Singer

3/7/2012 Wed 1328.  Days Without Wife:  151

Came in to the Princeville Chevron today, to work the morning shift.  Bobcat pulled me into the office around lunch, and asked me if I’d like to go fulltime.  I told him I’d think about it.  It would mean an extra buck an hour, but I’m not sure I want to work there 5 days a week.  I’m not liking the vibe enough for that. 

Butterfly came in today while I was working to say ‘hi’.  We’ve been having some heavy rains here on the Garden Island, and she told me they managed to avoid any flooding at her place in Wainiha. 

Easton left this morning for Oregon.  He’s going back to the mainland to introduce his baby and baby momma to his grandparents.  I would not want to trade places with him.  His baby momma, Jennifer, has been off island for about the past month-and-a-half, competing in yoga instructor tournament(s).  While she was absent, he decided to start dating her young, guitar-playing best friend, Alice.  Word got to Jennifer (The Coconut Wireless works fast) and of course she’s furious.

I went to Lihue yesterday to see the new action flick Act of Valor.  That’s the one that the trailers advertise as “starring active duty Navy SEALs”.  Despite the propaganda, it wasn’t a bad day at the movies.  On a scale of 1 to 10, I give it a 6.

3/13/2012 Tu 1540.  DWOW:  157

Had a real good day yesterday. 

Worked at Oasis from 8 to 4.  It was my first time opening the kitchen by myself.  The cook that opens has to prep for lunch and then fill the orders for lunch service, which is noon to 3.  Got slammed really good and fucking hard by burger, cheesesteak, hot dog, salad, pork wonton, and french fry orders.  One really has to move and think quickly to work professionally in a kitchen.  If it gets busy, you’ll find yourself with 10 things to do and as many seconds to do them in. 

It’s exhilarating, though.  I think I may enjoy this profession more than I thought I would.

3/20/2012 Tu 1730.  DWOW:  164

The motorcycle is up and running again.  Took it a couple towns over, to Hanalei, last night for Monday Night Karaoke at the Tahiti Nui.

The Tahiti Nui is a North Shore ‘treasure’.  Recently, it was featured prominently in the George Clooney flick The Descendants.  The people that work there are surly, and the service is terrible.  But sometimes I find myself there anyway, because the nightlife choices on Kauai can be slim.  This ain’t Austin.

This is the third time I’ve been to the Nui for karaoke.  The first was about a year ago, when I first arrived on island and was jonesing for my Common Interest fix.  I realized right away that this was no CI–the song selection was limited and the sound system was weak–but I tried to have fun with it anyway.  I was partway through my enthusiastic rendition of Neil Diamond’s Cracklin’ Rosie, when some asshole in the crowd heckled me. 

The second time was Monday night last week.  A handful of people I know were going.  Judy had just finished up her shift at Hanalei Pizza.  A guy I know who looks like Andy Garcia was there.  One of my former co-workers, May, was there with her cousin.

I had a great time.  May sang a Whitney Houston song.  Judy sang a song, but I don’t remember what it was.  Andy Garcia, despite my prodding, refused to sing.  I performed Diamond Rio’s Meet in the Middle. 

 Judy said I captured the early ’90s country music vibe perfectly.  I’ll take it.

3/27/2012 Tu 1614.  DWOW:  171

Just got off work at Oasis. 

This afternoon I’m going to meet Paul at the scenic overlook north of Kapaa.  He’s selling me the old handlebars from his Shadow for $25.  The ones on my motorcycle are bent and need to be replaced.  I’d really like to put a bunch of time and money into this bike–really cherry it out.  We’ll see if I go broke first.

Who am I kidding?  I’m broke already.

Cook

2/27/2012 Mon 0920.  Days Without Wife:  142

This is my 35th day on Zoloft.  The drug continues to keep the bleakest of my depression at bay.  Still plenty of sadness, though.  Still missing Molly, Jolene, & Casino.  I can’t believe I used to sleep with a beautiful blonde and two of the cutest dogs in the world, and now I sleep alone.

10 days ago I finally broke down and bought another motorcycle.  This is my third.  It’s a 2004 Honda Shadow 750.  The craigslist ad was asking $2400, but I paid the guy $1850 for it.  I mainly have Paul, my addiction therapist, to thank for that.  He tipped me off about the bike, and also told me that he test drove the bike, and had the guy ready to accept $1900 for it.

