The Tattoo (22 page)

“Thanks, man,” Ken said, “Thanks. Nu‘u was right.You’re just a fuckin’ master Freud, silent style.”

Cal smiled, wondering what Ken thought the wave meant.

“Listen,” Ken said. “let’s get some sleep. When Claude and the kid come the day after tomorrow, I don’t want to look bad. I haven’t seen them yet. Let’s get some sleep and take it easy tomorrow.”

Cal was relieved. After he put away his gun, he curled up in the fetal position on the top bunk and fell asleep.

An hour later, as the sun rose, Cal awoke in a mute scream. He wet his palms with the sweat and tears on his face. He then wondered how long he was screaming. He could’ve been screaming for hours, and nobody would’ve known. He felt like such a rookie.

He threw his blanket to the ground and stepped off the top bunk. The sleeping Ken didn’t flinch. No dreams for him tonight. Cal thought about his own dream and realized it was the first time it had happened to him in years. He’d dreamt about his wife’s funeral. It was a funeral he’d never had the opportunity to attend. His kids were there, his son dressed in a black suit two sizes too big for him. His daughter was licking one of those enormous swirl lollipops, which she’d loved, but she was crying at the same time. Cal walked to the casket, sad that his wife had died, but happy no one could see him because he wasn’t there in body. Just as he was about to look into the casket, a familiar voice rose from the back.

It was himself. It was himself and his father in the same body, dressed in a tuxedo that didn’t seem to fit. The figure had a voice.“That’s my boy,” he said. “That’s my boy. Don’t let any bitch fuck around on you, son. You fuckin’ kill her if it happens. That’s my boy.”

Just before he’d woken up, his children were about to look at him. That’s probably what made him scream.

Cal walked to the faucet and ran water on his face. He tried looking into the dull, stainless steel mirror, and realized Ken had been right. You can’t see yourself in these mirrors. After a while in prison, your self becomes only what you carry in your head. Ken knew it, and Cal was forgetting it. Ken’s stories, his blues, were reminding Cal of his own.

The dreams, the dreams of a rookie were back. The dreams of guilt, the dreams of pain, the dreams of life outside the walls. The dreams that ended in screams. Cal didn’t know how to feel about this. At first he was sad, because he’d tried, over the years, so hard to forget. He’d been content with being an animal, a silent mouse among cats, during his imprisonment. So part of him hated that Ken was making him feel human again. He didn’t want to feel human, because he knew he’d been a bad human. But on the other hand, guilt was refreshing. Emotion was refreshing. But he knew he had to control it. These things led to dillusions of grandeur, of hoping to make right what had gone wrong. They were dangerous thoughts for a prisoner to meddle with. Cal climbed back on his bunk and told himself he was dead to his children and this was best. He didn’t fall asleep until the sun started to rise.

It was one of those nights of sleep that felt like you just closed your eyes and it was time to get up already. It was time for breakfast, and Cal was exhausted. But the smell that woke him up was not brewing coffee or frying bacon, it was the smell of prison that Cal’s nose perked to in the morning. The smell of unwashed beddings, the smell of two men, he and Ken, who hadn’t taken a shower in two days.

Ken stood up and walked to the toilet to piss. The smell of piss and body odor opened Cal’s eyes wider. Ken flushed the toilet and raised his right arm. He put his nose in his armpit. “Damn, it’s time to shower.”

Cal planned to take one too, after breakfast. Even though he was tired, he felt like having a productive day. And one of the only productive things you could do in high security was clean yourself. He envied the prisoners assigned to kitchen duty. He envied any prisoner who got to work for pennies an hour. It was funny, most of the felons in Halawa had avoided regular work on the outside for most of their lives. But in prison, work was a privilege. It wasn’t that the work wasn’t monotonous, it definitely was. But in prison, two monotonies were better than one. Cal got off his bunk and waited with Ken for the buzz of the door.

It was immediately evident in the cafeteria. Nu‘u had lost the power. He was still avoided by the inmates of Quad Two, but it was Ken who the guys like Johnny, Sean, and Geronimo made a special effort to walk around. It was now Nu‘u’s move. Did he want to try and take the power back?

Cal sat with Ken wondering if Nu‘u would make his move. When Nu‘u didn’t come and take some of Cal’s breakfast, Cal knew that Nu‘u was scared. He smiled. As cellmate and friend of Ken, he was in protective-protective custody.

Ken looked up from his food and caught Cal’s smile. “It’s easier in high security,” he said. “In middle, I had to fight for my life. I mean, I know it must’ve been no picnic for you being the only neo-Nazi down the hill, but being Japanese wasn’t the greatest thing either. Hawaiians run the show.”

