You stop the car and the Hawaii heat comes back because there’s no more driving breeze. You can feel it in your bones. Even if you’re only in your (early!) forties, you can see why old people move to places like Miami and Arizona. Why not Hawaii? The long flight? The disappointingly drab view from the airplane window when the plane is landing? Waiting in line for what seems like hours at the car rental place? The really bad radio stations, driving around the edge of Kuia, from airport to vacation rental?
Everything is bright, so bright you don’t notice the out-door shower. Later in the week you’ll take Instagram photos from inside that shower, of the nearby flowers and distant mountains. But for now you just want to haul your bags inside and have a beer. The house is green. Not a real-estate, easy-to-sell green, but an almost garish green. Three years later, writing down a description of the place for a writing-course blog entry, you’ll think: monopoly house green.
It’s not a big house, but it’s big enough. A back door leading into the kitchen. A rickety table, something from the seventies. Well trod linoleum. A squat fridge; your fridge at home is an enormous, brushed-stainless-steel behemoth, but this one’s short enough to see the top, where you can set your bag of groceries. Some sweet onion potato chips, a few cans of spam, more than one six-pack. 11 of 12 bottles go into the fridge; the other goes in your hand.
The kitchen window with the view of the beach a few blocks away. The next room, a sitting area, large, overstuffed couches that would be miserable in this heat. Because it’s stifling in here. You glance at one bedroom with its tiny bed. Pass the cramped bathroom. Step outside onto the porch, two rocking chairs, a card table, more view of beach.
And then the breeze arrives, gentle, like it wants to ask you a question. You sit down in one of the rocking chairs, open the beer, and drain half of it. You ask yourself, where else would you want to be right now? You’re not even sure if any other place on earth exists right now.
The breeze moves around, makes the grass in front of the green house wave, plays in the distant palm trees. The sun’s getting ready to think about setting, but content for the moment to loll in the sky. Deep blue, probably goes on forever.
You notice your beer is empty, so you stand up. Notice how the screen door creeks when you open it. The floorboards, too, as you walk into the kitchen. Grab another beer. This house is starting to feel like your threadbare Hawaiian shirt (had it for 10 years) and your easy-fit cargo shorts. Where did your shoes go? Nevermind. Grab a book from the shelf of vacation-left-behinds next to the door. Something with guns and intrigue and romance. Stuff you don’t really have in your life.
But you’ve got that beer, that breeze, that rocking chair. That’s really all you need. All you want, too. So turn to page one. You’re going to be here for a while.
Interesting take on this. I definitely get the not-so-happy feeling about your arrival, but would love more about what it is that makes you feel so comfortable. Was it the breeze or the beer that changed things for you, or both? I think when you threw in the part about the assignment, it threw off your flow. Good descriptions, would work better in first person POV.
Thanks Russ. Good feedback. My nasty little secret is that I write so much fiction in first-person that it no longer feels like “me.” So I have to write in second person. This sounds like an excuse, I know. I’ll bring it up with my therapist (not to self: you need to get a therapist).
Wow take me there right now. I love this. I can picture myself in that rocking chair and I really don’t want to move from there.
Why did this post have to stop? Couldn’t it just continue on forever, so that I could live out my days in this place?
Thanks for the comments. Yeah, it would be nice if it could go on forever. But you know how writing and the human condition evolve. Eventually a plot happens. Eek!