100 Ghost Stories Counting Down To Halloween 2025. #42. Kaleiopapa Building.

The state developed the Kaleiopapa Building in the 1990s as a temporary space for government operations while the Capitol was renovated.

I was there to apply for a state job, the position of which escapes me now after all these years. To my surprise, a young Calvin Say stood at the counter. He was very friendly and accommodating. I filled out the application and returned it to him about forty minutes later. There was quite a lot of information to jot down. He told me that if I don't hear anything by the end of the week, I should try to call back the following Monday. Of course, I couldn't sit around resting on my laurels while waiting for a single phone call, so I asked if I could apply for more than one position, since other jobs were available. "I don't see why not," I remember him saying.

So, this story isn't really about applying for the job or even getting it. It's about what happened after. I caught the elevator down to the lobby from the 11th floor. As the doors were closing, I remember seeing a man get in. Because I was going over the requirements for each job I applied for, I really wasn't paying attention to the person who got in with me. I knew he was dark and a bit taller than I. 

He smelled of mothballs, and he wore a distinct cologne whose name I couldn't recall, but it was one I hadn't smelled in a long while. In fact, it reminded me of those old Barbershops run by a group of older Filipino men. It wasn't the aroma of pomade, but that of witch hazel. That's what it was, witch hazel. I turned and briefly glanced at the Hawaiian man next to me in the cart and noted that he was of the old school, perhaps from the country, wearing a worn but nicely pressed Primo Beer aloha shirt and his best slacks, which more than likely were only used for special occasions and church. On his feet were a pair of spit-shined shoes, which again were used only for particular circumstances. His gaberdine hair was held in place by as much pomade as would do the job.

"Aloha," he said, briefly glancing at me. 

"Aloha," I replied. "Looking for a job too?"

"No, no," he replied. "Came to get my son out of jail, but I think I'm lost."

"Where were you supposed to go?" I asked. I could help.

"Merchant and Bethel," he took out a piece of an old, yellowing paper from his shirt pocket and showed me the address. 842 Bethel Street. 

"Oh, the police station," I nodded. "Well, the old police station, now it's something else."

"That's where he is," the man said, worried and agitated. "The police called, so I had to drive all the way from Kahalu'u. My wife and I don't dunno what to do. This kid is always getting into trouble."

The bell rang in the elevator, and the doors opened. I stepped out and waited for the Hawaiian man, knowing I could walk with him to the Walter Murray Gibson building and have a conversation. It seemed like he needed to vent to someone. Mind you, all of this is happening in nanoseconds. So, when I turn around to talk to him, I see the elevator is empty. There's no one there. It's just me who stepped out of the elevator and into the lobby, along with the lone security guard. I walked over to him and asked if he'd seen someone, anyone, step out of the elevator before me or while I had my back turned. Instead of saying whether he saw someone come out of the elevator, he said this. 

"Older Hawaiian guy with a primo beer aloha shirt? Does he need to get his son out of jail from the police station?"

"Yeah, that guy," I replied.

"People see that guy all the time, morning, noon, and night," the security guard chuckled. "You were on the 11th floor, right? That's where he got on?"

"Yeah, the 11th floor," I answered. "He's a spirit, isn't he?"

"He's something," the security said. "People see him all the time, but he never gets off that elevator when it hits the lobby."

I thanked the security guard for his confirmation and, while exiting the building, decided to walk across the street to get a good look at the whole structure. I'm wondering how the spirit of this man, while he was corporeal, became lost and disoriented. Perhaps, with him living in what was considered the kua'āina, or the back country, Kahalu'u, he might have become overwhelmed by all the progress, such as it was, during his time. Did something happen to him while he was in town, looking for the jailhouse? Did he ever get his son out of the klink? Perhaps that is why his spirit is caught in this cognitive loop? We'll never know. 

Incidentally, I never received a call back from any of the jobs I applied for. Things happen for a reason, but what was the reason for my encounter with the spirit of a humble Hawaiian man, in search of his son in an unfamiliar place?

@publicworksdivision