by C. McGee
“God, you’re awful” I said with a laugh, my head shaking. “How do you not get beat up on a regular basis?”
“I ask myself that question every day,” Charlie chimed in, while setting a round of beers down on the table. “I figure it’s only a matter of time.”
Ethan picked up one of the beers, raised it in the air, and said, “To my future beating.”
Charlie and I each grabbed a beer, lifted it to meet Ethan’s, and echoed his toast, “To Ethan’s future beating.”
We spent the next two hours drinking. It was a leisurely, carefree sort of drinking. The sort of drinking that most people only experience on vacation, but we experience on a routine basis. The sort of drinking that takes place in paradise with a group of friends that have no serious responsibilities.
Around nine we decided to order a pizza so that we could pick it up on the walk home. The decision indicated that we were going to be crashing at my place. The guys live in Princeville, which is only three miles away, but it is a treacherous three miles (over a one-lane bridge and then up a “highway” that’s really just a narrow twisty road built into the side of a mountain); too treacherous to be negotiated by three slightly drunk twenty-somethings with slices of ham and pineapple in their hands. My house, on the other hand, is only a few blocks from the pizza place. As such, it won out as our chosen destination despite the fact that it is significantly crappier than the guys’ place. Four hundred thousand doesn’t get you that much in Hanalei, but fuck it, you’re in Hanalei.
On the walk home, we spotted two more chickens. I attempted to take them out by chucking my flip-flops at their stupid bobbing heads, but they successfully avoided the assault, scampering into nearby foliage.
“Wow, you really hate those things,” Ethan laughed.
“I don’t respect them enough to hate them,” I replied.
“Well, you’d better learn to deal, because they’re here to stay.”
“That’s defeatist bullshit, Ethan. Don’t let the chickens hear you talking like that. They already act entitled, if they think their survival is a done deal they’ll start making even bolder moves.”
The guys laughed.
“I like it when you anthropomorphize them.” Ethan said.
“It prevents me from underestimating my opponent,” I asserted. “‘There is no greater danger than a cavalier dismissal of wild birds, pretty sure Sun Tzu said that shit.”
“Yup, definitely Sun Tzu,” Ethan smiled.
“You know, they’re not as much of a problem on the big island,” Charlie chimed in. “I think the mongeese … mongooses? … mongi? … whatever … I think the carnivores that live there keep them in check. The problem here in Kauai is that they have no predators.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, Charlie. I’m a predator. I’m a predator, and I will be their undoing.” We all laughed at the dramatic tone I used to deliver this line.
Smiling, we walked into my house, had a few more beers, and then went to bed.
Chapter 4
A Transcendental Moment
A rooster crow woke me up at six twenty, then again at six forty, then again at seven fifteen. I wanted to rip out that little bastard’s voice box. Instead, I grabbed my .22 from the closet and went over to the window to see if it was within range. It was, but so were the children feeding it, so I refrained from firing. I don’t know why the elementary school kids like those chickens so goddamn much? As I watched them toss portions of their lunch to the devil birds, the darker part of me entertained the idea that they might contract H5N1.
“That would teach those children a lesson,” I thought. “And mobilize the population to my cause. Win-win.”
Unable to fall back asleep, I brewed a cup of coffee and then took it and my gun to the back porch. As long as I was up I wanted to catch the final moments of dawn. I proceeded to spend the next five minutes watching the sun break over the horizon. Peering into the new day’s light, I looked on as the morning rays exploded off the ocean and onto the island, casting both light and shadow over the impossibly green landscape. It was as close to a transcendental experience as I have ever had, and it was only interrupted once … by the crack of my rifle. It was totally worth it. I took down two hens with one bullet.
Ethan and Charlie woke up about an hour after me. It was early for them. They rarely wake up before ten. They have the relaxed sleep schedules of twenty-eight-year-old retirees—although I’m not sure they even qualify as retired. Can you be retired if you never held down a real job? Perhaps it would be more appropriate to classify them as members of the “ridiculously wealthy unemployed.”
