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Despite his nod to phat style, Stanley Lucey was as white as Wonder Bread. Possessed by a supercharged energy, he was always looking around with an anxious expression, waiting for something bad to happen, like a missionary who'd just arrived in Nairobi, hoping help would arrive before the Hottentots took him captive.

Stanley carried two cups of coffee.

“Dad, you know you're not supposed to smoke.”

Jack turned and faced his son. “And you know you're supposed to mind your own fucking business.”

He took a cup from Stanley, slurped some coffee down, and handed the cup back to his son.

“Hold this. I gotta take a dump.”

...

After efficiently eliminating the waste product of a New York strip, baked potato with sour cream and chives, Bac-Os-bits, some iceberg lettuce swamped with ranch dressing, and a peach cobbler à la mode, Jack headed to the garage. Stanley followed. He stood back as his father negotiated two short steps with his walker. Stanley thought about helping, thought better of it, and then finally stepped forward to lend a hand.

“Here, Dad.”

Jack snapped at him. “I'm fine. You treat me like I'm some kind of fucking retard.”

“I'm just trying to help.”

“I don't need your fuckin' charity.”

Stanley didn't push it. It didn't matter. They'd had this same exact argument countless times. It always ended the same way.

Jack lurched down the steps with his walker and then, with some effort, climbed into his specially built van.

“You coming? We got work to do.”

“I'll meet you there.”

“Great. The way you drive, you'll get there just in time for lunch.”

Jack nodded as the garage door automatically opened and blinding-white sunlight blasted the dark and oily room. Stanley stepped back as his father started the van. Jack never looked where he was going when he backed out. He just threw it in gear and hit the gas. Mirrors were for pussies.

Francis woke up. The intense midmorning sun was raging outside, its white heat muffled to a greenish glow by the heavy blackout curtains covering the hotel room windows. Francis blinked. Even with the curtains pulled tight, the light was excruciating, searing his eyeballs like a red-hot knitting needle. His mouth felt dry and cottony, as if he'd slept all night with a sock stuffed in it. His muscles ached, his bones were throbbing, and his nose was clogged with what felt like great crunchy globs of dried blood. He couldn't remember a time in his life when he felt so abused.

He looked around the room, trying to make some sense of it. It looked like his room. But then, all hotel rooms look the same, as if they were mass-produced in a gigantic building, windowless and whitewashed, with the word
HOTEL
plastered on the side. Identical rooms rolling off a conveyor belt, each outfitted with the same lamps, the same beds, the same art, the same ice buckets, the same terry-cloth robes. All designed to offer comfort and stability to the generic businesspeople who stayed in them between meetings with other generic businesspeople. A place to rest and recover from
strategizing, selling, teleconferencing, or whatever it is those people do.

Francis imagined the men and women in their tailored suits with monogrammed leather briefcases and stylish haircuts coming back to these rooms to celebrate some kind of deal. Did they break open the minibar and drink the pintsized bottles of Something-Crest-Rock chardonnay? Did they eat the barbecued almonds? A couple of candy bars? How did the straight business world celebrate? Did the women lie on their backs with their legs spread while missionary-minded salesmen closed the deal?

Thinking about it hurt his head.

Francis shifted and felt the fluid in his brain slop from one side to the other, painfully trickling through his pons like ice-cold turpentine, making him feel slightly nauseous. He fought the impulse to puke, laying his head back down on the soft pillows. That was when he felt the warmth of the body in bed with him. And then he remembered.

Oh, yeah. The lifeguard.

Suddenly, Francis was feeling a little better. He propped himself up on an elbow and admired the young man as he snoozed. Francis couldn't remember specific details about the tan young man, like his name, but he did remember something about his being an ex-competitive surfer. Francis thought his name might be Dick, but he wasn't sure. It didn't matter. Who needs a name when you've got a chest like that, hairless and rippling with muscles, rock-hard biceps, and buns so tight you could bounce a quarter off them?

