He glances up at me again from his pretentious journal. The sun makes his eyes look glimmering and clever.
I almost turn inside out, feeling judged in a way that I don’t want to be perceived.
He’s trying to figure me out. I’m sure he’s getting me all wrong.
I bet he thinks I think I write lame gushy emotional poetry and my hair color and clothes are an expression of my personality. What bullshit. My haikus are real and my hair colors are just because I happen to like them.
His stupid pen gliding across his wheat-grain recycled paper make me want to be an asshole.
I could look all poetic and take out my notebook, but I’m not that much of a poser. “Man, what are you staring at?” I say in a fake deep, jockish dumb ass tone of voice. I feel really absurd right after the sounds leave my lips. I sounded like Clay.
The kid looks over at me and points to himself and casually mouths, “Me?” with no sound coming out.
Oh, fuck. I can’t keep this tough guy thing up for long.
I play dumb, with a low voice and act all I’m the spaced-out surfer type. “What? Uh, no, I was… forget it.” I turn bright red and my face gets really hot. I fool around with the tent, acting like the stakes aren’t secured properly yet, like I’m the type of guy who does things right or not at all. That’ll throw him. I get up to go swimming, but there are four big muscle guys throwing girls off their shoulders in the water. I’m embarrassed to take off my shirt and let them see my skinny chest.
They’re all wearing pseudo-Hawaiian flower print long shorts and have dark tans and slight goatees that make them look like devils. The girls are laughing and flirting. Their beer is floating in the surf keeping cool.
I sit back down awkwardly. I feel trapped.
A naked older couple walks past me, blocking the sun for a second. They have no tan lines and look like they feel really comfortable naked in front of people.
I stare right at their crotches to see if they care, but they don’t. It’s gross, too. They’re too old to be naked. They just continue to look free and natural, or whatever nudists feel about being naked.
A hippie family--a mom, dad, and their three naked kids--make some sort of stew in a big pot over a fire. The smell reminds me I’m hungry.
The kid who was writing in the journal is doing Tai Chi by his tent, almost right next to me. He takes his shirt off. He’s wearing loose drawstring pants that hang low on his waist. His arms are thin, but I can see the different muscles under his skin, all separate from one another. He looks stupidly serious as his arms rise slowly to feel his inner light or whatever. He looks at me again, breaking the concentration of one of his poses, just to make me feel shallow and meaningless for not devoting myself to concentration and for finding pleasure in making fun of others.
Fuck him. I’m not going to let him make me feel worthless. When Clay comes, we’ll beat the shit out of him. I hope he’s intimidated by Clay.
He’ll hate all Clay’s macho hang-ups and surferboy expressions.
I’d love to watch his calm meditative state melt into insecurity. I go into the tent and lie with my head near the open flap door. I watch the kid do poses. I’m fascinated at how long he can keep this act up and not laugh at himself. As I watch him move, I can see the shape of his dick through his pants. I get a boner and I’m mad at myself for it. Why can’t my dick listen to my mind? I hate him, but I’d jerk off to him. This feels irreconcilable and this realization pisses me off. I hate the way my mind plays tricks on me. My own brain is as conniving as the people I hate. I give him a dirty look for bringing out this part of me I wish I didn’t have.
He looks back at me, balancing on one leg with his arms raised high, and smiles at me in a really bratty way, like he knows why I hate him and he likes it.
I’m probably imagining all of this. My mind goes crazy when I’m alone, but he’s still pissing me off.
He sort of laughs and then looks away and closes his eyes, concentrating on this stupid pose, standing on one leg with his arms out like scissors.
I want to go over to him and push him over and jump on him, kick his face with his smart-aleck smile and clever eyes. After that, I want to strip him naked and rub my face all over his body, smelling from his knees to his dick to his head. I watch him, to make sure that his subconscious mind doesn’t realize what I’m thinking about him. I examine him to see if he knows. If he does, I would leave, pack up the tent, and run away from him.
He doesn’t. If he did, he wouldn’t keep doing these poses that are making me think he’s stupid. He’s not as clever as he thinks he is.