Cal nodded. He remembered the first time he’d gotten beaten in prison. He picked up the T.V. Guide, and that was it. The beating of his life, three-on-one. No, being a supposed neo-Nazi in Halawa hadn’t been fun. He hoped Ken hadn’t had similiar experiences.

“Sometimes,” Ken said,“I think losing some of those fights would’ve been smarter. I felt like fuckin’ Jeremiah Johnson down there.”

Cal smiled. He liked that Redford pic. Cal reached inside his oatmeal, but remembered that there were no cigarettes for him today.

Ken noticed. “So how do you get your cash in high security?”

Cal shrugged. He didn’t really know how cash flowed in from the outside. He’d never gotten cash directly from the outside. He was paid for doing tattoo work. Sometimes cash, sometimes drugs, sometimes cigarettes. He usually traded in the second two for cash. He suspected that some inmates got their stuff from guards or other employees of the state. But Cal wasn’t the guy with the connections. He only knew one guy from the kitchen who over-charged him for cigarettes. And Cal was running out of money fast. He’d been splurging the last couple of days.

“Man, in middle security, it was easy,” Ken said. “There was everything inside. Everything was for barter. And visitors could bring you stuff. Clothes, smokes. Uncle James would bring me stuff. I have to start a whole new deal in here.”

After breakfast, Cal and Ken went back to their cell. Ken decided that they wouldn’t work on the tattoo until that night. Cal suspected that he was waiting for Tavares to be at work. Tavares was off today, which meant he might be working the graveyard. Cal guess that Ken wanted Tavares to hear the entire story.

Ken brushed his long hair. He shaved and brushed his teeth. When lockdown was over, he was the first in the shower. Cal felt vulnerable sitting out in the quad, without Ken by his side. But there was only one small shower stall for each quad, so all he could do was wait. He kept his eye on Nu‘u, who seemed unaffected by the power shift. He was as loud as ever. This time he was playing dominoes with Geronimo, jeering everytime he won.

Cal wondered what he would do if Nu‘u made a move for Ken. He couldn’t warn Ken vocally, so the only thing he could do was try to slow the big Samoan down and hope Ken would respond quickly. When Ken finally got out of the shower, Cal was relieved. It was his turn and nobody suggested otherwise.

When Cal came out of the stall a clean man, the stench of the prison seemed worse. Many prisoners showered only a couple times a week, and some even less. Sometimes it would get so bad that the guards would have to force them to bathe. After all, none of these guys were going to a prom anytime soon. The smell was so bad that Cal imagined a mist coming from some of the prisoners, like that skunk from the Looney Tunes. He quickly walked to his cell and got dressed. He brushed his teeth two times and brushed his balding head.

So another day ticked by. It was a good tick for Cal, the first good one in years. It was a day where Cal started feeling half-human again. It was time to finish the tattoo.

Ken sat in front of Cal. His back was a series of welts and scabs from the thousands of little black blood wounds. Cal got the gun buzzing and checked to make sure he still had enough ink. He did. Ken cleared his throat and began to speak. It was time for the final chapter.

chapter four

“Wind’s gonna blow so I’m gonna go

Down on the road again.

Starting where the mountains left me,

I’m back where I began.”

Waimanalo Blues

Country Comfort

SUPERNOVA

I
t’s funny, when you’re
running in Hawai‘i, there’s no border you can cross, no life-line of safety. You’re on an island, and you end up running in circles, surrounded by the largest ocean in the world. It’s like you’re locked into a ferris wheel that never stops, or you start feeling like that mechanical rabbit they have at dog races. Sooner or later the dogs catch you and all hell breaks loose. I understand why Claudia wanted to go to the mainland. It’s like she’d said that first day we went surfing. For her the ocean was escape, it was a place of endless possibilities. For me, however, the ocean had always been a visible void. Living on an island all my life, I was always conscious that it existed, that it was there, that no matter where I’d go, I’d come face to face with it. The ocean was all around me, it fenced me in. It was a fence I’d often like to climb, and I’d do so every time I surfed or dived. But to go beyond the fence? It seemed ridiculous. To paddle a surfboard out toward the horizon, to venture so far that I would not be able to paddle back, the ocean was not a place of possibilities for me, it was a place of recklessness. That’s probably why I liked it so much. Going out into the sea was always surfing. Tempting the ocean to break you, letting the waves chase you. It was a game. But for me, paddling out to the horizon was no game, it was suicide. Where Claude saw life way out there, I didn’t.

We were moving to the Windward side. Claude drove us on Kamehameha Highway, where its two lanes pushed traffic in opposite directions at dangerous speeds. Kam Highway had always been famous for its accidents. There were always collisions, and most of the time death was involved. We drove along the coastline. I saw the blue waters turn shit-brown. I smiled. Home, I thought.

A couple of minutes later, I looked out the window and saw Puana Castle sitting on top of its hill. I pointed my finger up toward it and told Claude, “That’s where Koa used to live.”

