Clay's Way (26 page)

              “Then let go, Medusa.”  I pull my hand from the hot area between her legs and hold it out the window to air off.  I think her cunt’s disgusting, but I can’t let her know or she’ll know what I’m doing immediately.  The whole act would be ruined.  This whole thing depends on sex and lust and hormones.  I hold my arm up and take a good whiff of my armpit, then shove it in Andrea’s face.

“You’re disgusting.  Stop the car!”  She looks like she’s having a bad trip.

              I scream a coyote call and speed up, squealing the tires.

              “Oh my God.”  Courtney does a dramatic Hail Mary thing on her chest. 

              I build up speed on the H-1 freeway and turn up Clay’s punk rock tape really loud.  “So, you wanna help me jerk off?”  I reach down to my surf shorts and untie the strings on top and rip apart the Velcro far enough to see my pubic hair.  I get a partial boner thinking of Clay's dick touching the same place that mine touches his shorts, but I secretly feel sorry for these girls.  “What’d you expect, getting into the car with a stranger?”

              “Slap the fucker, Andrea.”  Courtney’s evil side comes out.  

              I knew it was there.  I love it.  She’s reacting to me, as Clay.  It’s such a great feeling.

              Andrea slaps me on the cheek.  It stings like crazy. 

              “Wow, that was hot.”  I say in a dumb jock-boy surfer tone.  I speed down the road out to Port Lock going seventy-five in a 20-five zone, passing houses like a blur.

              Andrea grips the dashboard.  Her nails dig into the vinyl.

              “Is that how’d you’d grip my back while I fuck you?”

              “Shut up!”  She scoots away from me, toward Courtney as far as she can.

              Courtney shoves her back.  “You’re wrinkling my shorts.”

              Andrea looks at me and slides back over a little.

              I smile at her and skid around a corner.

              “Be careful, please?”  She sounds genuinely concerned.

              “I’ll ask you when I want you to talk.”  I smile to myself.  That was harsh, but good.  I look around at the huge houses.

              Port Lock.  An all 
haole
, upper-class peninsula behind Diamond Head that doesn’t feel at all like Hawaii.  It’s neater and cleaner and richer than the rest of the island.  Everyone I’ve ever met from Port Lock is snobby, plays soccer, and has blond hair.  The occasional guy surfs, but he wouldn’t dare surf in a spot dominated by local boys.  They’d kick his ass if he tried to act local, but in the social life department, most of the kids here come from big party places like Southern California.  They have parents who are always away on business on the mainland, so it’s the party capital of the island. 

              Clay and his mom call the people who live here “Port Lock 
haoles
” with lots of bile and hatred in their tone of voice.

              “So, where is this fuck-fest?” I ask without turning down the punk rock. 

              Andrea points to a cul-de-sac called Poipu Place.  She’s my slave now, too scared to talk back.

              I rip around the corner, on two wheels. 

              Preppy-looking kids hang out in front of a white modern house with fire torches burning along the driveway.  Porches and BMWs are parked along the street.  The whole scene’s such a gross ‘80s cliché. 

              “We’ve arrived, my pretties.”  I slam on the brakes, and the truck skids to a halt, nearly hitting a couple squeezing out of the back seat of a Porsche. 

              A tan guy with a preppy haircut and light blond highlights flips me off.  I secretly think he’s kinda cute.

              Courtney waves at him.  “Hi.”

              Andrea hides her face in her hands.  “Oh my God, that’s Daniel.” 

              I flip on the high beams. “Daniel!  Andrea here wants to suck you off.  She just told me.”

              Courtney accidentally laughs.

              Andrea sinks down in the seat.  She’s embarrassed to be seen with me.  Her look turns into sadness, then to anger.  The jump out, embarrassed.   

              I ruined their entrance.  I zoom down the street to park.  I run my fingers along my buzz cut hair, take a deep breath, and walk to the house.  I see myself in the glass of the front door.  I don’t have a shirt or shoes and Clay’s dirty blue surf shorts hang obscenely low off my hipbones.  I shove the big wood door open and a blast of cold, fake-feeling air comes at me like it’s filtered by a purification system.  It’s totally dehumanizing.  It’s such a perfect night outside--bright stars, warm tradewinds, yellow moon, and these fuckers have the air conditioning on full-blast.  I get a chill up my spine and all the tiny blond hairs on my arms stick up and my nipples get hard.  The tile feels freezing on my bare feet.  I feel my balls and dick shrink in the artificial coolness.             