Two girls stare at me like I’m amusing.
I stand up and imagine Clay walking. I copy what I can remember--his long gait, arms not moving, head up, almost tilted back a little, and shoulders back with his chest out, like a less exaggerated version of a soldier.
Why are they looking at me and whispering? Maybe they like me. No, they’re way too old to like a skinny 16-year-old psychotic.
I walk farther away, looking back at them, trying to be scary and intimidating.
They run over, with their tits bouncing, to the dumb Tai Chi kid and surround him with attention. The kid looks bored, so they walk away, sit down in the sun, take their tops off, and try to look sexy for guys walking past. Their poses are obvious and their skin is shiny from oil. They look like the kind of girls that fall in love with Clay in seconds and help keep his ego burning high.
I hate them. I walk away, down toward the end of the beach. Everyone’s fucked up and I don’t want to see anyone. I sit down on the white sand and look out to the ocean. There has to be someone out there that understands me.
A Frisbee bangs into the back of my head. I turn around and four naked hippies are standing in a large square all staring at me.
A tall, skinny guy with a beard waves at me. “Sorry, brother. Could you throw that back?”
I grab the Frisbee, stand up, and throw it as far as I can out into the ocean. A big wave crashes on top of it. They won’t see it till it washes up and that could be days from now with the rip tides. I walk past the hippies and smile. I hate them.
They’re shocked, but too free-loving to get pissed off. “Man…”
“Go get it yourself, love children.” I walk back to the tent. For being a remote beach that we had to hike nine hours to get to, there sure isn’t any peace.
I see the Tai Chi kid outside his tent. I don’t want to have to deal with him.
He’s hanging out with some guy.
I hope they don’t try to talk to me. I hold my fingers up and measure the two of them. They’re two inches tall. I smash them between my thumb and finger and walk closer. I hope it hurt, like voodoo smashing.
The new guy is holding Tai Chi kid’s arm and directing his leg with his hands. They’re close enough for me to have to say hi or something, but the sun’s in my eyes, so I can act like I don’t see them.
The new guy looks like Clay. Same color hair, same olive skin, same tattoo. Oh fuck, it’s the real him. He’s hanging out with that dumb ass hippie kid.
It can’t be. I’m tripping. I’m going crazy. This is really pathetic. I’m imagining him everywhere. I’m possessed by him.
I walk closer to the guys. I don’t want to walk past them to go to the tent. I hold my head down and walk up to them, toward the door to the tent.
“Hey,” an unfamiliar voice says.
Clay’s hand is on the kid’s thigh, directing the movement of his leg.
A surge of bad chemicals rushes through me. Pure dread. This is the worst possible scenario. I glare at the point of contact. I feel a mean look take over my face.
Clay’s such a fake, acting like he wasn’t just crying hysterically an hour before. He has no right to talk to him. He’s supposed to hate him and the kid’s supposed to think Clay’s shallow. What the fuck’s going on?
I thought the hippie kid would be my friend, even though I hated him. I’m furious. I try to make my express
ion look reckless and driven, so they think I don’t care that they’re hanging out. I stand up straight and force my shoulders back, trying to look tough.
They don’t notice. They keep doing karate moves.
I can feel Clay’s distanced posture immediately. He avoids eye contact with me and looks away just before I catch his eye.
The kid acts the same, but even more arrogant now that he’s stolen my only friend away from me.
I hate how easily Clay can befriend people. He just walks up like a hero and does what he wants. I give the kid a mean look for Clay to see.
He ignores me, obviously and rudely, making me feel like the bad guy.
“You wanna roll a joint?”
The kid ignores me.
Clay looks at him. “You wanna smoke, Anar?” He knows his name. Anar. What kind of a name is that? He probably made it up, that dumb hippie.
I’m really pissed off, now. “We don’t have that much.”
“Don’t be stingy, Sam.”
I feel like an unfriendly asshole, the worst quality in front of a hippie boy.