Bad news is that it is currently down, stranded at NSGS, where I work as a cook.  Long story short, it needs a couple new parts.  They’re not that expensive–probably $30 total.  Hopefully I won’t have a problem installing them.  One thing about being poor, it forces you to learn more about your equipment, as you end up having to work on it yourself.

Easton told me he’s got a truck, and he’ll help me move it back to the house tomorrow.

Dad went back to Albuquerque.  I talked to him on the phone.  He reported that Kingston’s second kid, a little girl this time, is indeed a cutie.  She was born while Dad was here on Kauai.

Things are noticeably strained between my sister and I.  Used to, we’d talk on the phone or see each other every other day or so.  I feel like it’s been something like 5 days since I talked to her.  I don’t want to be the one to call.  It’s not stubbornness, either.  It’s just that I think Butterfly has made it clear that she wants some space, so I’m gonna give it to her.

Purist

New Year’s Eve–about 2 p.m.  Zero precip, with scattered clouds.

My cell brings me out of my nap.  My wife, visiting friends in South Austin, is calling to remind me to take the dogs out for their midday potty.

Our plans for NYE involve dinner with friends.  I have been informed that we are departing the apartment at 6:25.  I need to be back in the apt. by 5:25 to get ready.  I have 3 hours to do some motorcycling.

I don my leathers, kick the tires, and get onto A.W. Grimes, heading north.  Right away I see several of my fraternity brothers.  The nastiness of the last couple days has burned off, and the roads are not wet anymore.  It seems that everyone is taking their bikes out for some exercise.  This is Harley country, and many of the bikes I see are Aitch Dees.

I remember the afternoon I picked up the Suzuki from the dealership.  I was new to the service.  I hadn’t even reported for duty on the Kauffman yet, as I was still in school at Great Lakes Naval Training Center.  Let me tell you, if you ever get the chance to be a 19-year-old sailor purchasing your first motorcycle, do it.  It was a spiritual day for me.

I left the dealership in Lake Villa and headed southeast.  Almost immediately, I was getting waves from other operators, heading the opposite direction on the two-lane blacktop.  A couple of helmetless guys on crotchrockets extended their left arms as they sped past.  A yuppie on a BMW touring bike flashed a peace sign.  An old-timer, clad head-to-toe in black leather, pointed his clutch hand at the ground as his ancient hog rumbled past me.

After being the proud owner of a brand new machine for only 20 minutes, I realize that I have purchased more than just a new set of wheels.  I am now a member of an informal fraternity of other riders that stretches the world over, from Illinois to Japan to Germany and back.

I am thinking of that first day when I turn right off of A.W. Grimes and onto Gattis School Rd, to catch up with two of my ‘brothers’.  They stop at a red light and I pull in behind them, to get a look at their bikes.  They are both riding Aitch Dees with large engines.  The guy to my 11 o’clock is on one with a black gas tank (how novel!) and apehanger handlebars.  The fella at 1 o’clock is riding a big purple Harley, and wearing one of those helmets that offers little in the way of protection.  It looks like a stainless steel soup bowl.

Ape and Soupbowl vigorously ignore me while the three of us wait for green.  At the green, both of them get on the throttle like only an Aitch Dee rider can.  They both make plenty of noise, but my old Japanese girl performs well, and stays with them.

Next red light, and it’s much the same drill.  Ape, with iPod buds hanging out of his ears, listens to Coldplay or the Village People or whoever while I try to get a better look at his bike.  I’m beginning to think it may be the Fat Bob when the light turns green.  This time they both give it everything they have.  I stay with Soupbowl, but Ape’s bike kicks the Suzuki’s ass in that first 100 yards.  I must admit, that when it comes to performing off the line, Ape is working with superior equipment to mine.

At the next red light, I pull in closer and holler at Ape.  He pulls his earbuds out and looks my way, stone-faced.

“That’s a beautiful machine you got there,” I shout to him.  “That’s awesome!”

He nods at me, and then turns his attention back to the light.  They both turn off of Gattis School Rd at the next intersection, as I continue straight.

