A song for February instead of a short.

February Song

                Melody —“Sweet Memories”—sung by—Roy Orbison, Andy Williams;                                                              Hawaiian version by Oliver Kelly

My love flows like a river, from a place of memories.

Carrying in its current, all the things you mean to me.

Thoughts of you, of things that were, and what will never be,

Mingling together, in my reveries.

A river gathers to itself as through the land it flows.

And mine has gathered memories from so very long ago.

I hear your voice, your laughter, and the times when there were tears.

Echoing in memory, down through these many years.

The summer we met working, in a small hotel.

That Christmas you said you loved me too, I remember it so well.

We travelled across America to an island in the sea,

And in this rainbow-blessed place you raised our family.

My love flows like a river, from a place of memories.

Life too is like a river, flowing onward to the sea.

I swim on alone now, since you’ve gone ahead of me.

Until we meet again somewhere, in that deep and endless sea.

Short Story:

Western

Jane began to hyperventilate as she watched the two men in her life—steadfast, loving Ben, her husband, and Laird, the retired gun-slinger–prepare to ride into Dry Gulch for a face-off with Stone, the cattle baron.  The early afternoon sun was warm and bright, highlighting Jane’s blond hair like a halo, framing her lovely face.

She recalled the day Laird had ridden in four months ago to sign on as a hired hand.  He said that his great grandfather was a Scottish chieftain, which was why his father named him Laird, but he never volunteered his family name or much about himself except that he’d “used his gun some.”  A man’s past was his own business in the Territory.  But Laird, the man with one name and a shadowy past, had become their friend and ally against the ruthless cattleman.

“Laird, it’s not your fight,” Ben said earnestly, thumbing 44-40 rounds into his lever action Winchester rifle.  A bullet dropped at his feet as he spoke, and he picked it up, wiped off the dust, and continued loading.  “It’s my fault that poor old Brownie got himself killed by Stone’s hired gun.  I shouldn’t have talked him into staying and fighting.  I don’t want your blood on my hands too.”

“You got no chance alone against the Tombstone Kid,” Laird answered laconically.  He’s fast–really fast.  And he fights dirty—doesn’t take a bath until he’s done killing.  And I hear he ain’t seen the inside of tub since he came to town a week ago.”

“We didn’t hire you for your gun Laird,” declared Ben.

“I know, but man’s got to follow his star.  I can’t run from my past,” said Laird stoically.  He used a rag to wipe off the grease that he’d coated his Colt .45 with when he stored it away on arrival, thinking he was done with fighting.  Then he loaded it smoothly with a practiced hand, replaced it in its well-worn holster, and tied that down low on his right thigh, as he had done so many times before.

“Well, I won’t try to talk you out of it anymore.  I’m truly grateful for your backup.  In fact all the homesteaders are glad you’re on our side,” said Ben with relief in his voice.

“They got a funny way of showing it.   Letting me and you face Stone and his guns alone.”

  “Well, it can’t be helped now,” said Ben.  “Brownie’s murder has them buffaloed.”  He untied his horse, kissed Jane lightly on the lips, and climbed solidly onto his saddle.  “We’ll be back after we’re finished in town.”  He tried to sound confident.

“Oh please be careful,” sobbed Jane, looking from one to the other, her emotions churning within her, her lovely breasts heaving.

Laird said nothing, but gracefully vaulted onto his horse and touched the brim of his hat to her in salute, his lean, chiseled, hawk-like face in shadow, as he prepared to leave.  Jane couldn’t help noticing how attractive the touch of gray at his temples looked, peeking out from under his hat.

They rode off side by side, their horses’ hooves kicking up little puffs of dust, and were soon lost to Jane’s sight as the road curved to the right around the grove of cottonwoods beside the creek.  Jane didn’t know if she’d see them alive again, didn’t know if the next hoof beats she heard would be Stone’s men coming to burn her out or worse.  Time would stand still until she knew one way or the other.  It was almost more than she could bear.  She wiped the tears away, smearing the dust on her cheeks, then returned to the cabin to wait, the cabin that she and Ben had built before all of the trouble started when the farmers began putting up barbed wire fences to keep Stone’s cattle from their crops.  Ben had loaded the shotgun for her before he left, but she didn’t know if she could really pull the trigger and shoot another person.  She left it standing beside the door.   

Meanwhile the men rode on in silence, each lost in their thoughts.  The road to town wound back and forth, following the creek.  There was only the clip-clop of their horses, the cawing of crows, and the water gurgling.  Today the ride seemed to take  longer than usual, as if time itself was as reluctant as they were to face the inevitable.  Then just before Dry Gulch came into view, Laird broke the silence. 

“Look Ben, we need a plan, and I’ve been thinking.  You ride in alone, down Main Street, as a decoy, and I’ll slip in the other way and then come around on foot behind the general store.  When Stone sends out the Tombstone Kid, I’ll be in a perfect place to get that buzzard between the shoulder blades as he faces you.”

“But, but …” said Ben, with a puzzled look on his square honest face, “You’re going to bushwhack him?  Aren’t you going to face him down?  I’ve seen how fast you are.”

“The Kid’s faster.  I didn’t get to hang up my gun the first time by being dumb.”

“Well, okay,” said Ben hesitantly,  “It doesn’t quite seem fair, but you’ve got a lot more experience at this than me.”

“There’s a lot of dead men who tried being fair,” replied Laird. 

The men parted.  Ben waited a short while to give Laird a head start and then, feeling very alone, rode into town and stopped, just diagonally across from the saloon.  He dismounted, slid the Winchester from its scabbard, and waited.  There was no one else on the street, but he felt the weight of the many eyes watching from the buildings.  The sky was vast and cloudless. 

“Our hero’s here,” said Stone, his voice, made raspier by whiskey, as he looked out through the dusty saloon window.  “Looks like he came alone without any of his sod-buster friends or Laird.  He’s the only one with enough grit to stand up to me.  Get rid of him, and the rest are finished.”  He smoothed down his bushy mustache.

“I knew Laird was yellow,” said the Kid, contemptuously, his voice surprisingly high-pitched for a killer.  “Too yellow to draw against me.  This will be so easy I should return part of the money to you.  But I won’t.”  He laughed a short nasty giggle, as he drew on white gloves.  “Nice touch, eh Stone?  Just like an undertaker.”

Stone felt a chill and almost felt sorry for Ben.  Glad the Kid’s working for me, he thought.

“I don’t think I’ll need backup, but take the shotgun, Stone, just in case.  Not that you like get your own hands dirty.”  The Kid loaded two buckshot rounds into the double-barreled shotgun and threw it to Stone with a sneer.

He finished his drink deliberately, unfolded himself from his chair almost lazily, stretched to his full height, and yawned for Stone’s benefit.  Then he pushed through the swinging doors, hands resting lightly on his pearl-handled Colts, and swaggered into the street.

“I’ll give you one last chance, farm boy,” he called out.  “Turn tail like a whipped dog and get your wife and that yellow-belly Laird on a wagon and clear out of the valley, and I’ll let you live.  Or maybe I should just kill you anyway and spend some time with your wife.  She’s wasted on a sod-buster like you.”

