What the Hell Did I Do Last Thursday?
It is possible that a certain amount of brain damage is of therapeutic value.
August 25, 2005
– Dr. Paul Hoch
I mean, here it is Tuesday—Thursday was only five days ago. Surely, I could remember what I did that day. It's not like I've been doing a whole helluva lot this week or anything…
"Whaddya mean?!" bellowed my editor from over my shoulder, on his routine check-up of what is filling my time since I never, ever seem to turn in my column at the appropriate deadline. "You did a lot this week, right? What about the hostess bar?"
Well, yeah, okay—so I did haplessly check out that notorious scene one night. A friend and I had just wanted to get a quick drink in Wailuku somewhere, and it was late. Idini's is usually our first stop of choice but we decided to cover some uncharted territory. We'd already been to Ray's and Tiffany's recently so they were out, too. Where else was there to go but Club Koa?
Once we entered, it was like a saloon scene straight out of a classic spaghetti western. As soon as we opened the doors, time stopped. All eyes were on us. Cigarettes dangled from slack-jawed lips. Beer overflowed a glass that was being poured by the blank-staring barkeep. You could practically hear "The Ballad of High Noon" being whistled, as a tumbleweed rolled across the sawdust-covered floor.
A somewhat nervous, dapper young man in shades, dressed head to toe in crisp white linen, greeted us. The gaze of patrons—generally middle-aged local men, flanked by younger, Asian women—followed us as our host escorted us quickly to the lounge area. As soon as we were seated, action resumed in the bar. Within seconds, we were served our beers by the white-clad man, who moved with such swiftness, such soundless speed, that we decided to call him "Dart."
And so we sat in our booth with the head-high walls, tucked way back in the corner of the bar, and we felt comfortably isolated. It was kinda romantic even. We couldn't see anybody and they couldn't see us—which led us to contemplate the potential for various salacious acts, the breadth and depth of which could only be encouraged by such enclosed isolation.
At least, that was until we met "Jill-in-the-Box"—the seeming matron of the bar, who introduced herself to us by popping up over our booth's walls and smiling knowingly yet sternly, as if to say, "Lookie here, cowpoke—these are the rules. Keep your guns on the table and no funny business. Order your brew and pay cash, if you know what's good for ya." And so we did.
Once outside, we untied our horses and left.
But anyway, that might've been Wednesday night—I don't think it happened last Thursday. So what did?
"Didn't you go on some hike or something?" asked the editor, still impatiently tapping his foot behind my desk, waiting for copy to float magically over to his.
Yes, that's right. Sasha and I did go on a hike with another friend through a lava tube in Ulupalakua. Once we were deep inside the caves, we turned off our headlamps and stood in absolute darkness for a few minutes. It was unnerving, humbling and enlightening—sensory deprivation is so… well, sensual! Afterward, we went to the Stopwatch in Makawao, where a friendly bar patron, unabashedly enamored of Sasha, offered to take us all on a three-day tour. But that was a couple Saturdays ago.
"What about a party?" my editor again prompted, unwaveringly. "I'm sure you went to some party somewhere… didn't you?"
Sure. Of course, I did. But that was just a little shindig at Baldwin Beach for our pals Dave and Kristen, formerly of the SandBar, who're heading back to the mainland. It was a lovely night, what with the full moon, the beers, the food, catching up with old friends, meeting new ones and making sure not to look up while using the public restroom at the beach park. But again, that was Friday—not Thursday.
Oh, yeah—and then there was that Fry Party we went to with Paul, just around the corner from Cafe Marc Aurel. And then a large group of us hung out at the Cafe with Dr. Mingle himself, as we drank bottle after bottle of fortified grape juice (that's wine, people) and Paul regaled us with naughty jokes involving horses and midgets. Ah… always good times there. But that was last Saturday.
Thursday, Thursday… Oh, wait! I've got it!
That was the day I taught a chimp how to fire up a Zippo lighter.
Samantha Campos has released three albums of Algerian folk-rock that went mega-platinum in Liechtenstein. MTW
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