"Love's First Kiss"

Following on from last week's blog, I'd like to share another script.

Please enjoy.

[Pulls Up Barstool, Adjusts mic, etc.]

[Reads from script]

Thank You!

I’m Rusty Pliers.

You might remember…

I told the story about fellatio last time..

[Applause?]

Thank you.

I told that story from the heart.

[Pause]

Tonight’s story is also from the heart.

But has no fellatio.

Sorry.

[Clear throat.

Big breath.

Be Rusty …]

It’s called…

“Love’s First Kiss”

[Prologue]

In 1967 (when I was 14 years old)… the flutist of the Olive Vista Junior High School orchestra was Stephanie Poznanski.

I was in the orchestra too, playing second trumpet.

[Matter-of-Factly]

It may surprise you to learn that the second trumpet in a large junior high school orchestra doesn’t play his instrument constantly during a song. There are many times in classical pieces particularly where you just sit and wait. 

[Pause]

It was then that I would look longingly at Stephanie Poznanski. 

She sat across from the brass section, down at the front with the woodwinds.

[Wistfully] 

Sigh… She was so beautiful! 

With long blonde hair and a smile that was pure sunshine. 

[Act I]

Stephanie lived on a ranch in the foothills of the San Fernando Valley… where on this day I was visiting for the first time. 

My mom dropped me off and said be a good boy, Rusty.

But that’s okay… she always said that.

[Pause]

We had a nice time, Stephanie and me, listening to records and talking about school. She had a great sense of humor that made me laugh.

After some milk and cookies with her mom in the kitchen, Stephanie and I excused ourselves and went outside.

“C’mon,”  she said, taking my hand. “I’ll show you the horses!”

We’d never held hands before. 

[Act II]

It was a warm afternoon. Dusty light beamed through the eucalyptus trees that lined the way. We strolled hand in hand beside an emerald pasture where prancing horses played in the sun. 

To my amazement, they trotted over at Stephanie’s call. 

“I thought only dogs could do that,” I said.

“Don’t be silly,” replied Stephanie. “Horses are way smarter than dogs.” 

Now maybe that’s true and maybe it isn’t… I’ve met people in the fifty years since who’ve argued it both ways… but I didn't care one bit because I was smitten all over with Stephanie Poznanski.

[Slight Pause]

I had very different feelings for horses though. 

In fact I was afraid of horses, but I tried to hide this from Stephanie.

I wanted to make a good impression.

“I like horses too,” I lied.

“Really?” answered Stephanie. “Barbara from History class said you said you hated horses. ‘Big, stupid, smelly things,’ she said you said.”

[Aside]

That sounded like something I would say… 

[Full Voice, Trailing Off]

“Not me!” I insisted. “I love horses! They’re so…so big and strong. You know … uh, horsepower and stuff…”

[Slight Pause]

Stephanie laughed at my foolishness… as Eve must have laughed with Adam in the garden… and my young heart grew wings and flew away…

[Act III]  

Then Stephanie stepped closer to me. 

[Pause]

Her blonde hair played about her face in the warm California breezes. 

Some strands of it caught in her mouth. 

With a laugh she reached up and hooked them away. 

[Slight Pause]

That’s when I asked if I could kiss her.

“Okay,” she said. “If you want to.” 

She closed her eyes and lifted her chin. Her lips parted slightly. I could see her little tongue behind her teeth, waiting. 

“I want to!” I said.

Leaning forward I closed my eyes…

 … and our lips touched.

[Pause] 

“Love’s first kiss.”

[Long Pause] 

Ah friends… kissing Stephanie Poznanski was like kissing an angel!

[Pause] 

It was something else too, for as we kissed I began to feel a strange tingling sensation running up and down my body that eventually settled in my middle area.

Towards the front.

“Mmmm-mmmm,” I said as I wrapped my arms around Stephanie and pulled her closer…

[Act IV]

At this Stephanie sighed…

… whether from boredom or love I’ll never know… for her father caught us kissing and boy, did he give me a chewing out!