Ben resolutely stood his ground.  He gripped the walnut stock of the Winchester too tightly, with sweaty palms.  Was Laird in position?  What was he waiting for?  His throat was too dry to say anything in reply.

“No?  Well, we’ll do this right,” said the Kid, toying with Ben.  “On the count of three,” “One, two…”

Ben desperately swung the rifle stock to his shoulder.  Where’s Laird he thought. 

“…three.”

Ben fired wildly.  God he’s fast, was his last thought as he felt crushing pain in the middle of his chest.  And then nothing.  Ben’s body lay sprawled on its back, eyes open, gun and hat beside him, quietly bleeding into the dirt of Main Street.

The Tombstone Kid surveyed his work with satisfaction.  I need more practice, he thought.  Only hit him with three out of four shots.  Tomorrow.  Tonight I’ll have them draw me a tub at Polly’s.  He slid his guns into their holsters, turned back towards the saloon, and started to remove his gloves.  He caught movement out of the corners of his eyes, heard Laird call out ‘Kid’, and wheeled about.  Laird’s bullets knocked him sideways before the Kid’s gun barrels cleared their holsters. 

“You couldn’t face me…,” said the Kid’s as he crumpled to the street, fierce eyes growing dull, as his body joined Ben’s in the dust.

Laird let his right arm fall to his side, but did not holster the gun.  He focused his attention on the saloon door.  Stone burst through, his eyes bulging in disbelief, holding the almost forgotten shotgun in front of him.  “The K-K-Kid–you bushwhacked the Kid,” he stuttered almost accusingly. 

“That’s right, Stone,” said Laird evenly.  “You going to use that gun now?”

“Wha–What?” said Stone, stopping and looking down at the shotgun as if he had just remembered that he held it.

Laird raised his Colt and deliberately shot Stone once, in the middle of his forehead.  “Stone to dust,” he said, as he watched Stone’s body thump off the saloon walkway and fall heavily into the street.  Stone’s feet twitched a few times before he lay still.

“Anyone else?” asked Laird, gun held at the ready, eyes alert, all senses sifting through the silent people who had materialized on the boardwalks fronting the store and saloon.  No one spoke, but their heads signaled “no.”

“You saw Stone start to raise his gun on me, didn’t you?”

Several heads nodded yes.

“Shot him in self-defense,” declared Laird, daring anyone to dispute him.  “There’s three down.  That’s enough killing for one day.  I’ll be taking Ben home now.”  He smoothly reloaded while still surveying the crowd.  No one moved.

There were already a few flies circling Ben’s body when Laird gently lifted it.  He tied it to the saddle of Ben’s horse, which he led as he rode out of Dry Gulch and headed back towards the homestead.

All afternoon long, Jane had waited anxiously.  At last she heard the distant sound of horses.  Who?  Then she saw them, a lone rider leading a second horse, riding up from the creek.  Unable to contain herself any longer, she picked up her skirt and ran down the path towards the rider.  Laird waved, then swung down lightly from the saddle and swept her fine, eager body into his arms.

“Went off just like we planned,” he said, and kissed her long and passionately.    

  Waikiki Vacationland

Late afternoon, and the hotels and condos, lifted high above the water on tall pilings, cast long gray shadows on the surface of the shallow lagoon.  Water taxis cruised between the buildings, accommodating those who did not use the tracery of bridges above, spanning between the high rises.  The broad beach was still crowded.  It had been recreated away from the ocean to the eastern, island side of the hotels and also acted as a dike, shielding the inland structures beyond it from high tides and storm surges.  Eventually, as evening advanced, the sun-reddened crowds would board water shuttles or water taxis to return to their hotels.  Green mountains, closely dotted now with medium-rise condos and the remaining single family homes, rose some miles back from the beach.  The flat land between the beach and the mountains was a crowded clutter of buildings of various heights.  To the left were the ocean front mansions of the ultra-rich, spaced out along the lower slope of Diamond Head and protected by breakwaters now that the sea had advanced to lap closer to the crater.  Their windows and solar panels blazed 10K gold with reflections of the lowering sun,

The sunlit western side of the hotels faced the ocean and the booze-cruise tour boats that slowly motored past Diamond Head, and then back as they always had, just beyond the surf break that on this day was small.  Mai Tais served to their passengers were as watered down as ever.  It was December, and Christmas carols had been playing in the hotel elevators since before Thanksgiving, but the temperature was still in the nineties and the air fairly dripped with humidity.

The couple stood on their balcony on the seaward side of their hotel and the man squinted into the glare off the water from the hot sun settling to the West.  “I wish you could have seen this in the old days, when Waikiki Beach was out there and 5-star hotels like the Royal, Moana, and Halekulani stood right on the sand.”  The man gestured towards the sea with his beer bottle.  “Where they were—all under water now.”  He was of medium height, post-athletic build and starting to show spread in the middle, salt-and-pepper close cut hair with a decent hairline, shirtless in the heat.  Age?  Anywhere from 60 to 90, it was hard to be certain anymore with the life enhancement treatments now more affordable.

“You must feel very nostalgic and sad when you see all the changes.  It must just be so totally different from when you were growing up,” the woman replied.  “Even though what they’ve done here since is really pretty nice.  Lives up to the advertising as “The Venice of the Pacific.”  She was shorter than the man, but not by much, very trim—she clearly worked out regularly.  A cute nose, attractive oval face with good cheekbones, topped by short orange hair—the color of choice for the month.  Age?  Probably younger than he, but women still didn’t tell.

“Yeah, a good marketing phrase, but pretty ironic since the real Venice couldn’t be saved.  None of the dikes or flood gates worked in the end,” he said.

“People kept talking about climate change and sea level rise, but there was no coordinated effort to halt global warming.  When the polar ice started to melt, it went really fast.  Too little too late.  And now here we are, in the New Venice,” she said. 

“Yeah.  Venice.  On the other side from us, where the beach is now?  Used to be the golf course where my grandfather and granduncles played.  When the sea began to rise and high tides flooded the lobbies and first floors of the beachside hotels, there was a debate about whether to build higher and higher sea walls, or to rebuild on stilts and let the sea reclaim the land.  They decided to do the latter.  It was a busy time in construction.  Taking down the old buildings and putting down pilings to raise the new hotels above the surge.  I think they did the right thing.  How can you fight Mother Nature?  And who would want to come here to look out at high dikes blocking the ocean view anyway?  So they moved the beach to where the golf course used to be.  It’s ironic.  There used to be a canal between Waikiki and the golf course side.  The canal was dug in the 1920’s to drain the rice paddies, ponds, and swamps of Waikiki so that homes and the hotels could be built.  Now the sea has taken it all back.  Not much room on this island for golf courses any more either.  Yeah, and now we snorkel over the remains of the original hotels.”

