The Tattoo (7 page)

Koa was my brother. In football, when we played for Kahaluu Broncos and in high school, the Castle Knights, he was my primary blocker. Fucking best offensive tackle in the state. I’d just follow in the wake he would create. He’d just mow them down and wait for me to pass him. During games I’d sometimes call him Moses. With him blocking, I always felt safe, like I could run wherever I wanted. All I had to do was follow the big “78” on his jersey, and he’d show me where to go.

I remember, during practice, sometimes he’d play defensive tackle. As a defensive lineman in a scrimmage, he was my worst enemy. Fucking guy hit so hard, you’d feel your skeleton shake.

When I think back now, it seems that every time I did something for the first time, he was with me. He taught me how to do most of it. Surf. Dive. Hunt. Gamble at the cock derbies. Smoke weed, smoke rock. Some of the best days of my life.

I met him in English. The thing about somebody like Koa is, he was born a rascal. A real trouble-maker. I used to tell him that when he came out of the womb he probably played dead just to scare the shit out of his mom and pops. Different from me, born not giving a shit. Loud and funny. Emotional. The only emotions he ever revealed regularly, however, were humor and rage. He was a magnet of excitement, blind to consequence. Immune to self-analysis, guilt, and fear from birth. All id. Unstable. Some people would consider him stupid, but that would be inaccurate. He had wit, he had a sharp mind.

So there he was in class. Fucker could almost pass as a man already in the seventh grade. He was sitting in the back, yucking it up with some of the other guys. The teacher was trying to explain the myth of Sisyphus to us. Without raising his hand, Koa suddenly spoke. “What a dummy. Shit, I would tell da boss of hell latas fo’ dat.”

The class laughed. The teacher was silent. Koa swore and got away with it. My first impression was, “What a fuckin’ asshole. Thinks he’s hot shit.” I looked back and his eyes met mine. We shared that moment, that moment when two guys who think they’re hot shit mentally communicate to each other:“What the fuck are you looking at? You better turn your eyes away before I kick your fuckin’ ass.” We were two complete strangers ready to kill each other because one wouldn’t look away. I was scared shitless, but potent pride can always overcome fear. He smiled this “I don’t believe you have the audacity to keep staring at me you little Japanee shit” smile. I looked away. I had won. A smile like that is a tactical retreat, an attempt to step back with pride intact.

Of course he tracked me down after school that day. Him and his lackeys. That’s another thing about the stand-off, sometimes you regret backing down so much, the anger snowballs as you dwell on it over and over again. Koa was pissed. The only reason he had backed down was probably because no one had ever challenged him before. Shocked into submission. So there I was at the bus stop, waiting for my “Kaneohe-Circle Island” piece of shit white, yellow, and black city bus. I was reading my book of Greek myths, a book my mother left me, when I glanced off the page and saw them coming from pretty far away. I could’ve run, but refused. The three of them stopped in front of me. Koa, John Makena, and Michael Pacheco.

John was skinny like me. Dark as hell. He had a sparse patch of hair across his upper lip. Michael was fat, big, but fat. His forearms were covered with hair. Koa was tall, and his body was still laced with baby fat. Mean-looking. I looked at his hands and saw that they were bigger than my father’s. All three of them had their fists clenched. They all looked down on me as I stood in front of the wooden bus stop bench.

“Hey, what you fucka?” Koa said. “You look at me like dat, you betta be ready fo’ trow down.”

As I felt my body begin to quiver, I looked him in the eyes. I knew I’d lose badly, but I knew I couldn’t run.

“What you little fuckin’ Jap,” Mike said, as he grabbed my book and tossed it in the dirt. Confidence oozed out of him.

It’s funny how I unloaded on that fat fucker Mike. I didn’t say shit. Just sighed, then hooked him in the ribs, then in the head. My father had always made sure I worked on my double left hook. To him it was the most devastating two-punch combination. When you hook the body, the other guy’s hands instinctively drop. Before his hands even reach his gut, the other left lands on the right side of the chin. This leaves the guy defenseless for the overhand right. “Think of your waist as a swivel,” he used to say. “Befo’ you trow your shoulder completely left, get da second hook to da head in quick. Less den one second lata, your waist should snap back fo’ da right. Jus’ make sure you keep your balance.”