“Go to your room, young lady!” he ordered Stephanie.

“Stay right where you are, buster!” he ordered me.

He gave me a piece of his mind, you might call it, about Stephanie and her chastity.

Then he phoned my mother.

[Act V]

“You’re too young to be kissing anybody that way,” said my mom, driving me home. “That comes later, honey, with love.”

Love! That was my mother’s cornball idea. 

I wanted romance and adventure! 

[Pause]

And let’s not forget the tingling sensation in my lower front, but I didn't mention that to my mom.

“We weren’t doing anything wrong,” I said, hoping in my heart it wasn’t completely true.

[Epilogue]

Stephanie seemed to lose interest in me after that.

For which I mostly blame her father. 

Although for awhile I tortured myself wondering if maybe I was a faulty kisser or something…

[Slight Pause]

As you can imagine Music class wasn’t as much fun anymore. All I could do was sigh and watch Stephanie from my place in the brass section, an impossible chasm yawning between us. 

Geez, I thought, it was just like Romeo and Julie …

“Rusty!” barked Mr Olinski. He was the music teacher. “Wake up! Please pay attention.”

“I wasn’t asleep, sir,” I objected.

“You were giving a pretty good imitation of it,” quipped Mr O.  

The class laughed. Everybody liked Mr Olinski. 

“Now, young man,” he said to me. “Give me an f sharp!”

[Wistfully]

Alas, my tootling lips went wanting for warm human contact that semester and I had to make do with the cold, indifferent mouthpiece of my St Louie Brand b flat student trumpet.

I gave Mr Olinski an f sharp.

[Pause] 

We moved to New Zealand at the end of the year and I never saw Stephanie again.

[Applause?]

Thank You!

You made it fun!

I’m Rusty Pliers!

Goodnight!

Product Placement

“Everybody loves romance on a tropical beach under swaying palm trees, don't they?” 

It was my publisher on the phone. 

“You like to travel,” she added. “You were in Hawaii for a month last year, remember?”

“Yeah,” I answered. “I like Hawaii. Who doesn’t?” 

“Exactly!” said my publisher. “Travel! Get it?”

She calls every week reminding me if I’m working to work harder and if I’m not working to get started. Then she reminds me that writing for her is the luckiest break I’ve ever had in my entire life.

Which is true to some extent. She’s a terrific publisher. Half my age but twice as smart.

“Huh?” I said.

(Which ain’t so hard to do, sometimes, be smarter than me.)

“Travel’d be perfect for you!” she went on. “Maybe that’s a subject your readers will enjoy… instead of your usual stuff about the animation business and how many cartoon rabbits you drew way back before computers were invented.” 

“Okay,” I answered, winching in silent pain at her accurate remarks. “Maybe a change will do me some good.”

“Right!” she agreed. “And would it kill you to work-in a little product placement this time? Travel offers us a chance to finally monetize this thing! Just think! Airlines, hotels, restaurants, automobiles. Vodka brands!”

I perked up.

“C’mon Rusty!” she said. “Vodka! Can’t you see the potential?!”

She’s very persuasive, my publisher. That’s probably one of the reasons she’s so successful. 

That, and her great white shark approach to life. With her as the shark, of course. I knew that whatever resistance I managed to put up today, I would be writing a travel blog tomorrow.

And trying to work-in something about General Motors or Apple Computers or Rolex wristwatches without looking like I’d sold out.

Because goddammit Bob Dylan! You wrote Mr. Tambourine Man, man! You gave us Blowin' in the Wind, and Foot of Pride and Mississippi and Sad Eyed Lady of the Lowlands. And a hundred others, you magnificent bastard! But you broke my heart in 2013 during Super Bowl halftime when you tried to sell me a stinking motorcar!

“You’re a writer, aren’t you?” my publisher reminded me. 

“Yeah,” I answered.

“Well, write!”  

It was that easy, according to her. You just sat down and wrote it.