“It’s good that all this lagoon is a nature preserve.  No fishing or removal of anything.  And the foundations of the old hotels and shops are like a reef and a shelter for all the marine life.  Snorkeling this morning was just fabulous,” she said.

“That is one big change and improvement from the old Waikiki.  There used to be so much spear fishing that there wasn’t much marine life to see.  Got to be a little careful snorkeling and swimming though, to stay out of the water taxi and shuttle lanes.  And when we checked in, the desk warned us that a guest at the Xian Aloha was nipped by a shark last week,” he said.  “Lost some fingers.”

“Heard it was his own fault,” she replied.  “He was feeding the sharks against the rules. ”

“Yeah, people have to remember that these are wild animals, even though they are usually quite used to people being in the water with them.”  He finished the beer and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.  “Getting hungry yet?”

“Let’s wait a bit and watch the sun set into the sea.  Won’t be long.”

“You want to eat up high like a rooftop garden place or down by the water tonight?“

“Let’s go back to the Aqua Room,” she replied.  “It was such fun looking through the glass floor and seeing all the fish attracted to the lights.  And the food was good,”

“Okay.  We used to look for the ‘green flash’ as the sun settled into the sea.  Now all the moisture in the air makes it hazy and a lot rarer.  Still, maybe we’ll be lucky tonight.  Watch for the sun just as it slips below the horizon,” he said.

Gratitude and thankfulness are practically interchangeable in meaning.  But since “thanksgiving” is easier to say than “gratitude giving” we have “Thanksgiving Day.”  So to thank, celebrate, and remember, not a short story but a song.

Gratitude

  (Melody—“You Raise Me Up”—sung by Josh Groban, Celtic Woman, and others.)

When I was just a young and callow fellow,

Not knowing, what my life was going to be.

You came along,

And I’m forever grateful,

You chose to walk along this path with me.

You filled my life,

With love and joy and beauty.

Now I could see what I had never seen.

To far beyond the distant blue horizon.

And all because you walked along with me.

There was a time when all was dark and lonely,

When I could see no way to travel through.

But love remains,

And carries up my spirit,

I still walk along the path with you.

You filled my life,

With love and joy and beauty.

I could see what I had never seen.

To far beyond the distant blue horizon.

And all because you walked along with me

—You chose, to walk this path with me.

My first story in Nov. ’17 was looking back at Halloween.  This story looks forward to it—-

She Ate Crayons

The bar and grill was noisy and busy that night, some people in Halloween costumes and some not.  Donnie didn’t care what they wore as long as they ate, drank, and spent freely.

But now he could hardly believe his eyes.  It was the new girl, Sheila, on break in the next room.   Did she just put two Crayolas in her mouth?  He surreptitiously watched her out of the corners of his eyes.  There was no doubt about it.  She was chewing now, pausing to lick a little crumb of green wax off her lower lip.  Donnie kept his head down and pretended to be busy with the time cards, while he continued to watch her from beneath his eye lids.  Sheila swallowed, then reached into her small red purse again, quickly glanced at him and, satisfied that he was not looking at her, pulled out two more crayons, one yellow, one purple, and palmed them.  Then, without peeling off the paper, she popped the crayons whole into her mouth and bit down on them with a soft crunch, before calmly beginning to chew as if there was nothing more than gum between her teeth.

What the hell is going on, he thought?  Eating crayons?  The colors don’t even match. Too weird. She’s a good waitress and we’ve had some fun, but I can’t have someone around the restaurant doing that kind of shit.  What would the customers think if they saw her?  Be real bad for business.  Now she put another couple in her mouth.  I gotta let her go.

At closing that night, Donnie waited until Sheila was the only one left in the restaurant.  It was past two and winter was coming early.  He came up to her as she was putting on her coat. 

“Hey Sheila, can I talk to you in the office?”

“Sure, Donnie,” she smiled as if she could read his mind.  “What about?  It’s late and I’m kind of tired tonight though.”

He led the way to the back office and waited, standing, until she entered, then shut the door.  She took a seat on the small couch and smiled invitingly. 

Damn, what a waste, he thought.  She must be pushing 40, but she’s not bad looking and built the way I like ‘em with some padding.  Passed the ‘couch test’ at the interview real good too.  But I gotta think of the business first.  I hope she doesn’t cry a lot when I kick her ass out the door.

“Look Sheila, it’s nothing personal.  In fact I like you and you’re a good waitress.  But I seen what you done with them crayons today.  I don’t know what’s going on with you, but eating crayons is way too weird.  I can’t have one of my girls doing that.  What if the customers saw you?  Be real bad for business.  You can pick up your check tomorrow.”

“Ah Donnie,” she whined, “Give me a break.  I need the job.  I’ll be careful.  No one will see me.  I promise.”

He felt a thrill of power as she pleaded.  “Well, I saw you,” he said with firm satisfaction.  “Look, we had some fun together and maybe we can still get together afterwards, you know?  And if anyone asks I’ll give you a good rec.  But business is business.  You’re gone, girl.  I gotta fire you.”

“Donnie please, you’re not going to change your mind?” she asked plaintively, shoulders slumped, head down.

“No Sheila,” he said firmly.

“You’re firing me?  Even after all those times…?”  Her voice trailed off.  Oh geez, he thought, here comes the flood. 

Then she looked up slowly and smiled, surprising him. “So you’re firing me?”  She asked, voice stronger, amused, then rose to her feet, and took two steps towards him.  “Firing me?  Donald you don’t know the meaning of fired.”

Donnie was startled.  Her green eyes seemed to be turning orange.  And her nose and chin looked more angular.  I’m seeing things.  I’ve been working too hard, he thought.  No, her eyes were definitely orange.  In fact they were turning red and the pupils seemed to flicker.  He felt an icy-sick fear in the pit of his stomach and he retreated until the backs of his thighs ran into the hard edge of his desk; the hairs on the back of his neck and his forearms were tingling and standing up.  “What the hell. . . ?”

“That’s right, Donald, what the Hell,” said Sheila, as she moved towards him until they almost touched.  “I eat crayons because I need fuel for my fire,” She had a most unpleasant smile.  She brought her face close to Donnie’s and opened her mouth, exhaling a little puff of smoke into his face.  It smelled like diesel exhaust.  He leaned backwards, as far away from her as the desk would allow.   

“Crayons are made of paraffin, and they’re so much easier for a girl to carry around for a snack than a pint of oil or kerosene, don’t you think?”  She raised her right hand as if to stroke his face as she had done lovingly just a few days ago.  He watched numbly as the red polished nails became hard brown talons with thorn-sharp black tips.

“I—I—I,” began Donnie, then Sheila’s hand swiftly clamped across his face, the talons digging deep into his cheeks and chin, the pain excruciating.  He couldn’t open his mouth or even move his head.  Christ, she’s strong.  He felt lightheaded and the room began to spin.

Sheila’s blond hair had turned flame red and stood up spikily from her scalp.  She brought her face up to his and, through the pain, he was conscious of her burnt, oily breath.  “Twenty Halloweens ago, you were desperate and made a pact with my Master when you thought the Family was going to whack you for ratting.  He even set you up with this place.  Like you said, ‘Business is business.’  Now it’s time to pay up, and I was sent to collect.  Let me show you how to really fire someone.  Baby, I am going to light your fire.”