              A couple girls turn and looks at me for a second, then light up a joint.

              A blond guy wearing a vest checks me out.  “Who are you?”

              “Clay Anderson’s brah.  He invited me.”  I talk in a pidgin accent.  “It’s Sam.”  I give him a shaka sign. 

              All these Port Lock guys are totally intimidated by Clay and his bros and the locals.  “OK, brah.  No worries.  Like beer?”  He tries to speak local talk with me and points at the drink table.  What a fake. 

              His tanned friend wearing surf shorts that have never been used for surfing comes over and nods at me. 

              I flex my bicep and smile at him with the most winning smile I can manage. 

              He smiles back and pours a drink for himself.

              Everyone’s buying my act.  I feel like bowing. 

              A table is set up in the entry with all kinds of alcohol--wine, vodka, mixers, beer, real glasses, even some sick-looking pate.  There’s no keg, no junk food, no plastic cups and spilled drinks or loud anarchistic music with lyrics about not fitting in and hating the status quo.  There’s nothing to make me feel comfortable here, which helps my act.  This isn’t a party, this is adult dress-up and all these fuckers are training to be good capitalists. 

              I pour a big gulp of Scotch into a wineglass and spill some coke on top of it.  It makes a stain on the pressed white tablecloth.  I down it fast, which burns my throat down to my stomach.

              A guy who looks like he has fucking bronzing lotion on stares at me, offended.

              “Eh, brah.  Howzit?  It’s Sam.  You no remember me?  Out at reef.”  I gargle through a mouthful of Scotch.

              “Oh, yeah.  What’s up?  I’m Trevor.”  He has no idea who I am, but I know who he is.  I’ve heard about Trevor.  
Trevor Wilson
, the infamous ‘80s-style party coke boy who has parties all the time in his parents’ abstract fucking box of a house while they travel the world exploiting third world labor to make their stupid aloha shirt clothing line.

              I can’t believe I’m here.  It’s like Darwin said: survival of the fittest.  It’s always the scrappiest species that prevail.  Coyotes and spiders and rats and people like me. 

              These passive capitalists are on the way to extinction.  They’ll be too busy watching TV, shopping, and paying their maids in these huge air-conditioned houses to notice when Diamond Head erupts again.  They can’t even see that I think this party is a fucking joke, that I don’t belong here, that I’m dangerous.  All I have to do is be confident and I’ve got power that I’ve never had before. 

              I spot Tammy.  Shit.  My ears ring and I start sweating.  I duck down and run into a dark hall.  What the fuck is she doing here?  She can’t be here.  She knows me.  She knows my personality and how I behave.  She’ll see through my act and tell people and I’ll end up with a broken arm.

              I spy on her around a corner.

              She’s surrounded by her closest friends.             

I rub my feet on the carpet till static electricity builds up.  I want to get as amped-up as possible.  The Chinese believe we all have an electric energy field that gives us power.  I want to shoot a bolt at Tammy and knock her to the floor, convulsing.

              Tammy says hi to the girls I drove here, Andrea and Courtney.

              Everything’s collapsing.  They’re gonna tell Tammy I’m here.

              Andrea uses huge gestures describing how she had to hold on when I flew around corners.

              Tammy’s my poison.  She can beam Clay out of me. 

              Courtney waves a couple muscled pretty boys over and they talk about something--me, I think.  They’re gonna find me and “ask” me to leave with their Republican tact unless I do something.

              I dive down below a dark wood table and crawl to the stairs.  I leap up them, not looking back.  I run forward into the security of a dark hallway and walk out on a deck above the front door.  Instantly, I feel different.  The air is soft, warm and moist, compared with the dry temperature-regulated environment inside.  I feel my pores and lungs open up inviting the clean Hawaii air.  I take a deep breath and look up to the stars. 

              They just float there, still and permanent.  They’ll to be the same tomorrow no matter what I do.