Francis grinned to himself, a big canary-gobbler of a smile, and wished he had a digital camera so he could take a picture and e-mail it to Chad. Francis thought about how
he'd art-direct the photo so the pineapple tattooed on the humongous bicep was clearly visible. That, coupled with the broad shoulders and shaved head, would be enough to send Chad into a spasm of jealous rage.

He wrote the e-mail in his mind.
Dear Chad: Look what I just fucked. Sorry you couldn't be here to watch! Aloha!

Francis realized he had to take a piss so, trying not to wake Dick, he crawled gingerly out from under the covers and tiptoed toward the bathroom. Feeling a sharp pain in his foot as he stood up, he looked down at the floor and saw a coconut-shell bra and a plastic grass skirt strewn on the carpet. Around them were the shattered remains of what looked to have been a cheap ukulele. Francis sat down on the bed and picked the ukulele splinter out of his foot. He stretched his neck from side to side and tried to remember. Had he been wearing a hula outfit? How did the ukulele get smashed, had he fallen on it?

Careful where he stepped, he went into the bathroom, flicked on the light—which was much too bright—and studied himself in the mirror. He didn't remember partying that much—a half a Quaalude, a couple of mai tais, and a bottle of wine with dinner—but man, he looked like he'd been run over by a truck. Francis was suddenly struck by a horrible thought. Maybe he was too old to be doing this. That would suck, wouldn't it?

He fished a couple of Advils out of his Dopp kit and washed them down with some Evian provided by the hotel. He wasn't too old. He was just out of shape. He hadn't been carousing in years. And when was the last time he'd been fucked like that? Possibly never. When was the last time he dressed up like a hula girl and had a lifeguard save him?
Definitely never. No, he wasn't too old. He just had to get back in the swing of things.

He was sitting on the toilet when the phone rang. It was his assistant, that Asian girl, reminding him, in an insufferably chipper voice, that they had brunch with the union reps in a half hour.

Waimanalo Beach was empty. It was too far from the big hotels on Waikiki for tourists to bother with and most of the locals were already at work, so Joseph had the place to himself as he jogged on the hard wet sand near the edge of the water. He liked the way the cool sand felt on his bare feet, enjoyed the occasional slap and curl of sea foam around his ankles. He looked out at the water, clear and blue and mottled green and dark and sparkling, all at the same time. He was surprised there were no surfers out, but maybe they were all up north riding the monsters at Pipeline or even better, to his thinking, in school.

A large wave rolled up onto the beach, slamming into an outcropping of rocks and sending a thick foamy spray fifteen feet up in the air. Joseph jogged through it, letting the water rain down on him, feeling its cool salt caress. This was something he'd miss. Actually, there was a lot he'd miss: the air, the fresh fish, the pineapples and papayas. He realized he could find tropical fruit in New York City, quite possibly fresh fish as well. But you couldn't buy this quality of sunlight or smell the salt spray, no matter how exclusive the boutiques in Soho.

Joseph was ambivalent. Sometimes he felt claustrophobic, living on a small island where everyone knew everyone; other times he couldn't think of a more beautiful place to be. So he waffled and flip-flopped, debating the pros and cons in his mind until the weight of the decision became too much and he had to push it out of his brain. But this was the chance of a lifetime. Working at one of New York City's top Italian restaurants, cooking with the finest ingredients available, honing his skills, gleaning secrets, and learning how to run a real kitchen. For Joseph it was like being plucked out of obscurity to play shortstop for the Yankees.

It was his lucky break. The chef, a large and boisterous American who'd spent several near-monastic years cooking in the Italian countryside to perfect his skills, had been in Honolulu to film an episode of a Japanese TV series that pits celebrity chefs against each other in a cooking battle. Joseph and his uncle were handling the catering for the crew. Joseph was in the truck grilling fresh
moi
when he noticed the chef watching him.
Moi,
it turns out, is similar to
branzino,
and the chef was impressed with Joseph's skills. He tasted one of the fish and offered Joseph a job at his Manhattan restaurant on the spot. Joseph told the chef he'd think about it, and to be honest that's all he'd been doing ever since.

Not that he'd made up his mind. He had a good job, a job he loved. He had a girlfriend. He had his family and the friends he'd known all his life. He had everything that anyone would ever want, and yet he was anxious to leave.