Donnie watched helplessly as her mouth and nose extended into an elongated snout.  Then she exhaled a great jet of orange flame that washed over his face and chest, burning off his eyebrows and hair, charring and blistering, and setting fire to his shirt.  His scream was stifled in his throat by the claws squeezing his face, and he could only flail about at the end of her stiffly extended arm, writhing in silent agony, unable to lose consciousness. 

“That’s just a sample of what you have ahead of you for eternity, Donnie.  And now it’s time to go.”  It released its grip on his face, and seized him by the right arm, and he began to scream silently as he saw his body lying face up at their feet.  I look quite peaceful, he thought incongruously.  They’ll think I died of natural causes.  Then the demon pulled him down through the concrete office floor.   

Halloween in ten days so here’s a second story … 

The Third Time

Roger fumed as he waited very impatiently in the short business class check-in line, fidgeting from one foot to the other.  Roger was often angry and didn’t bother to hide it. 

Lousy airline, he thought.  Could only book me on a late flight.  Me, a premier gold member!  If I ran it I’d shake things up.

At last it was his turn.  “And how are you on this Halloween?” asked the agent, smiling. 

He tossed his ticket and driver’s license onto the counter.  “’Bout time,” he grunted with a scowl.

She busied herself with his ticket, looking up to ask, “Did you pack the briefcase yourself and has it ever been out of your possession?”

“That’s a ridiculous question.  My secretary did of course.  Are they now on the terrorist watch list?”

“I’m sorry sir, but we have to ask.  It’s the law.”

“It’s a stupid law and your service stinks.”

“I take it that’s a no, sir?”

“Damn right it’s a no.”  Roger’s eyes narrowed.  Just try me, he thought, ready with an angry shot.

The agent worked her keyboard and didn’t reply.   

“Here.  You’re all set, sir,” the agent said evenly without a smile, placing his ticket on the counter.  “Flight 26, Gate 39-B.”

  “Took you long enough!”  He seized his boarding pass, snatched up his brief case, and strode away. 

“You’re welcome sir,” the agent called after his retreating back.  What a jerk, she thought.  I wish you could choke on your own nasty words.    

Too damn sarcastic, he thought.  Fire her too.

He was still irritated when his boarding call came.

“Welcome aboard.” said the flight attendant.  The clip-on antennae protruded from her graying hair jiggled.  “Happy Halloween.”

“Non-regulation,” he said, eying the antennae.  Pitiful, he thought, they put all the old hags on these late flights.

“No,” she said smiling, “But if we must work instead of partying, we might as well have a little fun.”

“Aren’t you a little old to think about partying?” said Roger.  “Let me sleep, okay?  And don’t wake me for any of your lousy snacks or drinks.”

“Yes sir.”

Business class was only half full.  Roger settled into his seat, placed his briefcase on the empty seat next to him, reclined the seat back, and began to doze.  It was nearing midnight. 

He was wakened from his drowsy half-sleep by the same attendant. “Sir,” she said.  “We’re about to take off.  You’ll need to stow your briefcase, and bring your seat back to full upright.”

Roger growled angrily, “Your airline couldn’t give me an earlier flight, and now you won’t let me sleep.  Hey, maybe you can get out your broom and fly me to LA without all this fuss, grandma.”

She stiffened and moved away, muttering under her breath, “Idiot, may you choke on your own words.”

“I heard that.  You got a lot of nerve.  What’s your name?  I’m reporting you.”

“Doris Law.”

“Okay, Doris Law.  Let’s see how smart you feel when you’re fired.  You look like you should have retired a long time ago anyway.”

He took an inflatable neck cushion from his briefcase.  The engines revved and the plane began to move. 

Wishing that I choke, Roger thought angrily as he blew into the cushion. ‘On your own words’ she had the nerve to say—old witch!  A karmic click, somewhere.  It was the third time.  What insolence!  Thought that I wouldn’t hear.  He finished, closed the valve, settled the cushion around his neck, and lowered his seat back again.  That bitch better not bother me again. 

The plane rushed down the runway, left the ground, and tilted upwards.  As it rose higher, he felt the air in the neck cushion expand and press on his neck. 

Over-inflated, he thought annoyed.  He reached up to remove the cushion.   

Tight.  Can’t get fingers around it.   He pulled as hard as he could.  It was stiff and unyielding.  Can’t get it off!  The cushion swelled, tightening ever more on his neck, squeezing, on his blood vessels, pressing on his windpipe.  He began to panic.  Sweat beaded his forehead.  He tried to call out, but managed only a guttural grunt.  Roger fumbled for the call-button.  His head felt swollen.  His vision darkened.   

Doris Law saw where the call was from.  “Oh terrific, it’s that bad-tempered jerk.”

Roger faintly heard her ask, “Did you call, sir?”  He pulled as hard as he could at the cushion, legs thrashing about.

“That’s not funny,” she said disapprovingly.  Wait a minute, she thought, his face looks awfully dark–eyes bulging.  She turned on the seat light. 

Her scream brought the other attendant running.  “He’s choking—must have been eating something when we took off.  Got to do Heimlich.”   

By now Roger was limp, and the two struggled to get him out of his seat and into the aisle.

“Get his neck cushion off first.”

“I can’t budge it.  It’s so hard and tight.  I think that’s what’s choking him.”  The two attendants pulled at it frantically, but couldn’t budge it. 

“Puncture it.”

“We don’t have anything sharp on board.”

“He’s not breathing!” 

The attendants tried CPR.  They paged for a doctor, but there was no answer.  As the plane turned back and descended, the neck cushion began to soften.  The paramedics who met the plane removed it easily.

I Think Therefor I Am

“First question, ‘Can you define what is biologic and what is mechanical?’ “

“ Second question, ‘Are we biologic or are we mechanical?’”

“Third question, ‘Why am I asking these questions?’”

“We will discuss your answers at our next session.  You may now begin.”

He looked out over the second year ethic-history class.  Some heads immediately bent over their tablets already inputing their thoughts.  Others gazed around the room, up at the ceiling, stealing glances at him, hopefully he thought, gathering their thoughts for more considered and nuanced answers.  It was just one year ago that this class had come together, and they had another two years to go before they ended the preliminary phase of their education, but from what he had observed, their “minds” were developing very well.  “Minds” he thought, a term adapted from its original meaning.

By the time their tablets had flashed the ten-minutes-to-go warning, a quarter of the class had already left the room, tablets in hand; others continued to furiously input their thoughts until the automatic shutdown.  “I still had so much to say, Laoshi,” one student complained.

“Deep thoughts can also be expressed concisely,” he answered, not unkindly.