The path that Ethan took to early wealth is an unlikely one. On his eighteenth birthday he received a quarter of a million dollar trust from his grandfather. The terms of the trust stated that he was to use the money for college, and so long as he graduated the remainder of the cash would be his to use as he saw fit. His grandfather’s idea in drawing up the trust was that Ethan would use two hundred thousand or more to attend Dartmouth or Williams or Bates or some other elite/outrageously expensive institution and then be left with fifty thousand or so to start his life. Ethan’s idea was slightly different. Rather than attending the elite institution that his grandfather envisioned, Ethan cross-referenced Playboy’s “Best Party Schools” with a Google search for “affordable colleges” and ended up at West Virginia University. Four years later he had a degree, a well-worn liver, the disapproval of his entire family, and two hundred thousand in the bank. The night he received the cash he bought a few cases of energy drinks and a few kegs of beer, and then proceeded to throw a massive party. A week later, the party ended and he was left with thirty-five empty kegs, a horrendous hangover, and one hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars worth of stock options in the energy drink company whose beverages he had been consuming over the course of the previous seven days. (Ethan says they were “far out-of-the-money LEAP call options,” which sounds like nonsense but is in fact a real thing—and a stupid thing. I know. I looked it up.) Rather than cashing out of the risky investment that he had made based on drunken enthusiasm for caffeine, taurine, and ginseng, Ethan decided to let it ride. It paid off. Over the next two years, the stock went from twenty dollars a share to seventy-eight dollars a share. His profits came in just north of twelve million. A week after he cashed in he had a palatial home in Kauai.
Charlie’s story is more typical. That is to say, typical of the uber wealthy. His family is loaded, and they support his luxurious lifestyle so long as he doesn’t embarrass them. At least that’s what I’ve heard. Charlie has never mentioned it to me directly. He’s a fairly reserved guy.
After the boys finished their coffee, we drove down to Lihue to the affordable grocery store. They could have gone to the closer, more expensive grocer, but they decided to keep me company instead. In order to make my money last, I have to keep my spending reigned in. A million and change can go quickly in Kauai and my job as a part-time zip-line guide does little to defray day-to-day costs. Despite their wealth, Ethan and Charlie understand this and have no qualms about slumming it with me. They are exceptional in this way. Most of the other affluent transplants from the mainland would rather punch themselves in the junk than step foot inside of a Wal-Mart.
We finished the shopping and were on our way back to the more idyllic part of the island in under an hour. Unfortunately, we didn’t actually get back for another two. Our progress was impeded by a protest organized by the Hawaiian Liberation Front. Although I was annoyed by the delay, I didn’t get overly upset. I had read some of the HLF literature and found a number of their arguments for Hawaiian independence fairly compelling. Also we had food, alcohol, and music in the car, so it was kind of like a miniature party. By the time we pulled into Ethan’s driveway, all of us were near the legal limit. Once we got inside his house, Ethan called more people, who brought more booze, which we helped them drink. Like many of the nights here in Kauai, it became an impromptu party populated by a strange mix of locals
, transplants, and tourists. I passed out around one.
Chapter 5
Convey Your Love by Not Annoying Me
Ethan’s not the best boyfriend. I decided this after reading a copy of 5 Ways to Communicate Love, a crap book that I picked up out of the lost-and-found bin at work. Normally I don’t read pop-psychology nonsense, but the other day I didn’t really have a choice. The zip-line tour I was supposed to lead had been delayed due to inclement weather, and I had forgotten my phone at home. So, it was either sit in the staff lounge and wait while staring at the wall, or sit in the staff lounge and wait while staring at a bullshit relationship guide. I chose the latter.
In the thirty minutes that I spent perusing the book, this is what I learned:
• Everybody needs love.
• Different people convey their love in different ways.
• There is an exhaustive list of ways that people convey their love. These are the “5 Ways to Communicate Love” and they are as follows:
— 1: Affirming Language (i.e., Say nice things about your mate to their face-hole and to other peoples’ face-holes.)
— 2: Thoughtful Assistance (i.e., If your significant other likes baths then get off your ass and draw them a bath you lazy motherfucker.)
