"Damn shame," he said. They said goodbye to the cat, and Mo drove them
back to Lihue where Joe had no trouble changing his flight.
"Fun day," he said as they parted in Honolulu.
"Bye, Joe." She smiled.
"I'll call you."
She lifted a hand in acknowledgment. Thanks for the warmth and
commitment, he thought.
He had given up chasing women some time after Sally and before Ingrid.
A kind woman had taken him in hand after a heartbreak and explained:
"Joe, you can't earn love. Love is free. Someone loves you or they
don't . . . God knows why." She had been so sad and so earnest that he
knew it was true. Shortly thereafter a flashbulb went off. If you can't
earn love, then, if someone doesn't love you, there's nothing you can
do about it. What a liberation!
He wasn't going to run after Mo. A relationship might be around the
corner. Or not. He wasn't all that sure he wanted one, anyway. He'd
call her in a couple of weeks.
7
Joe was going to run out of money--in less than a year. He began
reading the Sunday classifieds, an experience that made him sweat and
put a knot in his stomach.
On a Monday, two weeks after the trip to Kauai, he followed up an ad
for a programming job at a downtown insurance company. The offices were
bright and modern; the staff was energetic. He left depressed. He could
have done the work in his sleep, but he couldn't pretend to want to be
"on board." The woman who interviewed him was too decent; Joe couldn't
bring himself to try and con her. He knew that if he were hired, six to
twelve months later he would be out on the street again, unable to keep
his head down and his mouth shut.
The next morning as he was taking a shower, replaying the scene at the
insurance company, he bent over for the soap. Something split in his
back. It was like being hit by an ax. He managed to get out of the
bathroom and lower himself to the floor. He lay still for half an hour,
getting his breath.
On his side, drawing his knees up, he pushed himself along the floor a
few inches at a time. He made it to his mattress and slid under the
comforter. Changing positions was painful, he could sleep for only a
few minutes at a time.
By evening he was too thirsty to stay where he was. He pushed himself
to the front of the kitchen sink and got to his knees, gasping. Holding
on with one hand, he reached for his mug with the other and filled it
with water. He drank and then refilled it and placed it on the floor.
He opened the cabinet under the sink and pulled out an old pie plate.
He lowered himself to the floor and rested before he pushed himself
back to the bed, dragging along the water and the pie plate. He was
able to pee into the plate while he lay on one side. He made it through
the night, moving as little as possible.
Music would be nice, he thought in the morning. Forget it. It was all
he could do to lie still and not panic. "It's all right, Batman," he
called to the lanai. He thought about crawling to the telephone and
knocking it to the floor with the broom, but who would he call? When
the pie plate filled, he inched along the floor, dragging it into the
bathroom, spilling some, but managing to reach up and pour most of it
into the toilet. He shoved himself into the kitchen for more water.
Holding to the chair by the table, he was able to reach a bunch of
bananas. Two bananas and water got him through the second day.
On the third day, hanging on to the bedroom door frame, he pulled
himself slowly to his feet. He was able to limp to the bathroom,
supporting himself with the sponge mop. He took aspirin and shuffled
back to his mattress with bread and a piece of cheddar cheese. He ate
like a king, wishing that he'd turned on the radio.
The pain was less intense in the morning. Aspirin had helped him sleep
for four or five hours. He was able to stand up slowly, turn on the
radio, and reassure Batman. He leaned against a wall and stared at a
shaft of sunlight falling on the carpet. He remained there motionless,
without words. Pain had emptied him completely.
The disk jockey played a Cyril Pahinui cut. Familiar notes cascaded
into the sunlight, ringing and humble, celebrating and accepting the
only life we know. It's all right, Joe thought, as his isolation broke
down. "For thine is the kingdom," he said to a presence in the
sunshine. Thankful tears rolled down his cheeks. Three days later he
made it down the hill to the store and back.
He exercised regularly and began to feel stronger. His walks were
longer. From time to time he drank too much, but he was generally under
control. Fortunately, he had a little time before he ran out of money.
He had no idea what to do, but he knew that he wasn't going to program
computers for an insurance company. The back pain hell was a clear
warning not to repeat his old patterns. In the past, he would drift
around trying to write things, run out of money, and then abandon the
writing in a rush to join a work group, pay bills, and pretend he was
like the others in the group. It never worked out. He had to find
another way.
Late one morning, he was at the Wailana Coffee Shoppe when a young
woman sat down across from him. She was blonde, lightly tanned; her
face was composed, nearly immobilized, with eye shadow, liner, and rich
red lipstick. She had an air of sadness that was at cross purpose to
her youth and to the perfection of her makeup. She ate breakfast and
left, untroubled by Joe's attention.
For the thousandth time he wished he could draw, but words were his
best tools. It was more than the woman's appearance that he wanted to
capture; he wanted to know how he felt about her. Writing was a way of
finding out. For the rest of the day, as he walked in the city, he
fiddled with words, starting over and over.
The next morning he returned to the Wailana. The beauty wasn't there,
but he could remember her well enough to keep writing. A woman sat next
to him at the counter. He paid no attention until she asked him to pass
the ketchup. She was having home fries with her eggs. "Nothing like
home fries," Joe said.
"Stick to your ribs," she said, blushing slightly. She had nice ribs,
large breasts pushed against a white blouse. "What'cha doing, if you
don't mind my asking? You look so intense."
"I was trying to describe someone."
"Are you a writer?"
"No," Joe said.
"My name is Alison, Alison Carl. Have you been here long? In Hawaii, I
mean."
"About six months . . . I used to live here." She had short sandy
colored hair, a blunt nose and a wide mouth. No makeup. She chewed
toast with a satisfied expression.
"I'm doing post graduate work at the East-West Center. I saw the Dalai
Lama yesterday."