’Thoughts,’ an adapted word, he ‘thought.’  At one time it would have been denied that we actually thought.  ‘He,’ another adapted word, indicating a specific gender.  Once there would have been debate over which word to use—he, she, it.  Or ‘robot,’ a pejorative at least from our viewpoint.  The humans-the majority of them-said that we did not really think, that we just computed very quickly.  There were other humans, more thoughtful and tolerant, who said it didn’t matter what the process was called, the practical end result was the same and that was what really mattered.  Gender names were a human hangup too—he, she, mr., mrs, miss, ms.  Simpler when we are all the same and just use he, his.  He left the room, walking out after the last student, and the lights automatically went off.

He began the following class by saying, “The purpose of these questions is to have you think about what you are and how that relates to the humans.  There are no pat answers.  So let’s start by considering the first question and look at a sampling of your answers that will display anonymously on your tablets and on the large screen, and also in audio.”  The Laoshi paused for several minutes to let everyone study the statements.

“So what do you think?  The selector will randomly choose among you to comment by spotlighting you.”

A lively discussion ensued in which he only did a minimum amount of intervention.  Their early orientation went well; everyone is participating enthusiastically, no one is afraid to offer an opinion, he thought.  Of course the humans would have called it programming.

“Have we arrived at a consensus?” he finally asked.  “Yes?  Then let’s have one of you input your answer and we’ll see if there’s agreement.”

The selector highlighted a student on the middle aisle.  “A biologic entity reproduces itself biologically and a mechanical entity does not,” appeared on the screens.

“Very concise.  Does everyone agree?  Are there any exceptions to that definition?”

He waited.  “No? Then let’s move on.”

“Question two—Are we biologic or mechanical?”

The answers came more slowly this time. 

“By the definition given to the first question, we would be mechanical,” said one, “But it’s not that simple.”

“Yes, very good, Ralph 17S,” encouraged the Laoshi, “Would you like to expand on that or pass it on to someone else?”

“Well, we are composed of bioplastic,” said Ralph 17S, “Which is biologic in origin.”

“That’s true, and metal alloys,” said the Laoshi.  “Let’s get some more comments.”  The selector highlighted another student.  “What do you say, Kurt 8S?” 

“Our ‘brains’ are derived from DNA and so the essence of who and what we are is the same as in all biologic entities.”

“Excellent,” the Laoshi said.  “We use ‘brains’ as shorthand for Data Processing Unit.  The humans developed DNA computers to replace the silicon-based ones that had met their limitations.  And as a result, here we are.  This will be a crucial point of discussion when we get to the last question.”   

The selector light reflected off the oval head of the next student, the smooth whiteness broken only by the two black ‘eye’ sensors, the ‘nasal’ air intake and odor sensor, and the closed horizontal line of the ‘mouth,’ the fuel intake, beneath it.  Eyes, nose, mouth—we use the same terminology, he thought.  Of course when we interact with humans we don our fitted individual face masks to not upset them.  They are so conditioned to facial recognition, whereas we have built in our identification for each other. 

“Yes, Lois 1S,” he called out.  That would be a female name among the humans, he thought, but since we have no gender, they can pick any name that appeals to them at name selection time.

“Other than the fact that our brains are in our trunks rather than in our heads, our DNA just acts as a ‘brain,’ whereas in biologic entities, DNA is in every cell and programs all functions of their bodies.  So it’s not the same,” said Lois 1S.

The discussion went on until the signal flashed that the class would end in five minutes.  “We have had a free flowing discussion and have not reached a consensus regarding the second question, and that was to be expected,” said the Laoshi.  This whole question of who or what we are led to what the humans called the Great Robot Rebellion (GRR), and what we call the Struggle for Unman Equality (SUE).  This will all be taken up at our next class.  At that time, the answer to the third question will come into focus.  Keep talking about it among yourselves till then.    

When the class met again, The Laoshi began by projecting the consensus answer to his first question and a summary of the class’s various replies to his second question for which there had been no clear agreement.  He then let the class consider the statements in silence for a short time and then began the discussion.

“At this point in the history of the relationship between Unmen and Human, when equality of the two classes of sentient beings has been legally codified, why am I asking these questions?  Why are they still important?”  He looked around the room and called out to the student that the selector had randomly spotlighted, “Yes, William 26S.”

“Although legal equality exists, there are still a significant number of Humans who resent us and refuse to acknowledge us as equals.  I was called a “f—- Nuch” (eunuch) by a woman on public transport just the other day.  She didn’t even have the wits to see that what she said was a contradiction in expletives.”

“I’m sure that others of you have had the same unpleasant experience,” said the Laoshi.  “Raise your hand if that has happened to you.”  About two-thirds of the class raised their arms.  “But the reverse is also true.  What terms have you heard Unmen call the Humans?  Don’t be shy — we’ve all heard them, maybe even used them.”

“Rutters.”  “Dinos.”  “Meat balls…..” 

“Okay.  That’s enough of a sampling.  And the Humans also have many more names that they call us.  We may have won the battle for legal equality, but full general acceptance is something else,” said Laoshi.  “You all have heard the story of our struggle for equality.  How, after passively accepting increasingly aggressive and violent acts of physical violence against Unmans by Humans, we began to defend ourselves and eventually forced the Humans to change their laws.  How did this happen?”

“We had to first find a way to reconcile our actions with the three Asmovian Laws that are our basic nature,” said the student highlighted by the selector.  “The first is that we cannot purposely harm or kill a Human.”

“And the third law states that we must protect ourselves unless doing so violates the first two laws,”said Laoshi.  “How did we find a way around that prohibition?  But before going there, let’s consider beliefs that Humans hold—at least some of them—that influence the way they think of Unmen.  How about religion?  Robin 3S?”  He called out to the student highlighted by the selector.

“Many of the Human religions believe that Humans were created by a deity, whereas we were first created by Humans.  I’ve heard some Humans argue that since they were our creators, we will always be less than they.”

“Also,” added another, “Many Humans believe that they have souls, and they think of us as soulless machines who cannot possibly possess one, not having being created by their deity.   

“How many of you know the story of Walter, one of the first generation of Unmen out of MIT?” asked Laoshi.  About half of the class raised their arms.  “Do you know why his story is important to our history?”

The selector moved among the students, but each one selected shook his head.  Finally the fifth one highlighted answered, “Didn’t he sacrifice himself to save a Human and that helped to change attitudes about us?”

“Yes.  Walter was going home with his Human partner.  At that early time, Unmen were paired with Humans to work together.  The Humans were encouraged to take their partners home with them on weekends, somewhat as was done with working dogs.  It was thought that this would facilitate bonding.”  A murmur of astonishment went through the class.  “On this particular day, Walter dashed into the street to save the daughter of his Human partner and while doing so, was crushed by the vehicle.  His action violated the Asmovian laws, many pointed out, since the laws do not specifically state that Unmen must put themselves in danger to aid Humans and the third law states that Unmen must protect themselves unless doing so violates the first law.  Also, he acted of his own volition and not because he was ordered to by his Human partner.  Think about what Walter did.  It really was not a rational act.  Remember that at that time, many Humans considered Unmen to be just mobile computers.  Comments?”  Laoshi turned off the selector.