Just like Bob sat down and wrote Mr. Tambourine Man, I suppose.

“Try it, will ya?” she pleaded. “Travel. For me? Just one.”

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll try.”

“Good! And don’t forget a Ferrari or something! Something cute!”

“Right. Sure. Bye!”

“In Paris maybe,” she added. “Or Bangkok. You know, somewhere nice.”

“Yeah. Well. We’ll see.” 

“In a ritzy hotel! With a casino and a spa and a big pool and …”

“Okay. Will do. Bye!”

“And for god’s sake, no swear words this time. Please?”

“You’re fucking kidding, right?” 

“Travel is a family thing, Rusty. C’mon.”

“How about if I travel to some fantastic brothel in the fucking Arabian Casbah and report on the fellatio, anal, and ménage à trois technique of the local harlots?” I answered. “Would that be family friendly enough for you?”

“Please Rusty!” she said. “No fellatio!”

“Women, men, AND camels!” I added for good measure.

“Not again!” she exclaimed. “Please!”

“Well. Okay then,” I said, being agreeable in my magnanimity. “As long as we’ve got that straight.”

“Yeah, okay,” she said. “No camels, please! Thanks.” 

I laughed to myself to hear the relief in her voice.

(I was relieved too, for on a personal level camels are beasts of things.)

“Talk to you Tuesday,” said my publisher. “Please work on the travel thing. And Rusty, no brothels. Okay?”

“Okay. No brothels. Cross my heart.”

She couldn’t see me not crossing my heart, so what did it matter?

“Well,” I said. “Talk to you later. I’ll send in my expenses. Bye!”

“Your what?”

“Yeah. Great. Shouldn’t be much. Ferrari or two. Gotta go. Bye!”

“Your expenses? We don’t pay …”

“Got a plane to catch!” I interrupted. “First class all the way! I’ll call you from the Ritz! Bye!” 

“Hey! Rusty! You can’t …”

I hung up and started looking for my passport.

Hardly a Horse Kiss

   I’ve been writing about horses and the love of them lately… and the problems and accomplishments this has historically led to in the Pliers family.  

   But I promise this should be the last for awhile. 

   It’s another story about horses and love. 

   Only it’s not about loving horses, exactly.

   Nor even kissing them, which we can all, including the horses, be thankful for.

   It’s a story about a boy and a girl …

   And love’s first kiss. 

   In 1967 Stephanie P. was the flutist of the Olive Vista Junior High School orchestra.

   I was in the orchestra too, playing second trumpet.

   It may surprise you to learn that the second trumpet in a junior high school orchestra doesn’t toot his instrument constantly during a song. Not even if he’s any good. There are many times where you just sit and wait. 

   It was then that I would look longingly at Stephanie. 

   My eyes had no will of their own, and when not actually doing something to help me play the trumpet, they would wander over to Stephanie. She sat opposite the brass section, at the front with the woodwinds. She looked so serious as she waited to play, a little frown of concentration marring her perfect features. Even seated she was taller than those around her, like I was. She was so beautiful! Her strawberry-blonde hair was long and straight, which she pulled back behind her ear before she lifted her chin and began to play. How graceful she was! She was a good player, too, with a strong, sweet tone.

  We had become friends while in the orchestra together, both liking to laugh but taking it seriously enough. She lived in the foothills of San Fernando on a ranch, where on this day I was visiting her. 

   It was a warm, dry afternoon, with a dragon’s breath of hot wind trailing through the air, as they often have in southern California. After a light lunch which her mother made Stephanie and I went outside. We slowly walked along beside a fenced-in pasture which held horses. They caught my eye as they pranced and galloped in the sunshine. To my amazement, they trotted over at Stephanie’s call. 

   “I thought only dogs could do that,” I said.

   “Don’t be silly,” replied Stephanie. “Horses are way smarter than dogs.” 

   The horses snuffled up the treats she held out for them and nodded their thanks. I didn’t particularly care for horses at this stage of my life, but I tried to hide my distaste from Stephanie as we stood together in the sunshine. 