I hate to say it, but sometimes the Harley purists can come off as arrogant.  Some of those guys don’t wave.  They tend to look at a Suzuki or a Yamaha with disdain.  I suppose I do understand the pride in owning something made right here in the States, but the fact is I can’t afford an Aitch Dee.  They’re expensive!  You practically have to be a doctor or lawyer to own one.

I reckon that’s it for now.  I’ve gotta get ready for the New Year’s Day ride.  Be careful out there, no matter how much engine you got.

Scholar

Monday evening.  6:30 p.m.  Air temp:  about 37 degrees.

Sitting in the dark, my thoughts turn to my father and brother, and my hopes for healing our divided family.

I have not seen my father in 6 years.  In 2003, after I had just left the service, he showed up on my doorstep in Austin, an old broken man in a VW bus, just trying to patch things up with his eldest son.  I rebuffed him, telling him to get out of town.  The last time I had seen him before that was 1996, when a fistfight left us with no real relationship.  In effect, I am going to Albuquerque to bury the hatchet after 13 years, not wanting to lose any more time.

I have not seen my brother in something like 8 years.  The last time I saw Kingston, we were both visiting my mother in Houston for Christmas.  I was on leave from the service, and he (and my sister) had taken a Greyhound in from NM.  Despite being an adult (yeah, right, I’m still not sure I’ve reached adulthood) I had for the most part spent the visit treating him no differently from the way I did when we were coming up:  lousily.  I had always been a shitty big brother, and I wanted that to change now.

A vision comes into my head suddenly, brighter and more perfect than even the bike’s chrome, gleaming in the moonlight behind me.  Or at least in my state, I think it is.

I don’t remember what the vision/idea was, but it was something that excited me quite a bit.

“Holy shit,” I say.

I jump up from the ground, trying to zip closed my leather jacket and put on my gloves at the same time.  Reaching around the gas tank, I turn the key, still sticking out of the ignition.  The engine purrs, but that isn’t good enough, so I give the old girl a healthy piece of throttle, just because I can.  She roars beautifully.  I leap onto the bike, and get her moving, making a dangerously tight about-face in the grass.  I manage to keep her in first gear for the 50 or so yards through the grass, but once I reach the VFW’s gravel lot I enter second.

Motorcycling through a gravel parking lot in second gear is stupid, but folks, we have entered the stupid part of this trip.  Jake, the operator (my 2009 Dr. Jekyll), isn’t in control anymore.  The man on the bike now, at 6’3” & 200 lbs, does not physically resemble the short Mr. Hyde, but evidently he has some of the same lust for hell-raising and dumbfuckery.

As the front tire meets the pavement of the two-lane blacktop, I lean to the right, and my rear wheel fishtails violently to the left.  I almost lose it right there, and truth be told, a wreck at this point would have saved me a LOT of trouble.  If I could go back in time and be a less skilled motorcyclist, instead of one with 11 years experience, I would.

I speed into the night, vigorously shifting gears and cursing out loud, bound for disaster.

Legionaire

Monday evening.  6 p.m.  Air temp:  38 degrees.

I’m so charged up with positivity, I barely notice the cold as I enter Clovis, NM, which my ATX eyes decide is a small town.  The folk back in C City, and their generosity, have left me feeling good.  Damn good.

This trip was spontaneous, so although it is past nightfall, I have yet to decide where I’m crashing tonight.  The plan (dreadfully poor, especially for an operator) was to simply camp at whatever facility was nearest around dusk.  As I cruise around, I spot a VFW hall and my plan changes abruptly.

I’m excited at the prospect of a chance at more fellowship.  That’s what this trip is about, after all.  It’s not just about seeing family, it’s also about touching and being touched by as much of humanity as possible.  In this rotten age of TV and Internet, Americans don’t talk to each other anymore.  We don’t know our neighbors.  We avoid important discussions, especially if they’re religious or political.  We base our worldview on what we see on a screen, rather than on what is actually being experienced in our communities.  This trip is about speaking to perfect strangers, even if I come off as talkative or crazy or aggressive.

Last winter, while visiting TN, my Uncle Bubba bought me a membership in the Columbia American Legion.  The new plan, I decide, is to put on my American Legion ballcap and march into the VFW hall to talk to some strangers.  Experience has taught me that there are no friendlier strangers than veterans.  I reckon since I’m a Legionaire now, I’ll be welcome.

