Eyewitness

24

There was a murder on the beach last week. A man curled up in his sleeping bag – bludgeoned. A spate of cruel murders of endangered seals, an going Kauai mystery. Is the psycho serial seal killer accelerating? Graduating to humans? Or did he mistaken the resting man for a beached monk seal?

We thought we were supposed to bring a a volleyball to the beach. The meet-up listing should have said Bocce Ball. Which is Italian bowling. Which theoretically with bowling in my genes, my grandfather’s bowing alley “Luby’s Lanes,” on one side, Italian on the other. I should have instant mastery. But no Bocce ball was ever produced.

John and I bumped the VB ball we brought to stay warm. It was a blustery evening, sunset approaching. Parents had set up a slip and slide for their kids. The air had a waft of coals and lighter fluid. In attendance a local star surfer who had a wave break named after him.

Another guy turned up with meat. A steak and long raw sausage. I would describe him as the Yo-Yo Ma doppelgänger. I looked at him for a long time. Like I know you. How do I know you?

Lots of cakes. A Tuxedo cake. Red Velvet cupcakes, unfortunately the frosting was NOT cream cheese. There was a Haupia pie. And the di rigueur chip cookies with white chunks of chocolate. Costco chow. Light whipped up lard, if you call that moist. Sugar overkill and immediately regrettable.

The subject was Michigan and Jim Harrison and one guy was impressed when I SHARED that I had hung out with him and Harry Dean Stanton.

I ate some questionable vegetarian collards. That were cooked perfectly, just the right tooth. But an odd taste, something off. I asked the chef how long she stewed them for? She answered – chicken broth. Then corrected herself. No they are vegetarian; I used vegetable broth. 45 minutes. With red peppers and garlic flakes.

On the way home I asked John if he saw the way that cellist held his cake? By the sliver of the orange moon last night (or peach moon if you consider the pitted craters). He sustained. Like an aftertaste. Holding his mush of cake in his bear claw, wolfing it down…

I remembered him. He was the man up at Kukuiolono Park. The one in the grey truck that I saw years later trawling the Eleele BEST SAVE where everything is freezer burned. The one that saw me -alone- feeding the chickens and opened his car door so I could see him and his white thin legs with his pants scrunched down to the floorboards. Whacking off.

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