   Disappointed when the treats ran out, the horses eyed me jealously, snorting their contempt. Their giant muscular bodies glistened in the sunlight.

  “I love horses,” I fibbed, hoping both Stephanie and the horses would overlook my obvious insincerity.

   “Really?” answered Stephanie. “Barbara said you said you hated them. Big, stupid, smelly things, she said you said.”

   That sounded like something I would say. 

   “On, no, not me. Honest,” I insisted. I put my hand over my heart and continued, “That wasn’t me. Why, I love horses. They’re so… so big and strong.”

   It was an autumn afternoon, with dusty light beaming through the trees and the buzz of insects everywhere. Some flowering shrubs nearby gave off a heady scent. We stepped away from the horses in the pasture and strolled over to an ancient oak tree with large, spreading limbs. 

   Stephanie and I strolled together under the tree, circling round its massive trunk, holding hands and talking. She forgave me for my lack of equine love, but suggested I was wrong to feel that way. I said horses were okay, but I liked motorcycles, which was probably a dumb thing to say to a girl but I was a fourteen-year-old boy and couldn’t get it right all the time.    

   Stephanie was wise for her age, and was sweet and patient to all kinds of big, dumb animals.

   We laughed together and watched as grey squirrels froliced in the oak tree’s dappled limbs.

   After awhile we walked back into the sunshine and returned to the paddock. 

   The sun felt good on my skin after the cool shade beneath the tree. 

   The horses were on the other side of the pasture and were grazing with heads down.

   We stopped at a corner fencepost, turning to face each other. I looked into Stephanie’s eyes. The pupils were green with flecks of bronze. Her hair played about her face in the warm breeze, and some strands of it caught in her mouth. With a laugh she reached up and hooked them away. 

   I asked if I could kiss her.

   “Okay,” she said. “If you want to.” She closed her eyes, puckered her pink lips and lifted her chin. Her eyelashes were golden in the sunlight. Perfect little freckles dotted her nose and cheeks. Her lips parted slightly. 

   “I want to!”

   “Wait a minute!” said Stephanie. 

   She took the gum out of her mouth and stuck it on the fencepost. 

   “Okay,” she said, and resumed her former position.

    I leaned forward to kiss her, closing my eyes as our lips touched. As we kissed the breeze blew those strands of strawberry hair gently against my cheek. She tasted of Wriggly’s gum and smelled of horses and leather. It was a good kiss, spearminty and sweet and somehow musical, like she was. Her lips were soft and warm. Something inspired me and I nibbled her lips gently. I heard her sigh, whether from love or from boredom I couldn’t tell then and will never know now, for her father caught us kissing and boy, did he give me a chewing out! 

   What language! I’d never heard such words! Obviously, he came from a home where swear words were permitted, perhaps even encouraged!

   “Go to your room, young lady!” he ordered Stephanie.

   “Stay right where you are, buster!” he ordered me. 

   He phoned home and my mother was despatched to collect me. I waited by myself in the kitchen, sitting at the table with the leftovers from lunch. It was a very lonely forty-five minutes waiting for my mom to arrive.

   “You’re too young to be kissing anybody that way,” said my mom, driving me home. “That comes later, honey, with love.”

   “We weren’t doing anything wrong,” I answered, hoping in my heart it wasn’t completely true.

   Love. That was my mother’s cornball idea. 

   I wanted romance and adventure! 

   Stephanie seemed to lose interest in me after our interrupted first kiss.

   I blame her father for that. Him and his ferocious cursing.

   Although for awhile I wondered if it was because of faulty kissing on my part.

   As you can imagine Music class wasn’t as much fun anymore. During rehearsals all I could do was sigh and watch Stephanie from my place in the brass section while I awaited my turn to play, an impossible chasm yawning between us. 

   Geez I thought, it was just like Romeo and Juliet …

   “Rusty!” barked Mr Olinski, the music teacher. “Wake up! Please pay attention.”

