Table of Memories.

 1.

In the small kitchen, at an even smaller table that has seen meals, warm cans of beer, and long talks, my father negotiates the benefits of a life with him if my mother chooses to return. The gradual change in his voice suggests the odds are stacked against him. He insists he can change, and things will be different this time. But my mother has heard that pitch too many times. It no longer works. The damage is done. It's not just about how he hurt and disrespected her, but also how he did it in front of others. I still remember the night he called her names at Auntie Marie's birthday, or the time he slammed his fist on this very table and stormed out, leaving her crying in front of our guests. Twenty years of that was more than my mother could bear.

So, she left.

The old man quietly puts his phone in his pocket. He grabs his keys and wallet, then heads to the garage. I hear him rummage through his storage closet for a couple of minutes. After finding what he needs, his cowboy boots echo as he returns up the walkway. The creak of the screen door now sounds like a moan of pain from someone stabbed in the heart.

He's got his guitar in his hands. He doesn't look at me; instead, he makes a beeline for the kitchen table, where he sits for a couple of minutes with his guitar on his lap. "There were some good things that happened here, at this table, right?"

"You're asking me?" I returned.

"You're the only other person here," he replied.

"Can't YOU remember any good times, at that table?" I asked.

"We put all these curved rubber edges on the corners of the kitchen table so you wouldn't bump into it and hurt yourself," he began. "This is where you sat, once you learned how to use a fork and spoon. You blew out a lot of birthday candles on this table, too."

"That's all?" I knew there was much more than that in him. "What about your anniversaries, and mom's birthdays, and Mother's Day?"

He had no reply. He moved his guitar in front of him and took a long pause before he started playing.

"I hurt your Mom really bad this time. She's not coming back; I can't blame her."

I am an old man named after my father.

My old man is another child who's

grown old.

If dreams were lightning

and thunder were desire

This old house would have

burnt down,

a long time ago.

Make me an angel

that flies from Montgomery

make me a poster of an old

rodeo.

Just give me one thing

that I can hold on to

to believe in this living

It's just a hard way to go.

That's about all my father could sing before the tears came. His shoulders started to shake, and his voice broke as he put his head down. He left with his guitar in hand, each step outside heavy with grief. He was gone somewhere, anywhere but here, his pain driving him fast onto the main road and toward the freeway.

My phone rang just then. I braced myself for my Mom to call and vent, but when I answered, her voice sounded small and tired. Instead of anger, there were only apologies to me for not being able to keep everything together. She said softly, "There's a price to pay for being the glue all the time, especially when you're not appreciated."

"I know, ma," I told her. "I was there, I saw it all happen."

"You forgive me for leaving?" She asked.

"There's nothing to forgive, Ma," I assured her. "You live your life the way you need to. Don't let Dad guilt you into anything. I'm always here for you."

"That kitchen table needs to go," she said. "It's battered, worn, and beyond repair. It’s seen better days, but its time is up."

"Funny you say that," I told her. "I'm actually gonna toss it right now."

2.

I already had the Phillips screwdriver as I went to the kitchen. I flipped the table over and noticed the scribbles I had scratched underneath. My name, along with the date and time, stared back at me. My mother used a crochet table cover that reached the floor to make the kitchen look presentable for company. When my parents weren't paying attention, I'd crawl under the table to listen to their conversations. Most of it was grown-up talk I didn't understand. I knew the swearing; nothing else made sense. Once, I fell asleep there. My snoring must have confused everyone. My father eventually lifted the table cover and found me, waking me up with a stinging slap. Standing here now, looking at those childhood marks, I realized the table once felt like a secret shelter, a place where I thought I was safe, even in the middle of all the fighting. But as I got older, the table became less of a hiding spot and more of a witness to everything that broke our family apart. Maybe that's why letting it go hurts and frees me at the same time.

After thirty years, I expected the screws to be rusted. But they loosened quickly. Soon, I had separated the legs from the table top and tossed the whole thing in the trash. I ate my first bowl of poi at that table. It's where I did homework. It's also where I got the belt for refusing my vegetables. Food never went to waste because my parents said we never knew when the next meal would come. The memory brought tears—not from discipline, but from my stubborn disrespect toward my mother. I felt like such a stupid kid.

Mostly, that old table supported my mother as she sat worrying about my father when he didn’t come home from work. She also worried about how we'd pay bills. Most of our money came from Dad, but how could she pay bills if he wasted his whole check at the bar? Sometimes Mom and I drove to the bar to stop him from spending everything on drinks and women. That table became a repository of all that my mother put into it. Now, it filled most of the garbage bin and would finally find its way to the incinerator.

My father surfaced a couple of days later, his guitar in his hands and red, bleary eyes hidden under a pair of sunglasses he didn't own. He moved with slow, uncertain steps, the weight of something unspoken pressing down on him. As it had been his habit for years, he went directly to the fridge and grabbed a bottle of Sam Adams and plopped himself down on his regular chair at the kitchen table. But this time, his familiar ritual was interrupted by an unfamiliar reality: it wasn't his regular chair. It was a wooden one, new and unwelcoming.

His body jolted with shock when he realized there was a new table in the kitchen, along with new chairs.

"What the fuck?" He muttered to himself. "Clyde, what the muther-fuck!?"

Walking down the hallway, I found my father standing there red-faced and furious. "How do you like the new table?"

There was no reply from the old man. Not a verbal one anyway, but he did take a swing at me. Not with his fists, but his guitar. He swung that thing wide, so as I ducked from the blow, his momentum caused him to spin in place, and he hit the floor pretty hard. I waited for him to recover, and when he did, he charged straight at me. I side-stepped him, and he went crashing into the kitchen counter. "You had no right to get rid of that table," he said, trying to catch his breath. "There are memories in that table."