I walk up to the door, and again, my plan changes abruptly.

Above the doorway is a sign reading MEMBERS ONLY in block letters.  I stop short, and then turn around.  I realize how presumptuous I am being, to think that I’m free to simply stroll into anywhere I please.  If it had been a Legion post, I would have gone in.  It’s probably not too much of a stretch to think I would be welcome at any American Legion in the country.  But the VFW is a completely different organization.  Besides, hadn’t I already been profoundly blessed by strangers the evening prior?  It was probably unfair to ask God to provide me with another amazing experience, simply because I’m willing to be presumptive.

The new plan, I decide, is to park the bike among a clump of trees about 100 yards from the VFW’s door, and take a break.  I carefully guide the Suzuki through the tall grass to the trees.  As my headlight pierces the darkness of the cluster, 3 or 4 fat rabbits flee from its beam, further into the brush.  I park a few feet from the trees and kill the engine.

I sit in the grass on the left side of the machine, and lean against the hot 805 cc of engine.  Since I’m wearing my leather jacket and several layers beneath, I don’t get burned.  The bike’s warmth feels quite nice, on a night as cold as this one is.  As the engine ticks and cools, I decide there’s nothing wrong with sitting here awhile, alone in the darkness.  Alone with my thoughts.

Alone with my demons.

Motorcyclist

Sunday evening.  I’m on a stretch of two-lane asphalt called 163, somewhere between San Angelo and Colorado City, heading north.

Air temp:  about 50 degrees.  Speed:  about 55 mph.  Tank:  practically empty.  That’s right…I’m in the proverbial “middle of nowhere” and about to run out of gasoline.

For those of you who have never motorcycled, allow me to explain a bit about fuel:  most bikes, including my Suzuki, don’t have a gas gauge.  We use two things as a “gas gauge”—the reserve tank and the trip odometer.

The way I operate is I typically ride my bike until the engine begins to sputter.  This lets me know I’m out of gas, so I switch to the reserve tank.  The bike begins drinking gas again, and happily surges back to life to continue down the road.  At that point, I know I only have a little bit of gas in the tank, so I stop at the next gas station to fill up.  Waiting until all I have left is my reserve tank works just fine in Austin.  There’s a gas station on every corner, so I never have to be on RES longer than a mile or two.  But tonight I’m on a West Texas farm road, and the last gas station (somewhere just north of San Angelo) was ignored by this operator b/c my trip odometer read 77.  You see, after 11 years, I know that I can get about 100 miles before I have to switch to reserve.  Surely they’ll be another Shell or Exxon in the next 30 miles, right?  Wrong.

I see my goof after being on 163 only a little while, with nothing in the darkness ahead to indicate a town or structure of any kind.  At night you can see gas stations or chemical plants or some rancher’s porchlight from a long way off.  The fact that I see nothing out there worries me, because it means I may be spending this November evening on the side of the road, with nothing for shelter except a sleeping bag and a poncho.  That’s what I’ll do if I run out of gas out here—try to get some sleep, so I’ll be good and ready for the long walk into Colorado City in the morning to find petrol.  It’s not unthinkable or even undoable, it’s just not preferred.  If I have to sleep under the sky, I’d rather do it in a campground that has a toilet and somewhere level to park the bike.

I slow down to better study a sign telling me that C City is 19 miles away.  I feel the knot in my stomach tighten, because I’ve already been on the reserve tank something like 5 miles.  I’ve been lucky enough to never run my machine out of gas, so I don’t actually KNOW how far down the road I can get on reserve.  10?  12?  15 miles?  I’ve never tested it, but it looks like I might tonight.

Further up 163, and I’ve resigned myself to studying the ranchland streaming past on either side, trying to imagine what it will be like to sleep out here on the ground with God-knows-what for company.  Suddenly I notice a faint red glow up ahead, and I send up a desperate prayer for my Heavenly Father to bail me out yet again.  I’m 90% certain the prayer won’t be answered.

My prayer IS answered.  I coast into C City and into a Fina bay.  I am so relieved, and thank God profusely aloud.  The sound of my own voice vibrates throughout my helmet.  No one, except for myself and my Creator, hears the sound.  It’s just me and Him talking, and I realize I do not pray nearly as much as I should.