   “I wasn’t asleep, sir,” I objected.

   Maybe I hadn’t been asleep, but I had been dreaming.  

   “You were giving a pretty good imitation of it,” snapped Mr O. 

   The class laughed. Everybody liked Mr Olinski.

   “Now, give me an f sharp,” he ordered.

   Alas, my tootling lips went wanting for warm human contact that semester and I had to make do with the cold, indifferent, brassy mouthpiece of my b flat King Cleveland student trumpet.

   I gave Mr Olinski an f sharp. 

   We moved to New Zealand at the end of the school year and I never saw Stephanie again.

Two First Dates

(Part 1) 

   “Mom? Why is it so hard to talk to girls?”

   “Oh, I don’t know, honey,” she replied. “Let me think about it for a minute.” 

   It was after dinner and we stood at the sink together doing the dishes, just us two. The kitchen was dark except over the sink, where a single light allowed us to see what we were doing. Dad and my brother and sister were in the living room, watching TV. 

   I’d offered to help with the dishes so that we might have a word alone, me and Mom, not because I particularly like doing the dishes. 

   “Do you find it hard to talk to girls?” she asked.

   “Yeah,” I admitted. “I don’t know what to say.

   “Be yourself, that’s best. You’re funny and smart. I’m sure you’ll think of something to say.”

   “I really liked Ethne, Mom. She was different, you know?”

   (I’d met Ethne earlier that day, and had talked about her all through dinner. I might add that at the time of my story, I was fifteen years old, and we had been living in New Zealand about a year.)

   “Oh? I’m glad,” said my mother. “She sounded nice.”

   “Yeah,” I sighed, “she was nice.”

   We were silent for a bit as we worked together at the sink. Mom was washing. I was drying. I was wondering how to broach my next question, when my mother asked;

   “Did you plan on going to the movies this Friday, honey?”   

   “Yeah. How did you know?” I replied. “Would that be okay?”

   “A mother always knows, son,” she said with a smile. 

   I had heard her say this many times before. It was kind of a joke between us. A mother always knows. Joking or not, Mom liked to believe it. 

   You might have noticed that I’ve tended to believe it, too. 

   “About the movies,” I reminded her. “Is it okay if I go?”

   “I think so. You know we don’t mind you going to the movies if you stay out of trouble and keep up with your school work.”

   “Ah, Mom? I wanted to take Ethne to the movies. Do you think that would be okay?”

   “Oh? You didn’t mention that at dinner.” 

   “Uh, no, I didn’t, did I? Well, I couldn’t with Pammy and Andy listening. They’re just kids.”

   (Pammy and Andy are my sister and brother.)

   “Oh. I understand,” said Mom, suppressing a smile.

   “What would they know about love?” I insisted.  

   “You’ll have to ask them, I guess,” said my mother in her smooth southern drawl.

   Until then, I had always gone to the movies alone.

   “You know we’re trying to help you do better in school, don’t you, honey?” Mom asked gently. “This may not be exactly what your father has in mind, though.” 

   She thought for a minute. “Is your homework all caught up?”

   “Just about. I’ll finish tonight.”

   “Rusty,” she looked me square in the eye. “Are you sure you’ll finish tonight?”

   “Yeah, Mom. Promise.” I spoke the truth.

   “Okay, ask your father,” she smiled. “It’s okay with me if it’s okay with your Dad.”

   “Thanks, Mom.”

   Mom turned away from the sink and sighed. She still absentmindedly held a soapy platter in her hands. After a minute she spoke with a new, husky quality to her voice. 

   “Your Dad took me to the movies on our first date, too. It was in downtown Wichita Falls, at the old Alamo Theater. He bought me some chocolates that I spilled and it melted on my dress in the dark. Oh! Land Sakes!” (My mother’s worst swear words). “That chocolate stain! My mother just about tanned my hide when she saw my dress!” 

   “It was a hot summer’s night,” Mom continued dreamily. “The theatre was air-conditioned, that’s why we went there. The movie was fun. I remember we saw a black and white Cary Grant comedy with lots of kissing in it.” 

