Kava and Loathing in Waikiki
I needed eye drops, a pen, and a writing pad. This ABC store was tripping me out— I expected it to be hectic and insane but this new-age, liquidy acid jazz was playing and the alien, detached feeling made me think I was in Japan again. I was swimming through this place, walking through Jell-O, like I was in the world of Toejam and Earl, bouncing along through the aisles.
It all started that evening in an ally-ette, typical to Waikiki. I had finished a quick business conversation with my local friend while I was finishing my 30 ounces of Kava that the nice lady a couple doors down poured for me. Great stuff. I walked through the nearest hotel to grab a Swisher, made my way onto the beach and sat down. I broke off about a third of the cigarillo (I don’t like tobacco that much) and after preparing it, I lit it with the $7.00 lighter I got along with it. The lighter wasn’t that special, it just said Hawaii on it and that means you’re paying the Haole tax.
As the chemically smoke filled my immediate area, I decided to take a walk, so as not to bother the Mai Tai-guzzling patrons behind me. Waikiki has a beautiful row of hotels along the beach where the sounds of festive obesity can be heard all the way past the breakers. It was a great walk, although in retrospect, I should have walked slower. I bopped along, puffing leisurely, making sure I didn’t blow smoke on people. As I passed the bar, Rumfire, I noticed a lei, cast sadly on the sidewalk. Fuck it— I picked it up and put it on…why not be in the island spirit…and why smell like smoke when you can smell like flowers? It was a perfectly good lei— I couldn’t let it die there. As I got to the last hotel on the row, I hung the lei on a handrail leading to the beach. Lord-willing, some guy picked it up and gave it to his wife, who until that moment was going to divorce him and take his jet ski in the settlement…the minute they got back to Akron. Magic happens in the islands, it wouldn’t be absurd to hope for such things.
I sped through the lobby. I needed water and bad. Before I could give it a second thought, the Kava and the smoke began to dance a slow molasses-like tango through my veins. Time slowed down. Oh Jesus. I just had to make it to the street and I could hit the nitro, speedwalk to the nearest ABC store, and grab some water. I made the insufferable trip, 30 feet to the street from the spot that by body turned to jelly. I got to the sidewalk, breathed in the warm, nighttime haze and activated. I have a goal of being able to speed walk and look as if I’m just strolling along but somehow moving way faster. Almost like someone on one of those moving sidewalks at the airport. It’s all about managing how wide your gait is, tensing your calves and glutes at just the right time, in rhythm. In no time you’ll be flying down the street. Relax your upper body, swing your arms naturally, and you’ll be gliding. But now, do it when your body is made of jelly.
It helps me cover a lot of distance and blow off steam on journeys such as this. With these additives, it was absolutely surreal. My mouth felt like stale bread crust and water was now an urgent priority. I glided to a small ABC store and made a bee line to the water. I was worried about what the cashier might think of me in my current state but I’m sure he’s seen many rat-bastard psychotics in his day. I paid up, as cordially as I could and hit the street once again. WHOOOSH. I was wrong...now it hit me. Kava and pungent smoke swam through my capillaries, massaging as they went along. Oh my God. A bewildered smirk grew at the corner of my lips. “Have you ever tried Waikiki…on…?” Never mind. Everything had a new texture to it. I slowed my speed walk and hit Kalakaua avenue, which seemed to me like some Nighttime Island Metropolis stage in Sonic the Hedgehog. Whenever I say “Kalakaua” in my mind, I hear it in the voice of Charm the pimp from the American Pimp documentary. “Out here on this Kala-kah-wa avenue…”
I decided to head into the mall and explore. Bad idea. All the high heels in the windows were closing in on me. I walked past the Apple store…man…what happened with that place? They’re trying to be too cute now and walking past an Apple store is like looking at ants crawl all over something that used to be prettier, or at least would be prettier without the ants. Kind of like a Dali painting. Horrible vibes. Garbage idea. Let me out.
I’d been chugging water like a refugee ever since I left the ABC store with that huge water bottle and now I needed to find a bathroom somewhere on these streets. If I didn’t, I had to either lose my dignity and piss in a bush or lose my dignity and piss in my jeans. I knew the nearest hotel pretty well and was reasonably confident that I could find a bathroom in there. I found one with satisfying quickness and tried the door. Guests only. Room key required to get in. “No Scumbags”. I decided to use the classic “tailgating” technique and either wait for a guest to come or wait for someone to come out. An employee came out and held the door for me as he exited. Thank god he got there soon enough. Properly drained I headed back out, which brings us to where we were at the beginning of this story. I need a pen and paper and I needed eyes that looked a little less crimson. I figured the really big ABC store on the corner nearest to me would have what I needed.
I saw someone I thought I knew across the street playing drums. I considered saying hi but in the end, I decided against it…some ambient rowdiness drove me away with a weird feeling. Oh well, on to the ABC store. Slow motion chaos. I swam through the aquarium of Japanese people and found a section which resembled a “writing supplies” section. I wanted to write. I figured it would calm my, as of late, anxious mind. I found a bunch of really girly or just plain silly looking notepads and journals. “Hello Kitty” journals and pink flowery abominations…apparently only little girls like to write in notebooks. I settled on the least ridiculous-looking notebook I could find (Hawaiian Islands theme) and grabbed a pen from a display case which read “Island Pens”. I grabbed the drops as well, payed, and forgot my debit card on the counter. I stupidly took it back from the clerk. “Sir, your card,” had the cadence of “Sir, what the fuck is the matter with you?” I walked out and hit Kalakaua. I began to daydream and was quickly snapped back to where I was by three Japanese girls walking by, crying like white girls do when they’re leaving the club. Hope everything is ok there.
I sat down at a nice, secluded table right off the main sidewalk to write. I had to move because of a weird rugby team/R&B dance group vibe coming from the street performers closest to me, as well as all the “something-something-bottles-in-the-club” autotuned schlock coming from the cell phone accessory stand right near me. I relocated to a coffee shop. As I stood in line, I looked for snacks. I was hungry and the bag of chocolate covered macadamia nuts that cost $15 looked great from where I was standing. Although it was tempting, I ended up deciding against it and after the Glenn Headly look-alike in line ahead of me ordered her coffee, I went for a papaya and a croissant. I finally got my oasis and began to write until I felt satisfied, went back to the room and collapsed.