"There's more of mom's memories in that table than yours," I reminded him. "None of it was good. That thing had to go."

"I'm gonna fish that thing out of the trash and put it back together!" He screamed. "It stays here!"

"Why don't you take that table and go live somewhere else with it?" I took a step toward him.

"Right, so you can bring your mother back here once I'm gone, right?" He accused me.

"Whether you're here or not, Mom is never coming back here, and she's never coming back to you," I said.

The old man gathered himself and went straight to the garage, where he began packing everything up. Then, he moved on to his bedroom, where he put everything into suitcases and boxes. He made a call on his phone, and within an hour, a woman whom I had never seen before showed up in our driveway with a big Chevy truck. Old Dad began packing everything into it, and without even so much as a good-bye, he drove off with whoever that woman was. I went into the garage to take a look around, and for sure, everything that was his in the storage closet was gone. So too was the kitchen table from the trash bin.

3.

My mother eventually met a nice guy from the salsa club she belonged to. They never got married, but they did cohabitate until she passed one night in her sleep. Nothing dramatic, no sickness, no accident, just the end of life after knowing a few years of happiness that she long deserved. Her services were well attended. A lot of people cried; some just came for the food. My father never showed, but was I supposed to expect a modicum of decency from him? Right, who are we kidding here? But that's for the future tense, which means none of that has happened yet. Let's talk about what happened today. That some woman, driving that same truck, showed up in the driveway. A young man stepped out from the passenger side, and he approached me as I stood in front of the door.

"Uh, I'm here to pick up the rest of my father's stuff," he said matter-of-factly. He looked to be all of sixteen years old, with patches of peach fuzz on his chin and jawline. I stared at that kid long and hard. I should have been raging mad, and maybe I should have beaten the shit out of him, but why? The person at fault isn't the one standing in front of him; it's the one he just called his father.

"What's your name?" I asked him.

"Cross," he replied, "after my father."

I patted him on the shoulder and headed to the garage. "I'll give you a hand."

I was looking at a brother I never knew I had. As we stood there, an uneasy ache settled in my chest—resentment tangled with curiosity and this raw, aching sense of loss. Cross looked innocent enough, probably as confused as I was about the moment. I felt envy for how easily he slipped into that truck, as if he belonged to a world my own father never opened to my mother or me. In the truck sat the woman who had this kid with my father. Maybe that's why my mother is never coming back. There were only a few boxes of my father's old clothes, photo albums, record albums, and a few pieces of random jewelry. Once everything was loaded up, I shook Cross's hand and gave him a big hug.

"I'm Clyde," I introduced myself.

"How do you know my father?" He asked.

I was tempted to tell him that Cross Keawe Sr. was OUR father. His and mine. I said this instead.

"Your mother is the woman your father left me for," I said with a straight face. "I can't blame him, I mean, look at your mom, she's beautiful. She must have something that I don't. I guess cock wasn't enough for him. You see that man,  you tell him I still love him."

Cross Jr. was all a fluster and didn't know what to say. He huffed back to the truck and got in. Even though I couldn't hear it, I saw him tell his mother what I'd just shared with him. She glared at me, shook her head, and flipped me the bird. She went roaring out of the driveway to the main road, giving me the second hardest middle finger the whole way. Poor woman and her kid have no idea what they've gotten themselves into.

Mother fucker. What a piece of shit.

I called my mother later that night and updated her as to what's been happening. I also asked her if she knew about that woman and her child. There was silence for a minute until she finally replied.

"He didn't tell me. I found out."

"How?" I asked.

"You know how I go to Foodland all the time, right? Well, pretty soon there's a new cashier, a kid, right?" She began. "I look at his name tag, and it says, 'Cross.' Then I get a good look at the kid, and at first I thought it couldn't be, but it was. He was the spitting image of your father."

"Ho man," I shook my head.

"I began hanging around the store, and then one day, there was your father sitting in a truck with some strange woman I've never seen before. That kid comes walking out of the store and hops into the back seat of that truck. Your father gives that kid the warmest hug ever, and the kid kisses his mom. The three of them looked so content together, the total opposite of our own family. The total opposite of him and me. There was no question about it, I left. I'm also sorry about the way I left, Clyde. Leaving you holding the bag, as they say."

"You did nothing wrong, Ma," I assured her. "You don't have to apologize for anything."

"Are you gonna sell the house?" She asked me. "I think you should."

"I agree," I said. "It's time."

"Also, your father called me, ranting and raving about something you said to his son," my mom shared. "I hung up. I'm just so tired of his voice at any volume."

4.

The future I talked about earlier, the one whose time period we were not yet in? This is it, we're here in the future I referred to. I used to wonder how grief might settle in, but nothing quite prepared me for this blend of hollow quiet and muted voices filling the house. I stand just inside the doorway, the scent of lilies and steaming trays of food mixing together, heavy in the space. For a moment, the memory of my mother's laughter echoes, and I have to blink twice before stepping into the gathering of faces, some familiar, some only here for the food because they're sitting close to the dining room. My mother's boyfriend, Daryl, is standing up front, shaking hands and accepting condolences. He and I lock eyes, and he waves me up front. I go up there to find out about what's happening.

"Your mom wanted you to play her favorite song, the one she taught you," Daryl whispered.

Daryl always dressed like the Pakē Mister Rogers, and his fingernails were meticulously manicured. His hair was always perfectly combed back and in place. The guy didn't have a single pockmark or blemish on his face. "She said the one your father sang to her was the one he said was her favorite song. He never bothered to ask her what her favorite song was; he just decided for her. You get it?"