   Mom stopped and stared off into space, the platter in her hand dripping soapy drops. She was remembering her first date with Dad probably, or imagining Cary Grant with lots of kissing. “Your Dad looked so handsome in his Navy Uniform,” she continued (looks like it was Dad over Cary, in my mother’s heart of hearts). “He had a mustache then. It was red and crinkly. He was very respectful and kind, too, with a funny sense of humor that made me laugh. Don’t tell him I told you so, but your Dad used to smoke cigarettes back then.”

   “What?!” I exclaimed. “Dad? Smoking? With a mustache?”

   “Well, he didn’t use his mustache to smoke,” she laughed. “He stopped when I told him he tasted like an ashtray. That was later.”

   “Did you guys kiss?” I asked. Mom’s story was a gold mine. I was riveted.

   “What a question!” laughed my mother. “I’m not telling.”   

   “Not telling what?” said my father. 

   He had come into the kitchen to see if there was any more coffee. He stood expectantly in the middle of the half-lit room, with his empty coffee cup dangling on his forefinger.

   “Any more coffee?” he asked, then repeated, “Not telling what?”

   “Oh, we were just talking about the movies,” answered Mom. “Do you remember the old Alamo theater downtown?”

   “Back home in Texas? Wichita Falls? Sure I do! I used to sneak in there when I was a kid. Me and a little walleyed boy named Danny Sequoia, to see Hoot Gibson pictures! Shucks!” (My dad’s worst swear word.) “Why he snuck in I’ll never know, because his dad owned the place.”

   Mom and I laughed at Dad’s joke.

   “We had our first date there, didn’t we?” he asked Mom.

   “Yes, we did, honey.” I could see that my mother was pleased that Dad had remembered their first date. It would have been bad if the only thing he had remembered about the Alamo in downtown Wichita Falls had been sneaking in with Danny Sequoia. Mom smiled and her eyes glittered behind her glasses. 

   “I’d better get the children off to bed,” she added. “Excuse me.” Saying this, she went over and gave Dad a kiss on the cheek as she undid and removed her apron. She was wearing a summer dress and sandals. “I’ll make us a fresh pot of coffee when I’ve finished with the children,” she promised.

   “Fine,” said Dad.

   “Good luck,” she whispered to me conspiratorially, and ducked out.

   To be continued…

Twenty to a Pack

   From Orlando to Honolulu via Los Angeles is a long way. 

   By the time we’d sorted ourselves out at the airport we didn't arrive at our Waikiki hotel until 11PM. We were kindly received and shown to our room. Saucy Boy (a nickname for my wife) quickly unpacked and put away her things. 

   “I don’t like people touching my things,” she said as she unpacked.

   “That’s not what you said last night!” I boasted. 

   “You!” she laughed. “Don’t you ever think of anything else?”

   “Nope!”

   Believe me, with Saucy Boy, it’s difficult not to. 

   “Good!” she answered, and we embraced.

   Then she made us gin and tonics. Within minutes Saucy Boy can work miracles in any kitchen. And a good gin and tonic is a miracle of sorts, don’t you think? Her eyes sparkled as she handed me the drink. She loves to travel. It’s when she’s happiest. 

   With our stuff put away and drinks in our hands, we felt at home on our travels.

   Ah, those gins hit the spot and eased out some of the kinks! 

   We stepped through the sliding door. The night was warm. I bumped my head against a tree limb that overhung the patio, and we laughed. We sat in chairs beside the pool and spoke of things we hadn’t spoken of in a long time. After awhile we dropped into a comfortable silence, both of us staring into the shimmering black water of the hotel swimming pool. 

   It was well after 2am. They had turned off the pool lights hours ago. I lifted my tired eyes from the water. 

   “I need some sleep,” I said. 

   Saucy Boy did too. Her sparkling eyes had dimmed and were slowly closing.

   “C’mon,” she said. 

   We returned to our room, undressed and fell into bed.