Mike couldn’t fight and he was slow. But he was bigger and stronger than me. After each combination I’d quickly jump back out of his reach and look at him. In a split second I’d decide what combination I’d throw next. Then I’d jump in for another flurry. It took three combos to drop him. Suddenly I felt arms wrap around me. My feet were dangling from the ground. No matter how much I struggled I couldn’t even come close to breaking free. More than anything in the world, I’d come to hate the feeling of helplessness the worst. Pride hates nothing more than the inevitability of failure. Finally I heard Koa whisper to me, “Enough arready.”

I stopped struggling and he put me down. Then Koa helped Mike up. John stood there in shock. Koa turned to me. “No worry,” he said,“I not into mobbing people. But you know what? If you still like beef, I go wit’ you. I tell you one ting though, I no care how crazy you stay, if we go, I goin’ kick your fuckin’ ass. I no like, but I will. So up to you, we can beef, or we can wait fo’ da bus and talk story.”

I thought about it and knew he was right. He could kick my ass, but he was giving me an opportunity to walk away with my pride intact. I extended my hand and said,“My name is Ken.”

Koa shook my hand, picked up my book of Greek myths, and dusted it off. He handed it to me and we all waited for the bus together.

The next day, they were sitting by me in class. Even Mike. We ate lunch together. Caught the bus home together. In the years to follow, we’d sleep over at each others’ houses. My father loved Koa. You could tell because from day one he teased him, chased him around, punched his arm all the time. Koa, the natural wise-ass, would ask my father stuff like, “Hey, Uncle, where da bird stay?”

My father, not knowing what he was talking about, but knowing something was coming, played along and asked, “What da hell you talking about?”

Then Koa said, “Oh, you stay getting bolo head. I thought you was trying to make your head into one bird’s nest.”

The chase would begin. My father would catch him and either punch him in the arm or pin him and yank out some of his leg hairs. Koa would be laughing and yelling, “Nah, nah!” at the same time. It’s funny, people like Koa who don’t give a fuck, sometimes they’re the most charismatic people around. There’s a quality in them that is attractive to others. It never surprised me too much that my father loved a natural like Koa, but it shocked the hell out of me that he trusted him.

“Hey Dad,” I’d say, putting down my book,“I goin’ out K-point, surf. Be back tonight.”

“Das what you tink. Today we goin’ clean yard. And what I always tell you about talking like one fuckin’ moke.”

“Aww, c’mon Dad. I’m supposed to meet Koa pretty soon.”

“Koa? Ahh, o.k. den. Tomorrow we go clean yard.”

“Koa” was like the magic word. It was one of those weird things that, no matter how much I thought about it, I couldn’t come up with an answer. Little did he know that we only went surfing or diving half the time, and almost never at K-point. When we did surf, we’d catch the bus to Sandy’s or the North Shore, looking for big waves, and on the ride over, I’d try to read while Koa teased me about reading. “Eh, you nerd motha-fucka, why you read so much?”

“Betta den looking at your sorry ass.”

“Fuckin’ Poindexta.”

“Fuck you.”

When we’d get to the beach, we’d ride waves way too big for us. My fear of water was overcome, like most of my other fears, through anger and pride. Age and confidence. Besides, when you’re pissed off half the day every day, it’s easy to say, “fuck it.”

Whenever you hear or read anything about surfing, all of this “soul” and “zen” crap appears. For me, surfing is athletic. All the zen in the world won’t get you past fifteen-foot breakers when you’re paddling out. Only skill, athleticism, and a demented mind will get you through that. It’s a rush because of the fear factor.When I have thousands of pounds of water nipping at my heels, longing to smash me down into coral, I am not feeling “one with the ocean.” Instead, I’m running away from it, not really trying to escape it, but teasing it with every cut, showing Neptune that I’m too fast, too smart for him. I’m briefly transformed into a modern-day Ulysses.

I remember one day Koa and I were sitting out on our boards at Sunset Beach. No sets were coming in and he caught me looking over my shoulder. “What you looking at?” he asked.

“Just looking back at the beach, seeing if get any chicks.”

He looked over his shoulder. “Yeah right. If all da chicks was wearing surf shorts and was topless, you couldn’t even tell if dey was girls or guys from here. You was looking in da water. Why you scared of sharks?”

“Nah, I was just lookin’. Figure if I see one I can hit ‘um on da nose befo’ da thing try bite me. You hit ‘um on da nose and da fucka goin’ bug out.”

Koa laughed. “You think if you hit one thirteen-foot tiger on da nose da thing goin’ cry and run away? Fuck dat. Fucka would laugh if he could. Da only way he goin’ away is if you taste shitty.”