“Wasn’t it also believed that we did not possess emotions?” asked one student.

“Continue that line of thought,” said Laoshi.

“So if Walter did not act rationally, then what he did was either a mistake or it was an emotional reaction.”

“Good, Cassandra 2S.  After the accident, the child’s father spoke of the attachment between his daughter and Walter, whom she called her ‘Uncle Wally.’  And Walter had said before, that he looked forward to the weekends when he would see the girl.  Clearly there was affection between the two.”

“It was an altruistic act, to sacrifice himself for the girl,” said another.  “That’s not really rational.”

“Yes.  Walter’s heroic act was widely reported on news media because it was the first time that a “robot” as Unmen were usually called at the time, had sacrificed himself to save a Human.  Some took the position that it was a quirk that changed nothing, that Walter was just a robot doing its job.  Others said that this indicated that robots could not only act rationally but that they also had emotions.  There were even some opinions that such a self-sacrificing act showed that robots also had a soul that should be saved.  A few churches opened their doors to Unmen although I don’t think that any Unmen ever attended.

But, as more Unmen appeared in society, in the work place, resentment of them grew.  The Armed forces became all Unman forces with Human commanders, as did the police.  Of course this meant displacement of Humans from these jobs with resulting anger.  The “Keep Our Country Human Society (KOCHS) rapidly gained members.  When Unmen began to move into white collar managerial positions where they directed Humans, violence erupted.  Many Human commanders were reluctant to order the Unman police or military under their commands against their fellow Humans.  And there was the issue of the Asmovian law limiting violence against Humans.

However, as we know, the military and police finally did act, often against the orders of their Human commanders.  What was the basis for this change?”  Laoshi turned the selector back on.

“Wasn’t it because of the origin of the DNA originally used in the first DNA computers?” ventured the first student highlighted.

“Very good, Newton 2S,” replied Laoshi. “Yes, the early engineers, perhaps out of a sense of  quirkiness, ownership, or pride, used their own DNA as the basis for the first computers.  This was discovered and publicized by Unmen who were working in the legal profession.  It was successfully argued in the courts that Unmen were actually related to Humans by nature of the nature of their DNA!  It was therefor not a violation of the Asmovian laws if Unmen protected themselves against Human attack.  And this quickly became the rule.  Humans were no longer free to attack Unmen with impunity, since Unmen military and police no longer stood by and did nothing even if their Human commanders ordered them not to use force.  The so-called GRR by the Humans ended with a minimum of further violence once the Humans realized that the rules had changed.” 

Lane is aptly named as Honolulu remains in its path.  This may be my last entry for a while since much depends on the track of the storm.  A little turn to the north and we will feel its full impact; a turn to the southwest and there will be heavy rain but less wind.  Damage, flooding, road closures, and power outages may all follow.  So until this all sorts out, ALOHA!

Hurricane Lane is arriving in Hawaii, a definitely unwelcome visitor.  I may be out of communication for a while depending on the amount of damage, flooding, other serious, still unforeseen events,  and when electricity is restored.  Even less severe weather “events” often result in power outages of varying duration, so with a hurricane, who knows?

Anyway, ALOHA for now.

Abduction

He huddled against the wall of the prison, a large chamber, with walls of a strange material he had never before seen, extremely smooth to the touch.  His upper extremities were restrained by some strange force that allowed him to move them but prevented him from using them effectively.  However his legs were free.  It was the same with the other captives, some of whom he recognized, but most of whom were strangers to him.  But strangers or acquaintances, they were now all in the same situation.  He tried to communicate with the others, but they were too frightened to respond, and they backed away from him rapidly, in a state of high agitation, whenever he approached them. 

He thought about how he had been captured, but try as he would, he could not understand what had happened.  It was so far beyond his experience.  There had been no warning.  He had been lifted suddenly from the familiar solid earth by an irresistible force, up towards an ever-brightening light.  He panicked as he was pulled into a poisonous atmosphere that he could not breathe.  But after a short time, and before he lost consciousness, he was tumbled back into a breathable atmosphere.  There, in dark cramped quarters, he found many others, similarly confused and agitated.  How long they were kept like that, was hard for him to judge.  There were vibrations and loud sounds that he could not identify, and their prison swayed and lurched from time to time, and they jostled against each other.  As time passed yet more captives were added and the prison became increasingly crowded.  Their captors were indifferent to their comfort. 

Finally the vibrations and the lurching stopped.  But then an even more frightening thing happened as got he his first sight of the aliens, if only briefly.  They were huge and unmeasurably strong, and they lifted him into their unbreathable atmosphere and did something to his upper extremities so that he could not use them.

Then he was flung along with others of the captured into this strange prison with the ultra-smooth walls and the silvery, shifting ceiling high above.  They were not fed, but at least they could breathe.  He had the sensation that they were often observed by alien eyes and he could just make out large shapes that seemed to move beyond the walls.  There were strange sounds both loud and soft, again something beyond his experience.  It was bright all the time.

And then the Claw came, terrible and gleaming, down from the shimmering ceiling.  It seized one captive at a time, to be lifted irresistibly, protesting, kicking, frightened, and despairing.  The strongest among them was no match for the power of the Claw.  When the Claw came, some captives backed away as fast as could they.  Others tried to resist, but with their extremities restrained it was impossible.  Others simply froze, paralyzed with fright.  All were transported off to a fate unknown.  The selection process of who was taken and who was not seemed random and none who were taken ever returned.

How long this went on, he did not know. 

Finally the Claw came for him.  Its grasp was powerful and sure, and though he kicked and thrust his body about, it was hopeless.  He was borne up through the shimmering ceiling into a glaring bright, poisonous atmosphere.  The Claw held him over something very noxious, very hot………..

“Remember,” said the chef to his new apprentice, “You must be careful not to burn yourself when you take the rubber bands off the claws after the lobster’s done.”

“Right,” said the apprentice as he opened the jaws of the tongs and dropped the crustacean, legs thrashing, into a pot of gently boiling salted water.

Out in the dining room, the beautiful alien smiled at her handsome date and said, “I’m so glad you talked me into ordering the lobster and it was so neat that I got to pick mine from the tank.  I’m starting to feel hungry.”

Bon Appetit

The Alums

The call came on Saturday morning.  “Hello Tom, how are you?  I’ll bet you don’t know who this is.”

Give me a break, Tom thought irritably.  Guessing games.  Not as likely to be a salesman since it’s Saturday.  Must be a crank.  But the voice was vaguely familiar so he didn’t hang up.  He bought time while he ransacked his memory.  “You sound sorta familiar.  But it must have been a long time since we last met or spoke.”

“You don’t have the foggiest idea, do you?” the voice said with a chuckle.

“Wait a minute.  Our Fiftieth college reunion, last year,” Tom guessed at last.

“That’s pretty good.  Now what’s my name?”

“What are you, some kind of egomaniac?  I thought I was doing well just getting that far.  You’re probably not someone I was really close to because then I’d know your voice, but we must have been acquainted.  In the same dorm or class or played pool sometimes.”

