The old bar on Hotel Street was once featured on an episode of Hawai'i-five-0.
The plot concerns pimps in Honolulu running a game, where eventually, one of them is murdered in this very bar. It's an entirely different bar now, but the basic makeup of what it once was is still there. The entrance is partially open, and I can see it's raining outside. The constant rain pounding the pavement brings out the smell of urine, bile, and other unpleasant aromas. From where I'm sitting, I can see it. It doesn't bother me because I'm nursing a glass of scotch and picking through some pulehu steak on a plate. I was renting a room upstairs for one night. My bags are packed and sitting next to me as I finally finish the scotch and ask the barkeep for another. I guess the consumption of scotch hasn't done wonders for my logical thinking. Since my childhood, I have had a thing about sleeping on the covers of my bed. I mean corners folded and tucked and everything. So, how the hell did I end up snug as a bug in a rug under the covers with the six-inch-fold over up to my neck with the hospital corners and everything? Who made the bed while I was still on it?
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