Seven Flights

165 Seven Flights After breakfast, after Shawn drove off to raise the pitch of flat notes in pianos, David took two brown bottles of Kirin Lager from the fridge. He wrapped the bottles in a white towel and put them in a paper bag, rolling the top to form a crumpled handle. Then, instead of taking the Palani Highway past downtown Kihei to his job at Sears in the Kukui Mall, instead of picking up a stack of pink invoices, he turned right on Kanonoulu Street. He drove another half mile and parked next to the Menehune Condominiums, a building seven stories high. According to Hawaiian myth, Menehunes were little mischief makers; David hoped the irony would not be lost on his friends. Kihei was filled with condos and small resorts. This was South Maui, the quiet side, inhabited by locals and imports like David and Shawn. It had the island’s best surfing, waves too treacherous for tourists who flocked to Lahina and West Maui for art galleries and nightclubs playing Paula Abdul and Milli Vanilli. Three locals walked by, white surfboards on bare shoulders. From his back pocket David took his wallet and removed the license, a palm tree rising up through printed numbers. Birthdate: 04-17-1949. Issued: 09-22-1988. Six feet tall and 190 pounds. It was 1990 now; he probably weighed 170. Next month it would be 160, then 150. It had happened to his friends in Seattle, weight rolling off their faces like rainwater. He slid the license into his back pocket and his wallet in the glove compartment. He pulled the keys from the ignition and set them on the passenger seat, then covered them with his orange baseball cap. Maui was paradise today. The sky blue, sighs of clouds drifting by, the salty smell of the ocean. They’d left the gray winters of Seattle for these days. Left endless rain, assuaged only by the knowledge that summer would come and the majestic face of Mount Rainier would rise above the city, watching over it through August. The old man’s out today, people would say, reverently, pacified by his presence. Søren G. Palmer 166 Ecotone: reimagining place Around the corner, an elderly couple walked toward David, white leis of carnations smiling around their necks, identical red Hawaiian shirts. Their lips tightened as they examined numbers and names on buildings. “Aloha,” David said. “Oh, hello,” the woman replied. She was tall, her hair gray and curly. The man looked up, his entire face smiling. “Good morning.” A hearing aid curled into his right ear. “What do you think of the island?” David asked, the sun bright in his eyes. “It’s so beautiful here, we just love Hawaii.” She said it like Hawhy -ya, then turned to the man. “Howard, he asked how we like the island.” “Oh,” the man nodded, still smiling, “it’s so pretty. We’re visiting our daughter. She moved here from Memphis.” “Is that right?” Sweat dripped from David’s forehead; he wished he’d kept his cap. “What does she do?” “She works for Bank of Ha-why-ya,” the woman said, “in stocks and bonds.” David nodded, his hand shading his eyes. The man and woman exchanged glances before she said, “Do you know that we’re lost? We walked right down to the beach and can’t find her apartment for the life of us.” The man, watching her lips, laughed, the flowers around his neck giggling. “We can’t even say the name. The Hal-kal-something.” “It’s on Kenno-something-illi,” the woman added, more embarrassed than the man. “I just can’t get these silly names straight.” “You folks are actually pretty close. Walk two blocks that way,” David pointed behind them, “and take your very first left.” “Thank you,” the woman said. “Our daughter is coming home at lunch and I just knew we were going to miss her.” “Yes, thank you very much.” The man extended his hand and David shook it. Then their red shirts disappeared down the street. David pushed open a glass door to the Menehune condos and the air-conditioning encased him...