She looked up. “Where does he live now?”

“Waiahole.”

“When’s the last time you saw him?”

“Jeez, I don’t even know. The wedding, I think. No, I saw him once or twice after that. He drove into town a couple of times and we went drinking.”

“You must miss him,” she said.

“Tomorrow, after we finish unpacking, I’ll call him.”

She nodded. She seemed distant, like she had other things on her mind. I figured she was nervous about meeting my father. When we passed Waiahole, and the water turned blue again, my eyes were drawn to Chinaman’s Hat. I remembered passing it that day my father had brought me home after I stayed with my grandfather for a couple of months. I remembered seeing it the day my father had picked me up from Koa’s house, that week after he beat the shit out of me. I realized that once again I was being brought home, and that every time I had returned, my eyes never could resist Chinaman’s Hat.

It never looked like a hat to me. It had always looked more like a neanderthal’s head rising from the ocean. It was rocky, hard. It was covered sparsely with green vegetation. Near the top, the rocks formed a brow. Below this brow, there was an indention, a space for deep-set eyes. The island had no chin, instead the neck swept outward, like the neck of a heavyweight boxer. The immovable sculpture ended at the tip of the shoulders. You couldn’t tell from the distance of the highway that there was an underwater cliff behind the island. It was a cliff known to be a favored place for sharks, it was a cliff where the Bay became a vast ocean.

A few minutes after we had passed Chinaman’s Hat, I told Claudia which driveway to pull in. She pulled up behind my father’s truck. I told her to honk the horn. After she pressed on the steering wheel, my father stepped out from the screen door. He looked older. A little more gray on the sides. The skin under his chin was loose. He walked with a slight limp and smiled.

When Claude turned off the engine, I stepped out of the Pathfinder and walked up to my father. He stuck out his hand. I shook it. “So what, stranga,” he said, “I guess town was too tough, ah?”

“Nah,” I said. “I just missed home.”

“Yeah, right.”

Claudia walked toward us. She smiled at my father, then kissed him on the cheek. “Hi, Mr. Hideyoshi,” she said. “Thanks so much for letting us stay for a while.”

“Ah, no worry. Dis my son. You goin’ have my grandchild. You guys family. Das da style down dis side, family take care of family.”

She thanked him again and the three of us stood there wondering what we should do next. Claude broke the silence.“I guess we should start putting this stuff in the house.”

My father nodded.“Yeah, das one good idea. I help you guys.”

When Claudia walked to the truck and began unloading things from the back, my father smiled at me. “Now I know why you went town,” he said. “You neva like da medakas on dis side, so you went town and got one swordtail.”

I laughed. The image of medakas, the plain, gray guppies which inhabited the mountain streams, popped into my mind. I pictured a big school swimming against the current, not moving forward, but just propelling themselves enough so they wouldn’t get swept further downstream. Then I imagined a brilliant red swordtail swimming into a school of them. The long sliver of its tail moved like a snake. The medakas stopped their effort and let the down-pouring water push them away. I looked back at Claude. She was a swordtail.

We got everything in by sundown. Afterwards, the three of us sat outside on the picnic table, our faces lighted by a Coleman lantern. I looked down at the cooler. The white lid read Hideyoshi in faded gray letters. My father was drinking his J&B, I was having a Miller Lite, and Claude was sipping a Diet Coke. My father told Claudia stories about me when I was young, how I’d gotten picked on in school. We all laughed. He told her about Koa, how Koa and I had always gotten into trouble. I looked over at Claude and couldn’t tell if she was really having a good time or if she was just faking it out of politeness. After he told her about the time Koa and I had been arrested in Kailua, how he had to pick me up from the police station, I asked, “So how is Koa?”

It took him a few seconds to start. “Not bad,” he said. “Not good eida. He jus’ got laid off couple months ago. I got him one job afta you left. He was working wit’ me. He was good too. Fucka was working, he was going church.”

I laughed. “Koa was going church?”

“Yeah,” he said. “You heard of ‘Hope Chapel’? Fucka was going couple times a week. He used to tell me at work, ‘C’mon,Uncle, come church wit’ me, maybe you not going be as mean if you go church.’ I used to laugh. I’d tell him, ‘Eh, I like being mean.’ We’d both laugh. He knew church wasn’t for me, but I tink he was jus’ asking to harass me. You know him, always making trouble wit’ me. But yeah, dat guy, he was going church wit’ Kahala and his son. He was working. He had couple more kids. He was putting in ova-time. Den all of a sudden, da fucka neva show up fo’ work. Was one big project, too. We was putting on one addition on one hotel in Waikiki. Fo’ one week he neva show, neva call. Afta dat, Hayashi had fo’ fire him.”

I took a gulp of my beer. “What happened?”

