This worn, cracked piece of wood has seen years of service.
All manner of drinks were served to so many patrons from different walks of life, all in need of one thing. A libation that will relax them before they head home to face their unhappy wives, mounting bills, and children in dire need of their attention. Others need a shot to dull the loneliness, or to make them brave enough to ask a complete stranger for a dance, or at least some mode of companionship so that their beds aren't empty like they usually are. Mainly, people sat at the old bar, drinking until they were blinded drunk because they couldn't face one aspect of their lives; themselves. Celebrities sat at the old bar when it was brand new and alive, giddy at the fact that notable hands of a famous person touched its surface palms down, embedding an impression that the bar hoped would remain there forever.Chester Mahelona was the toast of the town. An emerging Hawaiian musician whose updated takes on standard Hawaiian songs excited the new generation of young Hawaiians while at the same time causing consternation among the kūpuna. On a particular late evening, Chester arrived at the old bar to buy a round of drinks for the entire establishment after winning several awards for his contributions to Hawaiian music. It was standing room only that Friday evening. A loud cheer for Chester was raised, and everyone threw back their shots in a gulp. Shortly thereafter, the police arrived and arrested Chester for domestic battery of his partner. Chester received seven awards that evening, and after the last accolade, Chester made his way backstage so he could get back to his table. A beautiful Hawaiian girl stopped Chester and gave him a kiss that was more than just one on the cheek. Chester's boyfriend saw it and expressed his displeasure that Chester did nothing to stop the intimate affront. An argument ensued, and Chester beat his boyfriend senseless.
Taking a breath, Chester collected his awards, left the venue, and drove straight to the Hotel Street bar in Chinatown.
Thereafter, Chester faded from the Hawaiian music scene. Eventually, he took a job as a postal delivery driver. It wasn't the glamorous life he was accustomed to, but without it, he'd be out on the street, homeless and derelict. One day after work, while sitting on his love chair in his tiny Waikiki apartment, Chester died quietly. He fell asleep and never woke up.
Rosa Kula was a Papakolea girl who graduated from Roosevelt and went on to Stanford in California. While eventually becoming an adjunct professor, she had an evening gig at an establishment where she sang torch songs. Rosa had a presence that drew people in once her voice left her body. At six feet three inches tall, she was an undeniable looming presence but also a ravishing beauty that attracted the attention of many rich, powerful men. Rosa had no care for that. Her love for torch songs came from listening to the old records her mother played on Saturday mornings while doing house cleaning. Nightlife by Aretha Franklin filled the spaces in her old Papakolea home, and by the lyrics, Rosa imagined herself as the person in the song. Sometimes she'd get lost in the music and forget her cleaning duties. That's when she'd receive a sharp rebuke from her mother, which always brought her back to reality.
Dinah Washington's Drinking Again gave Rosa a clue as to why her mother would sit at the kitchen table, pouring rotgut 'okolehao into a plastic cup, nursing it more than sipping from it. Claire Kula stared at something that wasn't there, her eyes emoting deep emotions for something no one but Rosa's mother could see.
"It's quarter to three, there's no one in the place, cept you and me," Claire sang. "So, set um up, Joe. I got a little story I think you should know,"
Despite her mother's obvious pain, Rosa was transfixed and transported by whatever the cause was that made her mother emote so deeply. "Just make it one for my baby, and one more for the road."
Claire took a deep breath and stole herself to her bedroom, where she fell into an alcohol induced slumber. Rosa absorbed those moments into the fiber of her psychic and emotional being.
One evening, Rosa was singing at a bar in Palo Alto, and per the personal request of a customer, she sang about trying to explain to friends why we are apart, and what she could tell her heart. It's a number that was once sung by Kay Starr. After hitting the proper phrasing, tweaking particular notes to lift emotions, and bringing it home at the end, a standing ovation was given. While sitting in the dressing room, she asked her manager who had requested the song. The manager left to go find the source of the request. Shortly after the manager left, a knock came on the door.
"Come in," Rosa called out.
Not hearing the door open, nor hearing it click shut. Rosa turned around to see if whoever it was might have entered. Standing there in her knee-length jeans shorts and flannel shirt tied at the hip was her mother, Claire, nursing her plastic cup of 'okolehao. The vision of Rosa's mother was there long enough to make an impression, but not long enough to be questioned or conversed with. In a panic, Rosa left the club and booked a red-eye flight for Honolulu.
"Please, please wait for me," she prayed the whole time during the flight. "Please wait for me, please!"
Rosa called her home in Papakolea, and luckily, her uncle Stanford answered. Claire had a heart attack while doing her Saturday cleaning. The ambulance just left and was on its way to Kuakini Hospital. "Perfect timing, your call," Stanford said.
"I'll meet you at the hospital," Rosa told her uncle. "I'll get a cab there."
Most of the family was gathered in the lobby by the time Rosa arrived at Kuakini. Because she was next of kin, along with her uncle Stanford, the two were allowed to see Claire.
"I'm letting you know now that it doesn't look good," the doctor warned them. "She's got heart disease."
"She smoked a box of cigarettes every day," Stanford confirmed. "And drank brandy every day. I know you're going to say, "Why didn't anybody stop my sister?" No one could ever tell Claire anything; she did what she wanted."
"You should go in and see her," the doctor told the two. "She doesn't have long."
~
When the time came, Rosa didn't sing at her mother's services. She couldn't bring herself to do it. It was only when she showed up at the Hotel street bar that she sat there working up the courage to sing after a few rounds of Tanqueray. The barkeep was friendly enough to bring the microphone to Rosa. Not dressed in her usual floor-length gown, and the red hibiscus behind her ear, Rosa wore the simple black outfit from Claire's services. She didn't sing a torch song. Instead, she sang the one song she always sang for her mother just before they'd hang up the phone, to let her know she loved her.
E kau mai ana
Ka hali'a
no sweet tuberose
poina'ole
A fond memory
comes to me
of the unforgettable
sweet tuberose..
Me he ala e 'ī
mai ana ia'u
He welina pau'ole
me ia pua
This fragrance speaks to me
forever greeting this flower
with affection
Aloha ku'u pua
ala onaona
i wili ia me maile
lau li'i
There is love for this
fragrant flower
entwined dainty
leaf maile
Ke hea nei ku’ulei
ala onaona
E ho’i mai kaua
la e pili
My fragrant lei
beckons
Return to me
let us be together
Ha'ina ia mai
ana ka pu ana
ku’u pua tuberose
poina'ole
The refrain is told
of my unforgettable
tuberose flower...
The usually busy bar, teeming with a din of noise, went quiet. Not a soul spoke, nor moved. Persons huddled together or held their drinks closer as tears fell into their cups or shot glasses. At the end, Rosa thanked everyone and left. It's memories like these that the old bar table, now characteristically festooned with cracks and splinters, keeps within the fibers of its work at the old Hotel street bar. It's still open, but not for clientele, but more so for the spirits who nightly come to visit.
Credit @michael watt. Photographer.
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