"Yeah, I know which one," I nodded.

Daryl got on the mic and quieted everyone down. He even told the people who were waiting for the food to come up front. "Listen up, everyone, Clyde is going to share his mother's favorite song with all of us. Please give him your attention. I know Rayleen would love it if she were here."

I stood behind the microphone with a guitar in my hands. "This is for my mom, Rayleen."

“There’s a world where I can go and tell my secrets to

in my room

in my room.

In this world, I lock out all my worries and my fears.

in my room

in my room.

Do my dreaming and my scheming.

lie awake and pray

Do my crying and my sighing.

laugh at yesterday

Now it's dark, and I’m alone.

But I won’t be afraid.

in my room,

in my room…”

The Windsor and Sam Cooke.

1.

It started in school when his father gave him a bunch of old suits he hadn’t used in a long while. It’s also when his father showed him how to tie a tie and how to shine his own shoes.

“We can just go to Fort Street and see the shoe shine man,” he mentioned.

“No, this is something you want to do yourself,” his father countered. “When the time comes, you want to show your own son how to do this.”

His father also explained why it was important to match the color of his tie, shirt, and coat. The sorts of slacks and shoes also mattered. “You’re graduating from high school soon. Therefore, if anything, when you’re out in the world, you want to look like a gentleman. Presentable, no matter where you go.”

“People are going to think I’m making ho’oio,” the boy protested.

“Why do you care what people think?” his father chided him. “They’re not wearing your clothes, or working at the sandwich shop, are they?”

“No,” Kamuela replied. “Nobody else I know dresses like this.”

“Nobody else matters,” Mark reminded his son. “You’ll be treated like a gentleman if you dress like one.”

Mark stepped forward, adjusted Kamuela’s tie, and removed a tie clip and a pin from his breast pocket. “Today, you use the tie clip to keep it in place. The pin has the same purpose.”

Mark handed both items to Kamuela and let him put the tie clip on himself.

Kora watched the interaction while she prepared lunch in the kitchen. Of course, she could have taught Kamuela the same thing, but it was Mark’s place to do it. This one rite of passage meant a lot to her, as her father, known as the mean old Hawaiian man on the street where she grew up, taught her, as her own rite of passage, how to defend herself, not just against other girls, but against boys and men who got fresh with her.

“Your modesty is yours, not anyone else’s but yours,” Pali Limahana said sternly. “One day, Papa might not be there to protect you; that’s why I’m teaching you to protect yourself.”

“Yes, Papa,” Kora knew the seriousness of what her father emphasized and took his instructions to heart. Mark is teaching Kamuela the essentials of gentlemanly attire. Mark was wholly unaware of his wife teaching their son the gentlemanly art of self-defense.

“You’re learning this to protect yourself,” Kora said to Kamuela. “As well, to protect your loved ones.”

Mark’s patience in explaining the intricacies of the Windsor knot was evident as he stood behind Kamuela, placing his hands on his son’s as they both went through it. “Keep practicing again and again, that’s the only way you’ll learn. Once you’ve mastered it, I’ll teach you other tie knots.”

Kora went to her record player and keyed up the best of Sam Cooke. His music gave Kora a natural smile while she prepared the cucumber salad to complement the sandwiches. The tea sat in the miniature cooler, chilling to the right degree.

Mark finally got Kamuela’s fingers to relax while holding one end of the tie with his right hand, and his left hand put everything together to complete the Windsor knot. Kamuela wasn’t quite getting it, but he wouldn’t give up. That was the true value of the lesson for Mark, that his son not give up. He couldn’t help but smile. However, something happened that distracted Mark. It was coming from the kitchen. The second he heard it, he immediately followed a sound that flooded the whole house. A smooth male voice accompanied by actual musical instruments.

“Darling, you send me. I know you, send me. Darling, you, send me. Honest you do, honest you do, honest you do.”

Mark floated to Kora and embraced her around the waist. Kora reciprocated by leaning back into Mark, where she tilted her head to one side, telling Mark without words that she wanted him to kiss her softly until he reached the back of her ear. By instinct, Mark obliged until Kora turned to him and met his lips with hers. They kissed deeply, until with a natural instinct, they let the music sway their bodies back and forth, looking into one another’s eyes, smiling and drinking deeply of their desire for one another.

“You’re a good father,” Kora’s eyes swam with tears of happiness.

“Thanks for letting me be one,” Mark smiled.

“Lunch is almost ready,” she said, giving Mark a soft pat on his butt. “You go finish up your lesson.”

Mark turned and went back to the large mirror where Kamuela was finally getting the hang of it. “Not sure if this is it or not? Can you look? Let me know?”

“It’s a bit wide, but that’s basically it. The more you practice, the more you’ll figure out how to make that diamond shape a little smaller and tighter according to the situation.”

“The situation?” Kamuela squealed.

“It’s something you’ll learn on your own,” Mark reassured his son. “No matter how I try to explain it, it will come out wrong…Mom says lunch is ready.”

“How come every time Mom plays that song, you just disappear no matter what you’re doing, like just now?” Kamuela looked at his father for a pertinent answer.

“That’s another thing you’ll have to learn on your own,” rubbing his son’s shoulders briskly, he hoped that Kamuela would drop the matter.

“Is it like your love song, for you and Mom?” Kamuela asked.

“Yes, you can say that,” Mark nodded.

“Gross,” Kamuela shook his head. “That means that you and Mom probably do gross things together.”