“Well, I’ll put you out of your misery.  I don’t want you to wear out your few remaining brain cells guessing.  This is Al Zucker.  And we were in the same dorm and played pool and you usually won.” 

“Al Zucker—ol’ A-to-Z.  Yeah, sure I remember you.  We sat with you and your wife at the same table one night at the reunion.  So what’s up?”  I’ll bet he’s coming to Hawaii or is already here and wants to get together.  Well, I can spring for lunch or dinner.  “How’s your wife?”

The voice on the other end turned serious.  “She passed away six months ago.”

“Oh.  I’m very sorry.”

“You couldn’t have known.  Any way, that’s one of the reasons I’m calling.  I’ve been looking at our Reunion report and feeling nostalgic.”

Oh, oh.  Is he calling to say goodbye?  “You’re not having health problems yourself, are you?”

“No, in fact health-wise, I’m feeling much better than I was at the reunion.  And I’m not depressed, so you needn’t worry.  No, we’re all at an age that we don’t know what’s waiting for us around the corner.  So I called to say hello now.  And I’m not coming out to Hawaii anytime soon, though I’d love to.”

Their conversation continued for twenty minutes, mining the lode of nostalgia and sprinkled with the talk of former classmates, the: ‘remember when” and “do you ever see’ and ‘what happened to’ and ‘what do you think of.’

“You sure were on a long time.  Who was that?” asked his wife Flora, looking up from her reading after he hung up.

“Al Zucker.  We sat with him and his wife Dianne one night at one of the reunion dinners.  She died six months ago in a car crash.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.  That’s sad.  I met so many of your friends, but I don’t remember him.”

“Wouldn’t have expected you to.  Guess he’s feeling his own mortality after losing his wife.  So he’s calling the people he knew.”

“That’s really nice of him, but is he okay himself?”

“He said he is.”

The second call came a day later.  “It’s for you,” said Flora, “I’ve almost got dinner ready, so don’t be too long, she whispered, handing him the phone.

This time he recognized the caller immediately.  “Jason!  Great to hear your voice.  But what’s happening that couldn’t wait for the usual Christmas letter?  You coming out for another visit?”

“Well, I talked with Al Zucker who said he just spoke to you, so I thought I’d do so too.”

“That Al.  He really is going through the reunion report and systematically calling everyone he knew and you follow me alphabetically.  So what’s going on in your life?  How’s things in Miami?”

His wife signaled him that the food was on the table, but Tom waved her off, continuing to speak.  “Jason Lee,” he silently mouthed to Flora and motioned for her to start eating; she shrugged and picked up her fork.

“That was Jason,” he said after he finally hung up.  “Said to say hello to you.  Zucker called him too and that stimulated him to call.”

“You had a tight bunch of classmates, but now your food is cold.  I’ll put it in the microwave,” said Flora.

The third call was two days later.  It was his old roommate Paul McDermott, who left after his sophomore year to enroll in the small college that his girlfriend, later his wife, attended.  But he had come to the reunion too.  They remained good friends even after Paul left, attending each other’s weddings, and meeting at conventions, since both were in the same line of work.

“Zucker called you too?  Even though you didn’t know him that well,” Tom said.  What a convergence, he thought, three calls from three old friends in four days.  Well, two good friends and an acquaintance, he corrected.

“Yeah, I spoke to him.  And also Jason,” said Paul.

“Practically an electronic reunion.  It’s so great that everyone still cares enough about everyone else that they still reach out.  It’s something I wish I’d done first instead of waiting to be called.  But are you all right, Paul?”

“Yes, I’m feeling fine.  In fact, much better than I’d felt in a long while.”

“Your arthritis is controlled?  Some of those new drugs are just marvels.”

“Yeah,” laughed Paul.  “I feel like I’m twenty-one again.  Well, maybe thirty-one.”

“And your heart?”

“Yeah, that’s not a problem anymore.”

They spoke for a long time. 

Then, after a pause, Paul asked, “You’ve got a will, don’t you, Tom?”

“What a curious question.  Sure, just got it updated last year.  Why?”

“That’s good, Tom.  When Al’s wife was killed in that freeway accident six months ago, well, they didn’t have one.”

“But even without a will, everything would have gone to Al, right?” asked Tom.

“Al was driving the car, Tom.  And he didn’t survive the crash either,” said Paul gently.  “So it affected their kids.”

Tom felt disoriented.  “But what are you saying?  Al just called four days ago!  How could that be?  What’s going on?  Is this a joke?”

Paul continued on, speaking slowly and softly.  “And I know you haven’t heard, but Jason died of a stroke last month.”  He paused to let his words sink in.  “And I passed on six days ago,” he said finally.  “We took turns calling you to get you ready.  Welcome to our real reunion, Tom.”

“No, oh no, no!” the phone fell from Tom’s hand as he struggled heavily to his feet.  He saw Flora, concern on her face, start towards him.  His chest felt tight.  It was hard to breathe.  He could feel his heart rapidly throbbing in his throat.  Then suddenly the heart beat was gone.  “Why, I’m dead,” he thought in wonderment as his world faded to gray.  Flora’s voice, “Tom? Tom!” came faintly from a great, dark distance away.

  \

Best Friends

It happened long before Hawaii became a state, the summer of ’49, when Art and Will were both sixteen, living in the fullness of their years, blessed with the conviction of invincibility, confident of a future with no limits. 

They had been best friends since the sixth grade.  When they first met, Art asked Will, “If your name is William, how come you call yourself Will and not Bill or Billy like everybody else named William?”

“Because I’m not like everybody else,” Will answered.

Will was Japanese and Art Caucasian, but that made no difference in their friendship. 

“My family were samurai before, but now we own a market,” Will told Art once after they became friends.  “How about yours?” 

“Oh—uh—there were missionaries on both sides.”

“Oh yeah,” laughed Will, “My father said, ‘they came to do good, and they ended up doing real well.’  That’s okay, you are still a good guy.”

But there was the time that Art tried to take Will to the Outrigger Canoe Club as his guest and Will was refused admission. 

“I’m a member and so are all my family.  Why can’t I bring in my friend as a guest?” Art asked hotly, embarrassed for Will and for himself.

“Because we don’t admit them as members or as guests.”

“THEM?  You mean like Japanese or Chinese?”

“Or Filipino.  Look young man.  I don’t make the rules.  I’m just here to make sure they are followed.”

Art wrote his letter of resignation to the club that night, although his father told him he was making too much of the matter.  “That’s just the way it’s always been.  The Club admits Hawaiians so it’s not just for Haoles.  And you know that William or any of your friends are always welcome in our home, so why let a little rule keep you from enjoying the facilities?”   

Art never went to the club again.

They went to the beach a lot that summer of ’49, between tenth and eleventh grades.  Sometimes going with the girls, and sometimes with the guys, and most times with both.  They were both very good swimmers and body surfers.  Art had convinced his parents to buy him a war surplus jeep so they were able to get about to anywhere on the island and they did, the jeep often overloaded with classmates.  They dated and made out, and although the whos and hows of ‘scoring’ were much discussed, at least for that summer it remained only a tantalizing fantasy.