Joseph had thought about seeing a psychiatrist. But that's just the problem, isn't it? Oahu is a small island. Everyone knows everyone. As soon as he told the shrink he was
thinking about leaving, his nana and his uncle would be all over him to stay. And what about Hannah? Shouldn't he marry her? Didn't he owe it to her after all this time?

Thoughts of scents, flavors, and tastes beyond the Pacific horizon taunted him. He wanted to eat Mexican food in Mexico. Curry in Bombay. Green papaya salad from a street vendor in Bangkok. He wanted to go to Paris and have a twelve-course dinner at a three-star restaurant. He wanted to drink cava in a bar in Barcelona. He wanted to taste the world. How could he be a great chef if he didn't explore the world? And how could he explore the world if he was stuck on this tiny little island? Yet why would he want to leave such a unique and beautiful place where he lived surrounded by friends, family, and loved ones?

...

Yuki hung up the phone and shook her head. Why was her boss such a raving asshole? Why did he have to be so snide, so dismissive? Was Francis one of those homosexuals who carried his animosity toward the straight world like a big flaming chip on his shoulder? Maybe he was just self-absorbed and hostile, but either way it hurt her feelings. She considered herself very open-minded regarding matters of sexual preference, and she had lots of gay friends to prove it.

She tried to think of anything she might have done to upset him. She was nothing but professional. Well, maybe she had been overly enthusiastic on the plane. Maybe she'd talked too much. But she was excited. This was her first big job. She remembered that he snapped at her when she went up and complained to the flight attendant about the lack of
fresh air. But that wasn't just for her, that was for everyone. Somebody had to make a stand.

Yuki picked a couple of strawberries off her plate as she walked to the balcony and looked out at the sea. It was a beautiful day, maybe the most beautiful day she'd ever seen. The air was superclean, sunlight bouncing off the silver-blue water. She couldn't believe the clarity of the light, the way it made the colors so strong. The grass was the purest green, the sky Superman-blue. Even the sand was an amazing fresh wheat color, like really good bread. The few specks of clouds on the horizon were whiter than bleached cotton.

The palm trees jiggled in the breeze. A little black bird with a vibrant scarlet head landed on her balcony and pecked at some crumbs. Yuki inhaled deeply, an oxygen rich, cleansing breath. She exhaled. So this is paradise. How could Francis be such a jerk when outside his room was heaven on earth? She found herself growing agitated and reached for the phone. Her life coach would know what to do.

It took her a few minutes to detail what had happened on the plane to David. Even her life coach had to admit that Francis had behaved badly when he made her take a shuttle bus from the airport to the hotel while he drove off in a rental car. But he told her to look at it from all sides. Maybe Francis had somewhere to go and didn't feel comfortable taking her with him. He reminded Yuki to be compassionate, like the bodhisattva. If she could understand the forces that made Francis the way he was, she could learn a lot from him. David reminded her of something the Dalai Lama said:
Sometimes the greatest teacher is someone who treats us badly. Then we can learn about ourselves as we try to overcome the obstacles in our path.
David suggested that she remain as
positive as possible and use aromatherapy oils to cleanse her aura every night.

Yuki thanked him and hung up. Maybe he was right about Francis. Maybe having an asshole boss was her karma. She had to deal with it and learn from it before she could have a breakthrough.

Francis was a piece of work. Yuki could tell he was filled with negative energy. But where had it come from? No one is born like that. She'd have to be wary, careful not to let his negativity infect her. She went to her suitcase and pulled out a crystal necklace and some aromatherapy oils. The crystal would charge and protect her heart chakra while perhaps a dab of lavender on her neck would send out a soothing vibe.

She also decided to toss some rosemary oil in her hair to help cleanse her aura, a little ylang-ylang on her wrists, and a splash of peppermint on her blouse to give her energy and patience.

She wondered if it might be too much.

Yuki lit some incense and gave herself an affirmation. She set a goal. She was going to do whatever it took to turn Francis to the light. She would get him to embrace his positive Buddha nature. This was her mission.