— 3: Giving and Getting Presents (i.e., Buy stuff and give it to your mate. Good stuff. No self-serving bullshit. Guys don’t buy your lady lingerie. Ladies don’t buy your guy awful relationship books like the 5 Ways to Communicate Love.)
— 4: Together Time (i.e., Talk to your significant other. Really talk. Don’t say “uh-huh” while checking your stock trading app or the most recent social media post.)
— 5: Tangible Contact (i.e., Fuck, kiss, hug, hold hands, and for god’s sake throw in some oral sex every once and a while [I’m looking at you, fellas]).
• One should not express their love through the communication style that they prefer but rather through the communication style that their significant other prefers.
• The author of the book likes Jesus way more than I do.
As I sat in the faculty lounge evaluating Ethan based on the information garnered from the book, it became clear to me that when it comes to communicating love he does a piss poor job. He devotes far more time to joking around with me than to saying nice things to me, he rarely helps me with my shit, most of the gifts he gives me are random objects that he found while on his way to meet me, we almost always hang out with a large group of people, and he rarely displays physical affection outside of the bedroom. Plus, I give him blowjobs twice as often as he eats me out. So yeah, he’s not the best. Or at least that’s what I concluded that day in the lounge. Now, I am of a contrary opinion.
I revisited the topic the morning after the most recent impromptu party and decided that I may have been mistaken. As I sat on the toilet peeing out the previous night’s liquor while simultaneously lapping up a wonderfully rehydrating sports drink, my mind returned to 5 Ways to Communicate Love, and something dawned on me. It was one of those peculiar epiphanies that take place in the wee hours of the morning following a night of drinking during that interim phase when most of the alcohol has left your system but the debilitating hangover has yet to strike. The epiphany was this: That book is full of shit. Anybody who tries to make an exhaustive list on love is a cocky bastard destined to fail. Additionally, I realized that I have had partners that clearly express their love in the ways outlined in the book and they all sucked. To be more specific, I have had boyfriends that constantly bombarded me with flattering remarks and I found it rather obnoxious. At least when Ethan says something complimentary I know it’s deserved. I have also had boyfriends that waited on me hand and foot, but they always seemed a little pathetic; infected with a sense of insecurity that made them come across as unworthy and needy. Ethan’s confidence can make him come across as a douche, but I know that if he needs to he can take care of business. A number of my boyfriends have also showered me with gifts; however, most of them were cliché. Teddy bears are useless, and heart-shaped necklaces are tacky. I’d rather have a box of wine, or a cool rock that someone picked up on a hike, or nothing. I have also had boyfriends that wanted to spend every waking moment with me. It was terrible. I have no patience for that shit. Ethan’s got his own interests, thank god. And, of course, I have had boyfriends that felt the need to touch me every time they walked by. That made me feel like a cat, and I hate cats. Ethan touches me when he wants to fool around, and on occasion when I’m talking to another guy. That’s it, and that’s enough.
“Fuck that book,” I said to myself. I flushed the toilet, washed my hands, and went back to bed where I fell asleep next to, but not cuddling, Ethan.
Chapter 6
Collective Nouns
When I was in middle school, I use to skip Family and Consumer Science on a regular basis. Looking back on it now, I realize how foolish and impertinent that was. All teachers and all branches of education deserve respect, Family and Consumer Science is no exception … Ha, I’m just fucking around. FACS class was the worst. It probably still is. The adult me is proud of the eleven-year-old me for seeing through that intentionally deceptive title and identifying the class for what it was: Homemaking. My best guess is that the local school district changed the name in the hope that it would delude the stupid girls into thinking that they had achieved some sort of baseline competency in a subject that actually mattered. It probably worked. I know my sister fell for it.
“Ingrid,” I remember her saying. “Look at this cross-stitch I finished. The teacher says I’m a real talent.”
“Yes,” I replied, in a tone that was representative of the little bitch I was. “You show real potential in all the crafts.”
My sister didn’t pick up on the condescension.
