She, as I knew her, would never have given me or anyone else the time of day.
It didn't bother me because I didn't know her. However, her piano playing is what made my time at the outdoor restaurant in Wai'alae bearable. My one-bedroom apartment was stuffy even for this time of year, and the fans only recirculated the stale air. So I sit here with my laptop, a pile of croissants, and a cup of tug boat coffee, trying to get my work done. She arrives promptly at 1, after the lunch crowd has died down. The waitress brings her a complimentary mug of coffee before she settles in at the piano. She begins with Debussy's Suite Bergamasque. After that selection, she goes wherever the music takes her for the next hour. She gets a round of smattering applause and tips from patrons. Some of which are also phone numbers and business cards. Now and again, there's a boorish middle-aged overbearing male patron who feels the need to mansplain the piano to her, which will then lead her to pound out Beethoven's 5th symphony on the keys."Leave me alone!" She'll sing to the tune. "Fuck off right now! Leave me alone, fuck off right now, leave me alone! Leave me alone, fuck off right, leave me alone fuck right now!"
The mainsplainer will be embarrassed, and he'll leave her alone and fuck right off. Otherwise, the next hour is filled with Kindness and love from her delicate fingers, to the ivory keys, and the piano. Eric Satie is always a good choice because my laptop work is less frantic and demanding. I can navigate the sea of write-ups and proposals with ease. The hour is up, she leaves, and my job is done. It's like this every day, and never once have our paths crossed, nor has a word been exchanged between us.
One day, torrential rain flooded the streets and sidewalks. The coffee hangout was packed, and I could see there was no way I'd get a seat. I braved the deluge and walked over to the pancake house, where I ordered 4 plates of breakfast and a soft drink. I was relatively dry and began working on my laptop.
"You're at the coffee place all the time," I heard the voice from one table over. It was her, sitting there with her corned beef hash, omelet, and toast. In front of her was a soft drink as well.
"The place is packed," I replied.
"No gig for me today, too," she sighed. "They had to move the piano to make room to fit more people."
"You start off with Debussy," I tell her.
"You know you're music," she nodded.
"I just know Debussy. Otherwise, I don't know anything about music," I chuckled.
"Nice of you to say," she raised her fork to me. "Thanks."
Not wanting to interrupt her quiet time, I kept eating and working at my laptop. Leaning over, she said, "I also play at Macy's during lunch on other days if you wanna come check it out."
"Oh, ok, cool," I nodded. "I'll come check it out."
***
Two days later, I went to Macy's and watched as she played. She pulled out another chair for me and had me sit closer to the daias. The establishment wanted something more lively to accommodate the crowds, which would motivate them to shop more and buy more. She played Brazilian jazz piano, starting with Mas Que Nada. She sang the Portuguese song with wild abandon, as if she were born to it. Patrons stopped and danced in place or with another patron. Her speaking and singing voices were different. Her speaking voice sounded like every local girl her age's—soft and lilting—but her singing voice was deep and sultry. Without missing a beat, she transitioned into "The Girl from Ipanema."
The small group had now grown into a crowd. The management loved it because this was their plan, to direct customers to women's clothing and shoes to buy discounted items that would complement dancing the night away. It worked. All it took was two songs to create such a fervor that the management would ride that energy and send people to shop.
Stepping off the daias, she said, "I have to head off to my next gig, you're welcome to join if you don't have anything else going on?"
"I have time, if it's cool," I answered.
"Of course, it's cool," she smiled. "In fact, I think there's something you can help me with."
***
She gave me an address that led to the back of Mānoa. It was a well-kept, old plantation-style home. I followed her into the home, and we passed through several large rooms until we reached one at the back of the house. It was a large, open living room, with soft sunlight coming through the picture windows. Sitting on an old, oversized couch was an aging Hawaiian man, connected to an oxygen tank at his feet. He removed the oxygen mask as she went into his arms and gave him a hug and kiss on his cheek. Sitting at the opposite end of the room was a grand piano. Quietly, she pulled out the small seat and moved it closer to the piano.
"Mahalo for making time, today my babygirl," the Hawaiian man said with what little breath he could muster.
"Relax, Papa." Tears were brimming at the precipice. Again, her voice, so rich and sultry, moved the usual Mānoa winds to cease their flow, so that her song could fill the entire room and the rest of the house. She sang Quiet Nights of Quiet Stars.
"I fell in love with your Tutu Wahine when we danced this song at my brother's wedding," the old Hawaiian man recounted. She continued singing until the old Hawaiian man fell asleep. Then she kissed him on the forehead and signaled that we could leave.
"Thanks for hanging out today," she said, giving me a hug. "See you at the Coffee Place?"
"Sure thing," I nodded.
***
A couple of days later, at the Coffee Place, the usual routine has me in front of my laptop with a pile of croissants and a mug of coffee. She entered precisely at 1 pm and walked over to me, giving me her cell phone. "Put your number in there! I'll get it back from you after!"
She began with Debussy as usual, but not with the suite, but with the Clair de Lune. It set the mood for the next hour, which completely relaxed me. Afterward, she introduced herself, which never occurred to me. "Believe it or not, my name is Kindess," she said, taking my hand in hers.
"I'm Kai, short for Kainalu," I replied. "I guess now that we know each other's names, we're officially friends?"
"We're definitely something," she agreed. "Meet me at my Papa's place for dinner? Around 7'ish?"
7 it was. I was there a few minutes early. I brought some wine, poke', a bag of poi, and some Mamaki tea. Everything was well received, and Kindness dressed up for the occasion as if she were going out to a club. When we went to the back room where she sat at the piano, it was just her and me.
"It's usually after this that people don't want to be friends," she began playing a piece called Sugar on Your Tongue. Curling cigarette smoke filled the room from nowhere. The room's lighting turned amber even though that kind of light source did not exist. The entire room morphed into an old speakeasy where a couple sat near the piano. Where did they come from? They were not there a moment before. His fingertips tap on the table to the music. He pours the woman a drink and leans in closer, whispering something in her ear. Her eyes close halfway, and she smiles slightly more with pleasure than humor. With ease, the couple departs and makes their way out, but to where they go, I don't see. They just disappear along with the rest of the tableau.
"You still wanna be friends?" She asked half seriously.
"Was that you?" I asked.
"All me," she nodded, not looking up.
"Of course, we're still friends," I told her.
"So, the Coffee Place?" I asked.
"Half of that is me," she said. "I'm helping the owners out. More business."
"Yeah," I assured her. "We're friends."
Photo Credit Jen.Polegatto
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