Anar looks at me and almost laughs at my scolding from Clay.
I feel stupid. I can’t say anything right.
Clay rolls a joint.
Anar watches Clay’s expert rolling abilities over his shoulder. Abilities that used to be reserved for me and him. Anar’s leg touches Clay’s back.
I monitor the spot where contact is made, watching for slight movements, like Anar’s legs applying more pressure to Clay’s back or Clay leaning back into Anar’s leg.
Clay hands Anar the joint.
Anar takes a big hit off the joint and hands it to me.
I want to slap his hand away and then knock him to the ground. I don’t look him in the eyes and I grab the joint from his hand. I suck in the THC, hoping for super powers.
The light is slowly leaving the sky. Soon, the darkness will bring out the essence of things as they truly exist. People’s facades will fade away and their animal selves will come out. I’m ready for the kill.
“I gotta take a shower.” Clay walks over to a waterfall coming off the cliff and starts undressing. He points at the waterfall, plunging 50 feet from the cliff. “Look at this! Man, this is so rad,” he says to Anar.
Anar nods at Clay, but then stares a little too long. He looks back at me.
I hope he feels stupid for staring at Clay naked. I give him a look of disapproval, kinda like calling him a fag without saying anything. “Who are you here with?” I obligatorily ask.
“My sister and her friend.” He points to them, fallen asleep, topless on beach towels. “I think they smoked too much today.”
“Looks like it.” Campfires pop up all along the beach. Pools of red-orange light illuminate groups of people, tired from a day in the sun and horny from being naked in nature all day.
The air is warm and molecules are moving quickly. In the isolation of this beach, we are all a bigger part of each other than we would normally be. Being so far away from society gives everyone a particular buzz, an edge of craziness. It’s exhilarating for some people and scary for others. The air is full of adventure and possibility.
I can’t hate Anar anymore. I need him. Sitting close to him, in the fading light, not talking, I get turned on in this strange hippie way that I’ve never really felt before. I like it.
He smells like cedar wood and puppies. When he’s not trying so hard to be someone he isn’t, he’s sexy. We’re both really stoned and weird connections are flying between us. When we look each other in the eyes, it’s embarrassing, but the embarrassment feels adventurous.
Clay seems old and experienced compared to Anar. I’m happy to stare at someone who doesn’t know what the hell they’re doing and doesn’t try to act like they do. He’s just a cool-looking, smart-ass dork, in a really unique, scrappy way.
“Hey, bring me a towel, will you?” Clay screams from the waterfall.
“Get it yourself.”
Anar’s grabs a green towel. He’s about to stand up. This can’t happen.
I jump up quickly and grab the towel from his hand, feeling stupid for looking so obedient, especially when that’s not my motive. I slow down and walk leisurely over to Clay. “I don’t wanna have to hang out with that hippie wannabe all night.” I look back at him.
Anar’s looking over at us, but he turns when he sees me staring.
I know how he feels, when you start to hang out with new people and you feel like they have to get together and approve you or something. I keep staring at him, like we’re talking a lot of shit about him, not that I’m not.
“He’s cool.”
I don’t want him to know that I approve of Anar, even in the slightest. “Oh, I see. You’re all normal now, like nothing ever happened, to defend him. I got it.” I stare at Clay waiting for his reaction.
“Lighten up, brah.” He towels himself off in his obsessed-with-his-own-body kind of way, looking at his muscles flex as he raises his arm. He punches me in the shoulder, like that’s supposed to be enough to say sorry.
I roll my eyes at him for being so vain, and walk away with my mind set on winning Anar’s admiration away from him. I’ll read him my poetry if I have to.
Chapter 17
Pine falls from fire,
Smoke turns clear blue sky dark gray
Seeds cultivated.
We build a fire that lights up our faces with the same warm glow as a rising sun. Clay pretends he’s a young, but wise Hawaiian prince and tells scary stories about Hawaiian legends, with a spooked-out look on his face for effect.