                                                                                    2026

Kamuela nursed a Vietnamese tea drink while staring at the spot where the old African American man once shined shoes for anyone who cared to have their shoes brilliantly shone from heel to tip. It was the routine he and his father followed on Saturdays after a trim from the local barbershop. All these years later, and there’s not a trace that Maurice’s shoe shine stand was ever there.

                                                                                    1974

Maurice stood out with his dark skin and shock of white hair. As courteous as Maurice was to Kamuela’s father, Mark always treated Maurice with more respect than he was being given. Kamuela learned by example that this is how one behaves while in the company of elders. Kamuela was never allowed to call Maurice by his first name; he had to refer to the shoe-shine man as Mr. Tennison.

“You are not his equal,” Mark instructed his son. “So, you call him Mr. Tennison.”

“How come some people call him Shoe-shine man?” Kamuela asked.

“Some people don’t know any better, but you do,” Mark pointed out. “So, you act like it, you understand?”

“Yes, Papa,” Kamuela nodded.

Mark and Mr. Tennison would talk while Kamuela had his shoes shined. He knew well enough not to interfere with their conversation, lest he receive that look of disapproval from his father.

“One day, it was bleeding hot,” Maurice began. “It’s that Alabama heat that leans on you, makes you feel it. I had to take a break and sit on a log right on the side of the road for a bit. I had my father’s old water canteen with me, and as I took a few sips, I heard footsteps, people coming up the dirt path about to walk past me. I raised my head to give these people a proper greeting, and there was nobody there, but the sound of their footsteps walked right past me and up the rest of that road.”

“Oh man,” Mark sighed with disbelief.

“Did you know,” Maurice chuckled. “I got my narrow behind to church every Sunday, and Wednesday after that? I did, I surely did.”

“How did you find your way here, to Hawai’i?” Mark asked.

“I was a civil servant for the state of Alabama, and one day an opening came for a civil servant job at a place called Schofield Barracks in Honolulu, Hawaii. I was a driving instructor,” Maurice laughed. “I’m retired now, of course, collecting benefits, but you know what they say about idle hands. Therefore, here I am doing the work that I used to do with my father as a little boy, shining shoes.”

Kamuela noticed that Maurice always dressed nicely, in slacks, a dress shirt, dress shoes, and a tie. The old man was possibly the most dapper shoe shine man in all of Honolulu. “Mr. Tennision,” Kamuela said at the right moment in the conversation between the two men, so it wouldn’t seem as if he were being kīko’olā. “That’s a Windsor knot on your necktie.”

“Why yes, it is,” Maurice replied as he placed his fingers on the knot. “Now, how would you know about something like that, young sir?”

“My Dad has been showing me how to tie one,” Kamuela pointed to his father.

“To prepare him for life out of high school,” Mark began. “He dresses well, and he’ll be received well.”

“I learned the same way from my father,” Maurice agreed with Mark. “And he from his father, and so on.”

“My dad teaches me the Windsor knot, and we listen to Sam Cooke on the record,” I offered.

“Sam Cooke?” Maurice was genuinely surprised. “Now, what would a young man like you know about Sam Cooke?”

“My Mom and Dad have a favorite Sam Cooke song,” Kamuela began. “It makes them dance together slowly, and they hug a lot.”

“I’ll bet you I know one thing about Sam Cooke that you don’t know,” Maurice smiled.

Kamueal was struck with wonder. “What is it, Mr. Tennison?”

Maurice reached behind the chair where Kamuela sat and removed an old black-and-white picture of Sam Cooke, dressed in a sharp coat and tie. In the background stood another man. “That white man standing back there in this picture is a man by the name of Ed Sullivan. Sam Cooke is the gentleman here in the front. Sam is singing on The Ed Sullivan Show. Look closely now, what kind of tie is Sam Cooke wearing?”

Kamuela looked closer at the picture, and his mouth flew open wide. “That’s a Windsor Knot!”

Turning to Mark, Maurice asked, “What does Kamuela mean?”

“Samuel,” Mark smiled. “Or Sam for short.”

“You see that?” Maurice nodded to Kamuela. “You were named after Sam Cooke.”

                                                                            NOW

It was quite the revelation for Kamuela way back in 1974. Maurice promised that one day, when Kamuela had completely mastered the Windsor Knot, he would teach him the double Windsor. A couple of months later, when Kamuela could tie the knot with his eyes closed, he and his father made the trek to Fort Street Mall. The shoe shine stand was closed down, and without the presence of Mr. Tennison, the place gave off a sad, empty kind of feeling. The man who ran the birdcage elevator, Seville Harrison, saw Mark and Kamuela and made a point of going out to tell them the news.

“You’re looking for that shoe-shine guy?” Harrison quacked.

“Yes, Mr. Tennison,” Mark confirmed. “Maurice Tennison.”

“Oh, that old nigger died of a heart attack right there while he was shoe-shining,” Harrison pointed to the closed stand. “Scared the hell out of his customer. The nerve, right? Just dying like that.”

It was the first time Kamuela saw his father commit an act of violence, and it was something he never forgot. Mark let go with a front kick between Harrison’s legs. The force of it lifted the elevator operator off his feet and brought him crashing to the ground. Mark mounted Harrison and grabbed him by the back of his head and landed three solid punches on the orbital bone. Surely, he’d wake up the next morning with a swollen shiner.

“That MAN’S name was Maurice Tennison, and he was ten times the human being you’ll ever be,” Mark firmed his grip on a tuft of Harrison’s hair and gave a hard shake. Standing up, Mark took Kamuela’s hand, and they walked back to the car, which was parked one street over on Bethel.

