finally been able to afford a garbage disposal and some new clothes. He got his teeth cleaned and whitened, but still hides his smile behind a hand because he is not used to flashing pearly whites. He's looking to buy a small pickup, after which he would donate his tricycle to the senior center. Kamaki fertilized the soil in Moke's back yard and got it healthy again. He and Moke grow vegetables and also maintain the landscaping in both yards. Orders for Moke's pickled vegetables have grown large, so Kamaki takes him shopping at the farmer's market. Lina put together a cookbook of Moke's strange and ono concoctions hoping to get it published. They decided to call it Pupule Island Recipes.

  To Soar

  I wish I were a bird, a powerful eagle, maybe a white dove, or I'd settle for being a goose because a gaggle of geese are a cohesive lot that support one another as they fly in V formation with each taking a turn in the lead to cut a trough through the air as the others ride in the wake which enables them to rest and ultimately fly farther like we could have so that we could attain potentials unreached before in this little world of endless sorrow and woe that I am locked into and keeps me wishing to soar as you in your world seem to have it all and go about your days smiling in secrecy and leave me alone to hold together the fraying bits of our lives without so much as gratitude because we simply do not speak; you for fear that you might make a slip of the tongue about where you've been and me because I've remained a caged, frail prisoner of conscience far too long, but now I plan to soar because I followed your car with me the free bird driving mine until I saw where you lay low yet could not reason why; while I remained at a distance imagining you experiencing stolen moments of ecstasy that do not include me because you and I have lost the desire to feather the same nest except when you drop your dirty social laundry on me and expect me to protect your public image once more which makes me again wish to be an unencumbered bird and all too often I do escape to soar above the rooftops and trees and into the clouds to feel the wind and rain cleansing me of your indiscretions and restoring the life that is mine which is freer than yours in your clandestine little world because it is exactly that, little, as I being in denial flying in my car follow you night after night as if I have to feel the pain again and again to make me stop my escapism and to free myself from the confines you have built to keep me grounded so I can truly be that graceful bird soaring up and away from the state of confusion that you have brought upon us because out there where I am free I have found new strength through the grace of imagined autonomy that gives me courage to hover again and again near that house where I watch the shadows on the blinds and see the lights go out and later come back on dimly just before you leave to return home as if you owned the world in which I also live and where my imaginary flights have strengthened me as I plan to soar and no matter that I am awkward like a goose, what you will be left with after this free bird swoops down is the mess that I'm about to drop on you.

  Out of Body

  I ran as fast as I could. I'm not part of this! ricocheted inside my brain. Just another guy on the street. Although I had the advantage of being under the cover of night, the sound of hastened footsteps behind drew closer and no matter which way I turned, which way I ducked and darted, the footsteps dogged me. I slipped through one doorway that stood slightly ajar and out the back of the building, through the alley and across another street.

  Damned streetlights, damned neons!

  Another alley, another street, and another chance to escape a madman who saw me as a threat. I saw nothing and only heard the shot. The scruffy guy who tried to panhandle me fell and a throng of people rushed in and crowded me out. I didn't know from where the shot rang out or who the shooter had been. I was waiting for Karen, who was late from apartment hunting with her friend, Ruthie. Within seconds, a black sedan sped toward me where I stood. From behind darkened windows with one lowered halfway, the barrel of a handgun pointed straight at me.

  I ducked. The bullet hit the wall behind me as the car kept going. Bewildered, I should have fallen to the ground. They would have kept going, but before they crossed the intersection, a passenger wearing a white tee shirt and brandishing the gun leaned his whole upper body out of the window and craned his neck to see if I was hit. I trembled in shock wondering why someone would take a potshot at me. The panhandler looked like a druggie and it might have appeared that we were together. The guy with the gun jumped out of the car and began to run back toward me as the driver cracked a U-turn in the middle of traffic that whizzed in both directions. I was glad Karen was late.

  That was the last glimpse I saw of the shooter before I began to run. Why did Karen choose to meet on a street known for drive-by shootings? I hope she's not considering living in this neighborhood.

  Another shot rang out and a woman I ran past jolted from a bullet that sprawled her backwards onto the pavement. Other people saw what happened and rushed to help. I kept running. That idiot meant business. I ducked into a doorway and knew I'd been had when all I saw were two doors to restrooms and no place to take cover. The clock behind the counter showed a few minutes past eleven p.m. I forced my way past two waitresses at the corner of the counter.

  “Help!” I said. “Call the police!”

  I had to find a place to hide. I ran into the kitchen and spotted two guys carrying garbage out through a rear doorway. I shoved my way past them and into the alley.

  I squatted in the shadow of a dumpster next to an alcove stacked with wooden fruit crates stagnant with fermentation. I expected the shooter to bolt out of the kitchen but only the two employees stepped outside to dump their trash. I wondered where the shooter had disappeared. I had placed myself between a dumpster and the crates facing the open end of the a
lley at the street. As I looked toward the street, what I feared happened. The man in the tee shirt bolted into the window of light and stopped. He scanned the long narrow alley. Light reflected off his sweaty skin but I couldn't make out his features. Brazen he was, standing there with the gun pressed against his thigh.

  TV had educated me. I can tell when someone in pursuit carries a gun, cop and criminal alike. The gun arm is locked rigid in an almost vertical position. The gun is pointed to the ground at their side, even points a little backward. The other arm crosses the chest and supports the arm with the hand holding the gun. The pursuer leans forward, ready to pounce. The arms and gun are the only parts that don't bend into the crouch. To covertly maneuver around, they hobble like a lame animal.

  He crouched and jockeyed into the alley. Pointing the gun straight out ahead, he rotated from side to side as he panned the area. My pulse raced as if my heart was about to burn out. I folded my arms across my chest and buried my fists deep into my armpits and turned my face backwards toward the corner of the dumpster so my skin wouldn't reflect light. Why was that crazy pursuing me? I held my breath and hoped the man wouldn't hear me breathe. I froze to the spot and hoped he wouldn't hear me sweat. I was right there in the slotted shadows of the fruit crates, a little more than a hundred feet or so in front of him, with the dim lighting in his favor. My hard-soled shoes began to slip on the grunge of the alley floor and I almost lost my balance as I squatted.

  Something moved behind the dumpster at the other end. More adrenaline pumped and the charge could only route through my nervous system like crazed rats in a maze.

  Rats!

  Two huge rats foraged behind the dumpster. If they fled the shooter would spot me.