My father sighed. “I don’t know. He come by, once in a while, have couple beers wit’ me. One time I asked him. He just said, ‘Shitty, work.’ I neva say anyting. I figured, he know what he doing. I taut, maybe he get one betta job lined up. But fo’ couple months now, he neva work. I tell him, ‘Eh, you betta get one fuckin’ job, you get one wife, kids, family depending on you.’ He jus’ tell me, ‘No worry, Uncle, I get ‘um.’ I don’t know what he doing, but tomorrow maybe you should call him.”

I nodded. “I’ll call him tomorrow.”

I looked over at Claude and she seemed to be just soaking all of it in. My father stood up and walked toward the house to mix himself another drink. I looked across the street at the beach. The unlit water was black with white surf washing the shore. I leaned toward Claudia. “How do you like the view?”

“It’s dark,” she said. “I can’t really tell if I like it yet.”

As she said it, my father walked out of the house with his re-filled drink. He limped toward the bench while a little bit of J&B spilled over the rim of his plastic cup.

Claude and I went to bed an hour later. She stood up to turn off the light. I heard her cautious return to bed. She was in an unfamiliar room. When she finally got back, she said, “Damn, I guess I’m in the country.”

“What do you think?”

“I don’t know, I’m still feeling it out. Do you guys talk about anything else except working and fighting?”

“Yeah, we talk about fishing and hunting, too.”

“You’re joking, right?”

“Of course. We also like expressing our feminine sides. You know, my father can go on and on about his feelings, about how sometimes he feels a lack of tenderness in his life.”

Claude hit me with a pillow.

When we woke up the next morning, my father had already left for work. I got out of bed and cooked breakfast. I heard Claudia run to the bathroom. Morning sickness. When she got out, she looked at the food and ran back into the bathroom. I laughed. She skipped breakfast.

After I ate, I decided to give Koa a call. As Claude dragged herself toward the television, Kahala answered the phone.“Ken,”

she screamed, “oh my God, I haven’t seen you for so long. How are you?”

I told her I was fine. I told her I had moved back, I told her about Claudia. I asked her how she was doing.

“Not so good,” she said. “Having all these babies was hard on my body. Jeez, when you see me, you probably won’t even recognize me.”

I told her I was sure she still looked as great as ever.

She kept denying it. “No, no. I look like an old lady, like a mom. I’m always chasing these kids around. Besides Koa’s not much help. Did you hear? He’s not working. I don’t know what I’m going to do. I think he’s hanging out with Freddie again. Sometimes he doesn’t come home at night. Ken, you don’t know how many times I felt like calling you, you know, calling you for that ticket, that escape ticket. But I always figured you were busy with your own life. Besides, I know you offered me a ticket, but you never did say whether I could bring kids, too. The thought of my three kids hanging all over you, I knew you wouldn’t want that.”

She was rambling. She was acting like she hadn’t spoken with anybody for weeks. I had forgotten all about that night at the graduation party. I forgot that I had told her I’d help her out if things got too rough for her. I shook my head. I had been drunk that night. I couldn’t believe she remembered what I had offered, that she took it so seriously. “Yeah, it would’ve been hard,” I said.

“Hey,” she asked, “when are you going to come over to visit?”

“Hopefully today. Give the phone to Koa, I’ll work something out with him.”

“He’s sleeping, but hold on, let me wake him up.”

I heard the soft sound of her feet running. I heard her say, “Koa, Koa, wake up.”

I listened to the soft sound of Koa swearing at his wife. I heard my name. Then the soft sounds were broken by Koa’s booming voice.“Ken, you fucka! What you doing? Where you stay?”

I told him about my return. “Stay ova dea,” he said.“I coming right ova.”

“Nah, I go come ova dea. I like you meet my girlfriend Claudia.”

He was quiet for a few seconds. Then he said, “Nah, I come ova dea.”

“Nah, I go drive. Plus I like see your kids, too. More easy if I drive. Only get me and Claudia.”

“O.k., o.k., I give you da directions.”

When Claude and I drove into Waiahole, she seemed to enjoy the sights. “Wow,” she said, “it’s so beautiful here. Maybe this is God’s country.”

I looked out the window. The only things I saw were broken-down houses in mosquito-rich country. “Do you really think it’s that nice here?” I asked.

“Yeah, it’s so green. It’s like anything can grow here.”

I couldn’t believe she couldn’t see the ugliness, the unpaved roads, the rusted-out cars, the old wooden houses. She was blind to the poverty that hid in this jungle. I followed the directions that Koa gave me and was led to a dusty, gravel driveway which was marked by a mailbox with rusted holes in it. It amazed me how fast the salt air corroded it. The box was held up by a wooden pole. The pole leaned to the left. I tried to read the painted numbers on the box, but they were too faded. It didn’t look like the mailbox would be standing for much longer.