How, 52 years later, a space that had long been bereft of a shoe-shine stand and its owner could evoke a memory so visceral that Kamuela felt as if he had traveled back in time was beyond his comprehension. He inhaled air now as he took a sip of his Vietnamese tea drink. He shook the cup a bit as he looked for a trash receptacle. The nearest one was being molested by a homeless person who flew its contents everywhere in a manic fit. Kamuela decided on the one near the Basilica’s steps. Walking over to it, he tossed the empty plastic cup into it and took a seat on the steps. Behind him, Kamuela heard a deep hollow creaking sound and turned to see the basilica doors opening. His friend, Clark La’anui, came walking out. They scheduled a catch-up lunch that couldn’t be too far away, as Clark had his wedding rehearsal in an hour or so. The two walked to the nearby Golden Arches, which was crowded for a Saturday. Receiving their order was quick, and they found a place to sit.

“I didn’t know you were Catholic?” Kamuela asked.

“I’m not,” Clark nodded as he stuffed fries into his mouth. “Dora’s Catholic. I’m doing it for her. Her mother thinks that after we’re married, I’m going to take Dora and her daughter away somewhere. I dunno where she got that idea.”

“Oh, so what are you gonna do?” Kamuela inquired.

“Her mom’s gonna come stay with us,” Clark said as he took a swig of his tea. “The woman doesn’t have to worry, and we’ll have a live-in babysitter and peace of mind.”

“And…” Kamuela leaned forward. “There’s more, I can tell.”

“And for MY mother’s sake, Dora, agreed to a Hawaiian wedding,” Clark nodded. “Her mother is not too thrilled about it, but that was the deal.”

“Peace of mind was the deal?” I asked.

“All around, everybody is happy. That’s all that matters.” Clark took another sip of his tea.

Kamuela didn’t notice it at first because Clark wore a black tie. However, as he looked closer, he saw it. “That’s a double Windsor Knot.”

Clark briefly ran his fingertips over the knot. “Yup, Windsor two times.”

“How’d you learn how to tie it?” Kamuela asked.

“My papa,” Clark replied. “He learned it from the guy who used to shine shoes back at that place, across from the Basilica.”

Kamuela gave Clark the once-over. “You mean Maurice Tennison?”

“Oh, I dunno,” Clark answered. “He’s coming to the ceremony. You can ask him after.”

---

The wedding festivities are in full swing. Kamuela paid only slight attention to those in attendance during the church ceremony. With his head down, as if in prayer, Kamuela was really swiping through his phone until he found the Galaga game he downloaded the day before. Audible sobbing filled the vast interior of the Basilica, which Kamula could not understand. It was a wedding ceremony after all. Perhaps those people were the designated criers, regulars at weddings and funerals. Finally, the moment arrived when the bride and groom kissed.

Kamuela let out a sigh while unintentionally uttering, “Shit, finally.”

Tucking his cell phone into his coat pocket, he looked up and realized that the whole congregation now stared at him with ill intent. Most especially, Clark and Dora, who glared at him from the daias. Shrugging his shoulders, Kamuela mouthed, “Sorry.”

---

By the end of the night, after all the celebrations, speeches, and throwing of the garter, Clark and Dora quietly slow danced to their favorite song from an obscure Michael Pare movie about a 60s’ singer who drove off a New Jersey pier on a quiet early morning and was never seen again.

Hey, little girl,

Take me by the hand,

walk me down this boardwalk

one last time again

See those pretty pier lights.

hear those carnival sounds…

Kamuela sat at his designated table, treating himself to the pasta salad with the giant black and green olives. On the plate were also a pile of finger-sized sushi, corned beef hash, and shoyu chicken. A trusty can of cola helped wash the food down and made the experience all the more gratifying. The reception hall catered the same food for funerals, which was so good that no one complained. From his periphreal, Kamuela saw someone coming toward the table. When he looked up, it was a much older gentleman in a new suit that seemed a bit too youthful for his age. No matter, Kamuela never judged people.

“Mind if I have a seat?” The older man asked.

“Please do,” Kamuela replied. “Are you hungry? Would you like me to make a plate for you?”

“No, no,” the older gentleman protested. “I’m fine. I’m Seville Harrison, by the way. You can just call me Harrison.”

Kamuela noticed a sunken indentation under the older man’s left eye, but didn’t call any attention to it. “Clark tells me you’re interested in knowing about the double Windsor knot?”

“Oh, my apologies,” Kamuela put his fork down and wiped his hands with a napkin before extending them to Harrison. “I’m Kamuela. Clark and I have been best friends forever! You’re his Papa!”

“Clark’s grandparents took me in many years ago.” Harrison adjusted himself in his chair. “Clark’s grandmother was a nurse. Well, she was the nurse who took care of me while my orbital bone healed up.” Harrison pointed to the indentation under his left eye. “As you can see, it didn’t heal all the way.”

“What happened?” Kamuela asked.

“I used to operate the birdcage elevator at the old hotel across from the Basilica. One day, a man who had his little boy with him punched me in the eye over something I said.” Harrison explained.

“What did you say that was so bad?” Kamuela asked.

“You see, what that man didn’t understand was that there was a shoe-shine man who had his station right in front of the hotel. He and I had been together for a long time, but back then, being Gay, being two men of a different color, black and white? You could never publicly come out and claim it like you can today. On the day I got punched in the eye, I was mad with grief and just mad in general that he up and died and left me like that.” Harrison looked at Kamuela seriously, still heartbroken. “So when that man came that day and asked me what happened to the shoe-shine man…I referred to him as a nigger because I was so mad at him. It doesn’t matter what the reason was; it was wrong of me to use that word against the man I loved."