I involuntarily looked back again and was pissed at myself for it. He laughed again. “Look,” he said, “you no need worry. Sharks, das my aumakua. Das all my great-great aunties and uncles swimming around.You my bradda, dey not goin’ fuck wit’ you. When I die, das what I goin’ become. But hey, if I die before you and you surf without me, I goin’ come and eat your sorry ass.”

He laughed. I called him a superstitious mother-fucker and asked him if he prayed to tikis, too. He put hands by his mouth and yelled, “You heard dat, aunty, uncle? Come eat da fuckin’ Japanee!”

We both laughed, then looked at each other, and began racing back to shore. As we paddled in, I saw a tour bus stop in front of the beach. A file of tourists exited. I couldn’t make out any faces, but I saw a group of ugly aloha shirts and white limbs congregate in front of the bus. I slowed my paddling and waited for Koa to catch up. Koa stopped beside me. “I cannot see,” he said, “fuckin’ Japs or haoles?”

“Eh, neva mind saying ‘Jap’ ah. I Japanee, rememba?”

“Yeah, but you not dat kine Jap.You local. Hey, you tol’ me about da samurai befo’. What da fuck happened to Japan? Only get skinny pussies now, ah?”

“Eh, no blame dem,” I said. “Fuck, imagine if you got two atomic bombs dropped on you. You would act like one pussy, too.”

Koa shook his head.“Fuck dat. Eh, Hawaiians got mo’ fucked by da haoles. You know, my grandfadda used to tell me about Kahaluu and Kaneohe Bay when he was small kid time.”

“I see some wit’ blond hair, must be haoles,” I said.

“Eh,” Koa said, splashing water at me, “listen you fucka, I trying fo’ educate you. Fuckin’ Kahaluu used to be mean. Had pig all ova da place. Had taro. Kaneohe Bay had all kine fish swimming close to shore.You could trow net from da beach. But da best, and I know you not goin’ believe, but da best is you could drink da wata from da streams coming down da mountains.”

I laughed. “Fuck dat. No way you could eva drink from dat. You fuckin’ die in seconds. I would radda drink my own piss den da wata from da stream behind your house.”

“Serious. Could, you know. My grandfadda told me dey always used to drink from da stream. And you know what’s even mo’ mean? Da beach in front Kahaluu neva used to have shit-brown wata.”

“No fuckin’ way.”

“Yes, and you know what else?”

“What?”

“My great-great-grandfadda used to be da chief.”

“Fuck you.”

“Yup. So you betta call me ‘Chief Koa’ from now on cause I da rightful chief of Kahaluu.”

I smiled and shook my head. “Yeah, nice your kingdom now. Fuck rememba da last time we was on your brown beach? Had fuckin’ dead fish washing on your shore. Hey, what dose fuckin’ haoles doing now? We go paddle more in.”

As we got further in, we saw the tourists taking off their socks and shoes on the beach. Most of the men and women were fat, and some of them wore matching aloha shirts. I looked at the legs of some of the men and saw their tan lines. Their ankles and feet were pure white, while their upper calves and thighs were red. Even some of the children had this tan line. I laughed. “Look at dose fuckas. Fuck, dey no shame or what, half sunburn, half white?”

“Das nothing,” Koa said, “look dose fuckin’ shirts. Can be any brighter or what?”

When we got to shore and picked up our boards, the tourists were walking past us towards the water. “No fuckin’ way,” Koa said. “No tell me dese fuckin’ haoles goin’ put dea stink-ass haole feet in da wata.”

We walked further up the beach, put down our boards, and sat down. We watched the tourists. They were standing knee-deep in the water, laughing and splashing. “Eh,” I said, “maybe dat’s why da fish stay dying in Kahaluu. When you sleeping, get haoles sneaking ova dea putting dea feet in your wata.”

“Fuck, das not even funny. Hey, look at dat kid. What da fuck he doing?”

One of the tourists, a blond boy who looked about our age, ran up the beach from the water and began undressing. He unbuttoned his bright blue aloha shirt. The shirt had the Hawaiian Islands drawn all over it, and under each island its name was written in cursive pink letters. He took off the shirt and began unbuttoning his pants.

“Whoa,” Koa said, “what da fuck he doing? Eh, what da fuck is dat he wearing?”

“Das fuckin’ speedos,” I said.

“Fuck you, das bebeddies. Look at dat fucka, he no shame or what. Can see his balls sticking through dat.”

“What da fuck you doing looking at his balls?”

“Fuck you. Eh, what is dat he get now? No tell me das one fuckin mask.”

The boy pulled a pair of swimming goggles out of his pants pocket. I smiled. “Das da style in da mainland.”