              I can do this, even with that bitch Tammy here.

              A couple pickups drive up in a row, like a convoy of military vehicles. 

              Cool.  Some of Clay’s bros and the local boys.  They always crash these parties.

              Manny gets out of the first truck and opens the door for his girl, all gentleman-like. “Like drink, Leilani?”  He acts all official with her.  It’s cute.

              I sneak down the hall to the top of the stairs and crouch down so I can see the front door. 

              The local guys and their girlfriends walk into the house.  10 or so guys jump out of the back of a pickup right outside the front door and say their typical greetings.  “Eh, brah.”

              “Where’s the sistahs?” 

              Their girlfriends, beautiful girls with long black shiny hair and strong pretty faces, smile and walk in.  One fixes the plumaria behind her friend’s ear.  “Aloha.  Hi Charlene.  How’s it going?”

              Trevor walks up to them, all puffed up and proud, but he backs off when he sees the locals.  He can’t really tell them not to be here.  They’re the real Hawaii.  There’s an unwritten law that you don’t fuck with them.  He stands aside, overwhelmed by their boisterous island charisma and connection to the waves and nature and 
mana
 of Hawaii. 

              They bring Hawaii and aloha spirit in the house with them without even trying.

              I love watching the Port Lock kids get walked over by Clay’s friends.  I lift a glass that someone left on the top of the stairs and smell the purple contents.  Red wine.  Should work fine.  I swirl it around, then swallow it.  “Woody, yet smoky, with a hint of chocolate-dipped berries.”  I run down the hall to explore. 

              I pick a door and open it.

              A naked girl rides a naked guy on a huge bed with pink pillows.  His legs are spread far apart and his balls are smashed under her bouncing up and down.

              “Go get’er, brah.”  I slam the door and try another.  I feel like a detective.  I open it.  I think it’s the parents room.  There’s a big bed overlooking windows and double doors leading out to a deck with a view of the ocean.  I go to the medicine cabinet to look for narcotics. 

              Rich people always have codeine, Valium, or at least some sort of back pain pills. 

              I find a plastic bottle of Valium and gobble three two.  I look in the mirror.  I look like a wild animal.  I flex my arm muscles and tighten my stomach so I can see the rows of individual bulges.  I splash water on myself.  I look confident and cool, strong and sexy.

              I go over to the closet and open the door. 

              It’s bigger than my bedroom and full of ridiculous things that have no use.  On one side, there are rows and rows of dresses and women’s pants and suits in bland businesswoman shades of gray and brown and black.  Boring. 

I turn around to look at the dad’s side.  It’s all dark blue suits, a rack of ties, pants.  Oh fuck, a full on blue Naval uniform, with tons of pins and medals tacked on.  I take the clear plastic off of it and hold it out in front of me. 

              He must have done some evil things to get all these awards.  He’s definitely a fascist.  These are Vietnam awards.  He killed babies and farm workers for these.  He occupied lands that weren’t his with stupid grunt boys. It’s almost like staring at an original Nazi flag or something. 

              I have to put it on.  I pull of my shorts and grab the uniform off the hanger.  I step into the pants.  They’re too big, so I find a belt to hold them up, then put on the jacket with no shirt underneath.  I place the hat on carefully as a finishing touch and walk over to the mirror.

              The Valium combined with the Scotch is soothing my muscles and relaxing my spine.

              I stand up straight, push my chest and dick out, my shoulders back.  The broad shoulders of the suit make me look big and muscular.  I look like a dictator.  This is my island nation.  This feels real.  This is my calling.  I should be in power.  I can rule firmly, effectively and fairly, although fairness doesn’t matter here with all these fuck-ups around.  I bring my arm up, drawing sharp angles in the air and salute myself in the mirror.  “I do solemnly swear to be true to the rules and jurisdiction of the island of Sam.  May God help us all.”  I walk down the hall and stop at the top of the stairs.  I take a deep breath and hold my arms straight down my sides.  I lower my voice and practice a German accent.  “Excuse me everyone, excuse me.”  I clear my throat and yell.  “Excuse me, my people!”

              No one looks up, but a couple tan guys laugh at me.