“Mr. Tennison,” Kamuela confirmed. “Maurice Tennison.”

Harrison gasped, tears filling his eyes, not knowing what to say. He appeared as if he were going to have a heart attack. “I was that little boy.” Kamuela began.  “My father was the one who punched you. I’m sorry for that. My father loved and respected Mr. Tennison. We went there all the time after I got a haircut, and he and my father would just talk about everything and nothing. One day, he said he was going to teach me how to tie a double Windsor Knot. When we came back the next time, well, you know.”

“I taught him how to tie a double Windsor,” Harrison pointed to his chest. “I couldn’t have him teaching driving courses wearing a knotted tie that he couldn’t untie at the end of the day.” Harrison looked at Kamuela for a second. “Did you ever learn how to tie a double Windsor?”

Kamuela lied while shaking his head, “No, I never did, but I’d like to learn.”

“Alright,” Harrison removed his own necktie. “Come sit next to me and follow closely.”

Removing his own necktie, Kamuela sat next to Harrison and followed as closely as he could, even though he already knew how to do it.

The reception hall emptied out its last few patrons. Kamuela thanked Clark and Dora, wishing them a long life of happiness. “The Hawaiian wedding his next,” Dora said to Kamuela. “You better not be playing on the phone, you understand?”

“I promise,” Kamuela bowed.

“My papa was happy to meet you,” Clark told Kamuela. “Hopefully, he can make it to the Hawaiian wedding. He said he taught you the double Windsor, even though you knew how already.”

“What do you mean?” Kamuela asked.

“He said you were already wearing a double Windsor, but he appreciated you indulging him. It meant a lot.” Clark patted Kamuela on the shoulder. “You’re a good man, Kamu, just like your Dad.”

Slam The Poets Night.

1

The house was packed on open mic night. The designated slam poet, Red Shibata, didn't show, as he was prone to do. I sat at the corner end of the bar with my head down, working on a bowl of pretzels while washing it down with a thick draft beer, but somehow the owner, Ken, spotted me. I suppose he was trying to save his ass from the patrons who were prepared to pounce on him. Even the doormen who hadn't been paid for the past couple of nights appeared as if they were going to turn a blind eye to the mob's intentions.

"We've got a special guest in the audience who can surely make up for Red's absence! He's here tonight, let's cheer him on so he'll come up!" He pointed at me, putting me on the spot with no way out. If I didn't do anything, the crowd would have torn both of us apart. I made a mental note to kick him in the nuts after this was over. 

"Kamuela Sam!"

Fucking asshole. 

The applause and the cheers went up, followed by a few no ways and what the hells. I took the stage and stood behind the microphone. Literally, it was standing-room-only, so much for the fire code. 

"This is not a Slam Poem, it's a Slam of life. My life. I was five years old when my mother and my siblings were watching a baseball game at Kamāmalu Park. We didn't even know who the teams were; it was something we did at my mother's whim. She made us some sandwiches, bought us cans of juice, and we all drove down to the park, where we sat and observed the game. About the fifth inning, my mother put down her can of juice, walked across the field, and got into a waiting car with a man we'd never seen before. The car drove off with my mother in it, and we never saw her again. To save you all the details, our grandparents took us in, but it was my oldest brother who raised us. I mean, our grandparents too, but mainly our older brother. We grew up great, perfectly normal, with no real issues. I think it's because my brother made it a point to tell us exactly what happened, while also assuring us that none of what our mother did to us was our fault."

"What about your father?" Someone in the audience asked.

I paused for a second because I had to think about it. "Our real father was busy with his new life with his second wife. Was he all of a sudden going to take the seven of us in? In his day, he was home long enough to make the four of us, but not long enough to hang around and be a father. When this thing happened that I just told you all about? It was during my mom's second marriage. Our stepfather had mental challenges to the point where my mother couldn't breathe, so when she finally came up for air, that's when she left. Remembering it now, it's obvious that she'd arranged to be picked up at the park by whoever that man was...and she left." 

Dead quiet permeated the bar, save for the sound of the bartender pouring whiskey into a shot glass. 

"It's slam poetry night, and I'm slamming the shit out of my life. My siblings and I didn't realize what was going on until long after our mother was gone, and the parking lot began to empty. That's when we all broke down. While we cried, my brother had my oldest sister watch us while he walked to our grandparents' house to tell them what happened. My brother couldn't drive us there because our mother had the car keys in her pocket...son of a bitch."

I left the stage and went back to my spot at the corner of the bar, munching more pretzels and washing down more draft. It was only then that the establishment erupted with wild aplomb. I waved and went back to minding my own business. Ken took the cue and went to the mic. "Well, it IS open mic night, so if anybody has a poem they wanna slam, you got five minutes!"

2

The deafening din of excitement made my ears ring, which was my cue to leave. I didn't mind if no one gave a shit if I was coming or going. Tito, the head doorman, gave me a supportive pat on my shoulder as I exited the establishment. "Thanks for coming through for us, uncle. You saved our asses."

"No worries, young brother," I smiled. "Have a good night!"

I'd only managed to depress the button on my key fob to get my car door open when I heard a voice from behind me. 

"Uncle! Uncle! Uncle, hold up!" I turned slightly to see a young Polynesian man in his early to mid-thirties trotting up to me. "I just wanted to say that was amazing! That wasn't even a slam, but you killed it! I can only imagine what it must be like if you did an actual slam! My mom left us, too, when we were young. Almost the same thing, she just took off with some guy!"