“Ka huakai o ka po,” he sings in a guttural whisper, “the marchers of the night. My mom’s friend saw them here before. Picture this. A strong wind blows, like tonight, to clear the path for dead chiefs, retracing their ceremonial marches from the outrigger canoes to the mountains. Burning torches, red and intense. I think tonight is Po Kane, the 20-seventh phase of the moon. That’s when they march. Between sunset and two.” He jerks his head up and looks up to the cliff. “I saw something!” He points to the ridge.
Anar looks up quickly.
“It’s some dumb ass hippie with a lantern.” I act like the stories don’t scare me, and I’ve heard them a million times before, but they feel really possible here on this isolated beach. I could scream as loud as I possibly could and still miss the ears of civilization by miles. I feel both trapped and protected here, by the churning sea on one side and the steep cliffs and sharp volcanic mountains on the other.
Clay holds his hand up, palm facing us, as if he’s about to enlighten us.
A dog stops playing and looks at him.
“Remember, if you see them, don’t look them in the eyes. Take off all your clothes and lie flat on the ground. If you’re lucky, they’ll ignore you.” He sticks a big piece of gnarled driftwood in the fire till the tip glows bright orange, then he stands and traces petroglyphs in the air. The hot ember makes trails in the darkness of turtles and birds. “We should be safe. I think.” He talks with a Hawaiian pidgin accent, so we’re more likely to believe his made-up ritual.
I look at Anar and roll my eyes.
Anar dismisses me and looks at Clay, attentively, like he knows something more than everyone else who lives here.
He doesn’t, and fuck hippie ass Anar for acting like he does.
“Where’d you learn about all that?” Anar’s really into this.
Clay loves his loyalty and rewards him with attention, snapping out of his scary mode. “Friends, personal experience, surfing.”
I want to laugh.
“Where you from?” Clay asks, like he’s equally fascinated by Anar.
“My parents live on Maui. We’ve lived there since I was 12.”
Oh, he’s one of those. He’s rich, smokes a lot of pot and has ultra-liberal hippie parents. He’s kinda confused, his parents give him no guidance at all, and he spends all his energy trying really hard to be cool, even though he lives in the middle of nowhe
re and has no idea how normal people live.
“Cool, man. I love Maui.” Clay says that about every island. “The Garden Isle.”
What a dork. All the islands have these nicknames that are supposedly what the ancient Hawaiians called them, but I think the Tourist Board thought them up. Whenever someone says one of the names, I get cold chills of embarrassment.
“It’s cool. Really beautiful. You guys from Oahu?”
“Yeah, Kailua. It sucks.” I have to put an end to this every-place-is-lovely bullshit. All I can think of is my prison-like school, macho Samoans driving around picking on kids, blond muscle surferboys in pickup trucks with “Kailua Boys” stickers on the back- a stupid gang that beats their girlfriends and talk like Hawaiians even though they’re white.
“It doesn’t suck. Cool brahs, hot chicks, good waves. Windward breezes keep your mind clear.”
If he says, the Gathering Place, Oahu’s nickname, I swear I’ll throw up.
He shows Anar his arm, half-way flexed, with a tattoo of Oahu with a big plumaria flower where Kailua is. He flexes more as Anar takes it into his hands. He glances up at me for a second to see if I notice his flexed arm.
I flash him a mean look, trying to make him feel stupid about flexing. “You don’t really like it, Clay, you just don’t know any other way.”
He ignores me. He grabs a stick and throws it for this hyper dog to fetch, then he gets down on all fours and encourages a tug-of-war.
The dog growls.
“Watch this, Anar. I have a connection with dogs.” He speaks in a really friendly voice, kind of how Anar talks, like everything is equally interesting and sharing your thoughts is healthy and it’s fun to share because then you get more back from others, and all that stupid hippie shit. He’s being totally fake, as he molds into the appropriate version of Clay to make Anar feel important. He grabs the dog’s face. “You remind me of Sharky, boy.”
Anar watches him. He looks amused and entertained, like it’s really fun to watch some guy play with a dirty mutt in the sand.
Clay's Way Page 14