  “KA-TWANG!” 

   “What the…?” I asked.

   “Ice-maker,” explained Saucy Boy.

   “KA-BOING!” The ice-making machine next to our room was making ice. “KA-THUMP!” it groaned. I lay awake and listened to it. Where does all that ice go, I wondered? “KA-TWANG!” it croaked. Saucy Boy had closed her eyes and looked to be asleep. What had they done to cool their libations in times before ice machines, I wondered? “KA-BOOM!” it crashed. Saucy Boy didn’t move. Once she was asleep she could sleep through anything. “KA-PHOOEY!” it sputtered. What is it about some machinery that it must be loud to get the job done?

   Ha! Ha! We humans are often guilty of that. 

   “KA-THUMP!” it coughed. It continued to rattle and sputter and crash through the night.

   Somehow, I fell asleep…

   I was awake before daylight thinking about breakfast.

   But before food, a smoke. 

   You cannot smoke within and around buildings in Hawaii, so I got up and threw on some clothes and went out. Saucy Boy was asleep so I left her in bed. The ice machine was silent, so I left it there too. Within a few minutes I was puffing contentedly along as I ambled toward the all-night Denny’s. 

   A pair of drunken young men lurched up from the opposite direction. 

   “Got a spare smoke?” asked one. 

   I was startled and without thinking I answered “No.” Which was pretty stupid considering I was smoking at the time. My answer also surprised me. Why had I refused?

   Why is it so difficult to be a kind person all the time, or even most of the time, or even more than barely some of the time? 

   “There’s twenty to a pack, asshole!” said his friend. He was very intoxicated and slurred out his words with a grand gesture more to the street and the towering hotels all around us, rather than at me, the actual asshole.

   How bitter this retort rang in my ears! 

   “Hey guys,” I answered. “Hold on a minute.”

   We stood together and shared a smoke. Extracting one for later, I handed over the packet, telling them to keep it.

   “Mahalo plenty, man,” they said as they walked on. 

   Mahalo means thank you in Hawaiian.

   “Sure,” I answered. “Aloha!” 

   They waved and turned back on their way. 

   I watched them go with a smile on my face. Phew, I thought, that was a close one! I had almost been that worst of bastards, a cheapskate bastard. Funny how life throws up these cosmic moments. You’re walking down the street minding your own business when suddenly wham! 

   Hey You! To be or not to be! Are you a decent human being capable of sharing, or are you something else? Time to choose! 

   “Show us what you’re made of!” demand the gods, and they lean in, ready for a laugh.

   For a moment my soul balanced on the edge.

   Then the wise man said, “There’s twenty to a pack, asshole!”

   Bringing me back to my senses.

   That day Saucy Boy and I sunbathed on the beach in front of the Royal Hawaiian. That’s a hotel, not a person, by the way. The ocean was warm and clean. We splashed and played in the surf. Later, we ambled up the beach and stopped for a beer to cool off. On the ground by some giant bamboo I found a small, overturned bird’s nest and gave it to Saucy Boy. 

   (She brought it home carefully wrapped in her luggage and has it to this day.) 

   At sunset, sitting together under a Banyan tree with a wonderful view of Diamond Head, we sipped $15 Mai-Tais and watched the waves rolling in. It was very romantic, but we couldn't drink long at those prices, so we left to walk the beach hand in hand. 

   As darkness fell we were on the beach, watching Venus rise out of the crashing ocean. A sliver of moon hung in the sky over our shoulders.

  Later we swam in the hotel pool together. Petals fell in graceful arcs from the nearby plumeria trees. Some of the petals landed in the water. One of them stuck to Saucy Boy’s shoulder, perfect and pink against her smooth brown skin.

   After swimming we went to our room. 

   There we kissed and made love. 

   Soon afterwards we fell asleep, not hearing a sound from our mechanical ice-making neighbor, as if it understood that tonight, right next door, the night was young and the stars were old. 

   Shhhh, nighty-night, little tourists.