I opened the door, let myself into my car, and started it up while closing the door. I didn't bother to roll the window down; I just smiled, waved, and drove out of the parking lot. A second later, I made a U-turn and went back. The young Polynesian man was halfway back to the bar when I drove up and cut him off. The window went down, and I motioned for him to come over.

"My mother must have realized or thought at some point that after having seven kids, the life she felt she deserved had passed her by. Who suffered for that? We did, my brothers and sisters. Meeting whoever that guy was, she must have seen that as her last chance for her happiness, and that it would never come again. So she bolted. You know how they say that the grass is always greener on the other side?"

The young Polynesian man nodded. "Yeah, I've heard that."

"On either side of the fence, the grass is the same color," I smiled. "That old woman went looking for something she already had. By the time she realized that, it was probably too late. She was already on the other side."

"Thank you, uncle," he cried.

"Don't blame yourself for something that was never your fault, young brother," I said. "Really think about that and let it heal you and your siblings."

That was my good deed for the night. There needn't be anymore. Why push the envelope after all?

3

The building I live in was possibly built when elevators were not considered a convenience for whoever the owners knew would live in the complex. Rather, they felt it was sensible for tenants like me to walk up three flights of stairs. I mean, considering the housing crisis in Hawai'i, one would be inclined not to complain, but for each step I take to get to my apartment on the top floor, I'm complaining.

***

My phone keeps ringing long after I've let myself in and am sitting on my carpeted floor with my back against the wall. I've got no furniture because I don't see the need for it since I live on my own. I've got plastic forks, paper plates, and napkins. I eat out for the most part, but I do have a few items in my fridge. I don't keep anything in the cupboards in case of bugs. The call finally goes to voicemail. It's yet another young up-and-comer who needs help or advice with their slam poetry, which, in code, means I have to sit there and listen to their delivery, and I don't want to. I'm not anti-slam, I'm anti-psychic fall out is what I am. Artists don't want to just express and emote their art; they want it to encompass everything and everyone in one fell swoop. I don't want to be encompassed in massaging someone's damaged, traumatized ego. So, I don't return the calls. 

***

On one of my rare nights off, I came home from the grocery store to find a flyer taped to my door. Poetry Slam! $1,500 cash prize to the poet who can slam on the fly! There was a yellow sticky note on the bottom of the flyer from Ken.

"Kamuela, please come! On the house!"

There I was an hour and a half later, sitting in the corner at the end of the bar with potential slam poets and their friends standing in front of me. I didn't care if I could see the stage or not; just listening to the presentations was sufficient. A few of the contestants were passable; everybody else was just horrible. This went on for a solid hour and ten minutes. As the owner called for a ten-minute break to tally all the points and determine the sole winner for the evening, a murmur went through the crowd, then excited clapping and fan-girl screams rose. It was Red Shibata, demanding to be let into the contest at the very last minute. Ken knew very well that allowing Red to enter would be unfair to all the other contestants who had just given their all. Besides, Red is a professional slam poet who travels all around the nation, including Japan and Korea. Ken got on the microphone and feigned having no choice but to let Red enter the contest under all the pressure from Red's fans. The other contestants smelled a setup, as did the audience, and they weren't having it. I got up from where I was sitting and pushed my way to the stage, climbed on, and grabbed the microphone from the owner. 

"If Red is entering, then I'm entering too," I insisted.

"You ain't no Slam Poet!" Red scoffed while giving me the once-over.

"And you're no amateur, and yet here you are, a professionally paid slam poet, trying to push your way into an amateur contest." I looked Red straight in the eye and then turned to the crowd. "What about it?"

Red had no choice but to back down, and the $1,500 cash prize went to Azalea Moldonado from Waipahu. Her on-the-spot, straight-off-the-cuff slam poetry was about Red Vines, crossing lines, confusing times, and knowing what's yours is not mine. Ticket fines, wrinkled lines, intertwine on my face like a felonious crime. It's like a shoe shine at the five-and-dime. That old black man worked the Wichita line and could play a guitar like a finely poured wine. Let that breathe because its beauty is sublime like a lime in a coconut. You drink a bowl of it, and ease your mind while you chew on that Red Vine with intricately designed intersecting lines on a straight and narrow highway. It's time to mind my own business, don't worry cause on this journey, I'll be just fine. I slam poetry like this all the time, line after line, after line, after muthafuckin' line.

4

Needless to say, Red Shibata was pissed. Which probably explains why he was waiting at my car after the establishment closed. He was all puffed up and pacing back and forth while his two slam poet underlings mean-mugged me, as if they were going to do something harmful, like beat me up with their slam poetry, line by line. Red marched toward me with his two fingers pointing in my direction. His facial expression said he was about to spit some slam, but I beat him to it. I kicked him in his nuts and dropped him. His underlings stood there with their mouths agape, eyes wide, slowly shaking from head to toe. I kicked Red in the nuts a second time and then slowly walked toward them. One ran off toward Kalākaua Avenue. The other one who ran past me was close enough so I could grab a handful of his gelled hair and yank him down to the pavement. He hit the back of his head hard and began rolling to his right and his left while holding on to his skull. He was already in a lot of pain; kicking him in the nuts, too, was pointless. 

Ken came fast, walking across the parking lot without the doormen behind him. "Oooooh Kamuela! You didn't have to do that!"

"I didn't do anything; they were blocking me from getting into my car, so I had to defend myself," I countered. 

Ken looked stressed out, like he was going to have a heart attack. "What am I going to do now?"

"I don't understand why you were willing to do what you just did, Ken?" I waved him off and got in my car. As I attempted to drive away, Ken came walking toward my driver's side.

"Kamuela, Red is my sister's son, and they are having a hard time." He pleaded. "It's my fault as his uncle; I spoil him too much."