Typically, the time that I freed up by skipping FACS was spent in the school library reading all manner of books. Although I remember fairly little of what I read back then, one title does stand out in my mind. It was called Animals Together!!! and on the whole it was pretty awful. The storyline was nonexistent, the pictures crudely drawn, and the sentences poorly crafted. In addition, it was geared toward elementary-age children, and thus had no business being in a middle school library. In retrospect, it is unclear as to why I even picked it up. That said, I’m glad I did because despite the book’s many faults, it had one wonderfully redeeming quality; namely, a long list of collective nouns for different groups of animals. That list was perhaps the most fascinating thing my eleven-year-old eyes had ever seen. Here are some of the ones I remember:
• A parliament of owls
• A bloat of hippos
• A murder of crows
• A scourge of mosquitoes
• A shrewdness of apes
• An implausibility of wildebeests
• A congregation of alligators
• A coalition of cheetahs
• An intrusion of cockroaches
At six o’clock this morning, when I woke up to the dulcet tones of wild poultry, I thought of Animal’s Together!!! As I stared disapprovingly out the window at the cause of my reluctant wakefulness, I tried to recall the name for a group of feral chickens. Nothing came to mind. Instead of looking it up I decided to guess wildly. A wretchedness? A torment? An excretion?
“Yes,” I said to myself while staring out the window at the repulsive creatures. “An excretion seems fitting.”
“An excretion of what?” Ethan asked sleepily, turning onto his side and pulling the blankets up over his shoulder.
“That’s what a group of chickens should be called.”
“I like that, an excretion of chickens. It’s not as good as an unkindness of ravens, but it’s close.”
“Or a prickle of porcupines,” I added, recalling another collective noun from my middle school days. “Maybe I’ll keep trying.”
“Good idea,” Ethan replied. “But you should probably do that on the way to work. Aren’t you supposed to be there at six thirty?”
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br /> “Fuck,” I said, and hurried off.
“A fuck of chickens.” Ethan said, as I ran out the door. “That’s a good one, babe.”
When I arrived at work I was greeted by a reproachful look from Sage.
“You were supposed to be here twenty minutes ago,” she said. “These people paid for a private sunrise tour with a professional guide, not a midmorning stumble with a hungover layabout.”
Sage is a bitch, but in this case her criticism was warranted. I apologized, and we took the family out on their private tour.
By the time we finished my head was pounding. As soon as the guests left, I walked over to the vending machine and got a bottle of water. Sage watched as I greedily swallowed it down.
“Do you know how big that water company’s carbon footprint is?” she asked/admonished.
I ignored her, finished the bottle, and thought, If Sage had clones and they wandered around in a pack, they’d be called a menstruation.
Chapter 7
Waking Up Sober in a Bar
Having spent five hours with Sage, I decided to go directly from work to the bar. It was fairly empty when I arrived; not surprising considering it was eleven forty-five in the morning. I probably should have been ashamed for being there that early but I wasn’t. Irritated + Exhausted + Hungover + Chafing from Zip-line Harness = Shameless. I ordered a beer, drank half of it, walked over to the most secluded table, drank the other half, put my head down, and fell asleep.
Some unknown amount of time later, I woke up in a pool of my own saliva. Vaguely confused by my surroundings, I looked around the room through half-closed eyes. After getting my bearings, I briefly considered gathering my shit and heading home but decided against it. At that moment, the five blocks between the bar and my house seemed like a fucking marathon, and I was not in the mood for a long distance endeavor. Instead of leaving, I sleepily made my way back over to the bar, ordered a water, drank it down in one, ordered another water, received a “seriously” look from the girl behind the bar, changed my water to an orange juice to appease the disapproving bartender, paid for the juice, and then headed back to my table. On the way I noticed that a couple of locals had wandered in while I was asleep. They seemed kind of familiar but my mind was in no shape to try and place them. As I made my way past their table, I overheard the larger of the two say something like, “Don’t worry, I can get it onto the island,” which sounded vaguely conspiratorial but not exciting enough to rouse me from my bleary state. Still half-conscious, I covered the rest of the distance to my table, finished my orange juice, and resumed my nap.