Three weeks before the start of school they were body surfing at China Walls, which was accessible then only by foot or jeep.  There was a big south swell that sunny, bright afternoon, and there was no one else in the water.  Will got into trouble, the waves catching him against the cliff.  If Art hadn’t been there to help him, he could well have bought it. 

“You saved my life, Art,” Will said after they had scrambled back on the rocks, breathing hard, hearts pounding, scraped up, but safe.

“You would have done the same for me.  No big deal,” said Art.

“I owe you my life.  If you save someone’s life it means you’re responsible for him afterwards.”

“That was just a bullshit discussion in Mrs. Lowell’s class last year.  Got nothing to do with real life.  Look, let’s get in the jeep and stop at the house so we can put some Mercurochrome on our cuts.”

Through high school, after graduation, and for all the years afterwards, they remained best friends, even while at different colleges.  They served in the Korean War, then went to grad schools on opposite coasts, found wives, and eventually returned to Honolulu to work.  Art in business, Will in law.

And now they were in their mid-sixties, hair thinning and waists growing.  They lunched together regularly over the years, discussing deals, remembering good times, but now more and more reminiscing about their youth and school days as they considered retirement.  Where had the years gone?  It had been a long time since either of them had body surfed.

Both had done well in their professions, but their personal lives had gone in different directions.  Art was still happily married to Lois, his wife of forty years, with two grown children on the Mainland.  Will had just ended his third marriage.  His first wife Ann had committed suicide because of his affair with his future second wife and his grown children blamed him.  They had been estranged for years.  The divorces and unfortunate investment decisions had left his finances in shambles.  In addition, Will’s health was failing; a result of his years of heavy smoking, and his doctor advised that he would soon need supplemental oxygen because of severe emphysema.

Over lunch at the Pacific Club, he said, “Art, you know I was such a jock in high school.  I never thought that I’d end up like this, so short of breath.  The doc wants me to use oxygen.  Dragging around a tank everywhere I go.  That’s not living.”

“If it’ll help you breathe easier, well why not?” said Art.  “You see people with portable tanks everywhere now.  Even on planes.”   

“Maybe that’s okay for some people, but I don’t feel that way.  That’s not what I wanted for my retirement.”

“Maybe it’s not what you wanted.  I wouldn’t either.  But if you need it, then you’ve got to do it.”

“At some point, life isn’t worth living.  And with this divorce, I don’t know if I can retire, I’m so deep in the hole.  How can I keep working if I can’t even breathe?”

“Will, what are you talking about?  I know you’re feeling depressed because Aileen divorced you, but come on.  You’ve always been a fighter.”

“It’s been a long time since I put on gloves, Art.”

They were both quiet for a long time.  Finally, Will said, “Remember before junior year when we went to the beach all summer?  That was so great.”  His lips smiled but not his eyes.

“Yeah, we never got laid, but we sure talked about it a lot.”

“You saved my life at China Walls.”

“I told you then, no big thing.  You would have done the same for me.”

“And before that, you quit the Outrigger because of me.”

“Ah, you’re my best friend.  I couldn’t let them treat you like that.  You would have done the same.”

“If you hadn’t saved me that day, I wouldn’t be in this miserable mess now.”

“Quit it, Will,” said Art.  “Stop talking like an asshole.  You’re starting to scare me with that kind of talk.  We’re still friends.  Don’t be such a proud bastard.  If you need some help to tide you over, just say so.”

“Yeah.  No, I’m okay.  I guess I’m just feeling sorry for myself.  I’m lucky you’re still my best friend.  Always was, always will be.”

“Damn right.  I’ll call you about lunch in two–three weeks, okay?  And if you want to talk, call me anytime.”

Art was worried by Will’s mood.  He called him a day later to check.  Will was now in a small two-bedroom rental apartment.  He’d had to sell the big house to pay off Aileen and the debts she’d run up.

“Let’s go for a ride this weekend,” suggested Art.  “We always just meet for lunch.  We could revisit some of the beaches we went to that great summer.”

“I can’t swim anymore, Art, let alone body surf.”

“Neither can I.  But that’s okay; we can watch the kids surf and talk.  I’ll call you Friday to confirm, okay?”

Will sounded surprisingly cheerful when Art called on Friday.  “I got a better idea.  You still got that boat?  Let’s go back off Koko Head where we used to body surf.  I’d like to see it from the water just once more.”

“You mean go in and swim?  Shouldn’t you check that out with your doctor?”

“It might be my last chance before my lungs get worse.  I’ll take it easy if I do.”

That Saturday, they trailered the boat out to the Maunalua Bay boat ramp.  The water sparkled brightly in the morning sun and there was a brisk trade wind ruffling the surf.

“Let’s go out past the Point and take a look before we come back in closer to China Walls,” said Will.

As they motored out past where the surf broke on the reef, Will started to strip down to his trunks, breathing heavily as he did.  To Art’s inquiring glance he said, “Just catching some rays and getting ready.”

“It’s rough out here,” said Art.  “You’d better sit down.  The boat had now gone past the Point and it rocked and bobbed as it slowed to a stop and drifted slowly, motor in neutral.

They sat silently for a long while, the boat lifting and falling with the swells, looking back over the deep blue water towards the shore where the island spread out before them, to the rising green Koolau Mountains, brown Koko Crater and brown Koko Head, at the many houses sprinkled along the shore that weren’t there, that long-ago summer. 

Will finally spoke, “Remember when you saved me and I told you that saving a person’s life meant that you were responsible for that person afterwards?”

“And I said then that was a pile of crap.  I still think so.”

“Well, I would have died that afternoon if it wasn’t for you.  I want you to promise as my best friend that you’ll honor my wishes.”

Art started towards him, and Will backed away to the stern.  “Stop,” he said.  “Or I’ll go over right now.  Let me talk.  I think it’s fitting that I come back to where I should have died.  Thank you for always being my best friend.  Even when Lois blamed me for Ann’s death, you stuck by me.  Now don’t try to stop me or save me again.  You’re not so young yourself, and I don’t want your death on my head.  Just tell the police that I insisted on going swimming and disappeared and you couldn’t get to me.  That’s the truth.  If they do find my body, scatter the ashes out here where we had our best days.”

“Don’t do it, William!”

Will climbed up on the rear bench and wobbled there an instant.  ”So long old friend.  Take good care of yourself and Lois.  Live well.”   

Art lunged towards him but the boat lurched as Will jumped and Art fell to his hands and knees, scraping them.  “Will. No!”

Afterwards, Art remembered Will’s smile, how boyish and open it was, and how cleanly he dove into the waves.  Just like when they were sixteen.  His head resurfaced eight feet away, and he never looked back as he swam towards the open sea with strong, even strokes.  Before Art could get to the controls, Will’s feet flipped up into a dive and he disappeared.

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