"I don't wanna know, Ken." I drove off to the end of the parking lot and turned right on Kalākaua.

Of course, Ken convinced Red to take me to court for assault. Considering the circumstances, I got off with self-defense. I was asked if I wanted to press charges against Red, but I said no. I didn't want to create a vicious circle. I understood that Ken's sister was having a hard time, but rigging a contest so Red would win the $1,500 prize? That's just making things worse. Why didn't Ken just give the money to his sister? Turns out that the contest was Red's idea. It was all about his ego.

5

It's a month later, and I was soured on the whole Slam Poetry scene. I was at Foodland earlier today. I got some Poi, shoyu poke, some pork lau lau, natto, and a case of mango peach tea. I walked the grocery cart to my car and opened the trunk, where I placed the items I purchased. After closing it, I walked back to the cart rack, where a little pudgy Hawaiian boy waited for me. He wore a dry-fit shirt, basketball shorts, and rubber slippers.

"Uncle," he stepped up to me and put his hand on my side. "Can I read you my poem?"

I looked back at where my car was parked, and back at the little Hawaiian boy. I put my hand on his shoulder, indicating that we shouldn't block people trying to get to or return their grocery carts. "Sure," I said as I moved both of us to one side. "Do you have it with you?"

He nodded and reached into his shorts pocket and removed a piece of paper that had been folded over a few times. Carefully opening everything, I could see the ink writing on the blue-dotted lines across the paper. I smiled because his poem was handwritten, not printed from a computer. With the paper opened in front of him, he glanced at me, looked at his paper, and took a deep breath.

I wish I had a house, even if it was a shoe. 

At least my 'ohana can live in it cause at least it would be brand new.

I wish I had a house, and not a car or a tent.

We are living without water or electricity

But I would give anything to pay rent.

I wish I had a yard, and not a beach or a park.

So my 'ohana would not have to be afraid of

police kicking us out in the dark.

I wish I had a smile for my Mom and my Dad,

I hear them cry every night, for the stuff they wish

we could have.

I wish I had a house so the kids at school couldn't tease me anymore.

I feel hilahila when they see me in the store.

I wish, I wish, I wish three times, I had a house.

Just then, a twenty-something-year-old Hawaiian girl comes and pulls the little Hawaiian boy away from me and apologizes. "I'm sorry, my son saw you from across the parking lot, and he wanted to read his poem to you. I told him not to bother you. Hard head this kid, I tell you. Kainalu, say sorry!"

"No, say sorry," I insisted. "No need to be sorry."

I glanced across the parking lot and saw their car. They were living out of it. The boy's mother saw me looking at their car, too. "Anyway, we have to go."

"Kainalu," I called out as the two began to cross the parking lot. "Can I have your poem?"

He jumped up and down and squealed with excitement. "Yes! Yes! Yes! Mom, he wants my poem!"

I ran up to them and took the paper from Kainalu, and gave him a big hug. "Do you have a cell phone?"

"My mom and dad have one," Kainalu pointed toward their car. 

"Can I meet your Dad?" I asked.

Because Kainalu's father had experience as a laborer and a forklift license, he was able to get a job at the docks. In a short while, they were able to move out of their car and find a nice house to live in. A month after that, I began organizing poetry readings for kids. No prizes, no competition, just sharing poetry, with dinner and a movie to follow. Kainalu thrived and did very well. Sure, kids' poetry is not a slam, but at least it's poetry from the purest source of inspiration. 

100 Numerous Ghost Stories 2025.

 2026 will mark 10 years of this blog, which we named GhostsNextDoor.

100 Ghost Stories Counting Down To Halloween 2025. #100. Keala.

 I felt sorry for him.

100 Ghost Stories Counting Down To Halloween 2025. #99. George's Mixtape.

 He'd been in a coma for a while now.

100 Ghost Stories Counting Down To Halloween 2025. #98. Kindness.

 She, as I knew her, would never have given me or anyone else the time of day.

100 Ghost Stories Counting Down To Halloween 2025. #97. Kalei.

 I lay on my side, the finely manicured grass my comfort, while I watch him discover the wonder of everything around him.

100 Ghost Stories Counting Down To Halloween 2025. #96. Cave Diary 6.

 The tourists weren't at all impressed with the cave when they saw it from across the street in the dirt parking lot.

100 Ghost Stories Counting Down To Halloween 2025. #95. Cave Diary 5.

The Army, in a show of community support, went into Kaneana cave and sprayed black paint over all of the graffiti that festooned the walls of the sacred cave. 

100 Ghost Stories Counting Down To Halloween 2025. #92. Cave Diary 2.

We were drunk and stupid, and we needed to piss really badly.

100 Ghost Stories Counting Down To Halloween 2025. #94 Cave Diary 4.

We parked in the dirt lot across the street from the cave.

100 Ghost Stories Counting Down To Halloween 2025. #93. Cave Diary 3.

The argument started in our car from Hawai'i Kai and concluded inside Kaneana cave, not by choice, mind you. It happened to be where we stopped and where we ended up. The dirt parking lot was crowded with so many vehicles, but we thought nothing of it. Except when we entered the cave, no one was there. Not that we could see right away. Once our eyes adjusted to the dark, we saw them. As grey as the dirt and the rock walls, there they were strewn about, lying in different awkward positions, but dead. Very dead. As we ran out of the cave, fighting back our horrific screams, we looked back for a second, and we just caught a glimpse of a woman, climbing up to the top of the cave on all fours. We screamed then for sure. The argument was a minimal cog in the wheel of our marriage. Driving home, we cried and professed our love for one another. Priorities.