AM I MY BROTHER’S KEEPER?

I want to dedicate this story to all the people who have lost someone they loved.

“Turn the lights on if you’d like—I like the dark.”

It was Sunday morning the 28th of August. I was just about to enter the sauna, a well tended gated area with spotless tile floors, separate stall showers, ceramic tiled surrounds and private rest rooms. A small, red light glowed out of the darkness signaling that the sauna was occupied. Upon opening the rough hewn wooden door I was met with heat, total darkness, and a voice that said, “Turn the lights on if you’d like—I prefer the dark.”

The voice was pleasant and direct. I flipped the switch and was met (again) with an intense dry heat and a young white man sitting on the lower of two redwood benches, wrapped in a white beach towel. I closed the door after me. We exchanged good mornings and I asked, “How long do you normally stay in?

“About fifteen minutes. I get out cool, down for about 5 minutes, and then back in for another 15 minutes. I try to go about 45 minutes,” he said as clinically as a doctor. We discussed a variety of topics as the temperature rose and I learned that he was a doctor.

Suddenly, in the deep dark corner of my mind I heard the distinct sound of a clapping of hands, a rhythmic, steady popping as familiar as an old song. I asked the young man, “What has living in Hawaii taught you? I’m sorry.” I said. I quickly corrected myself and asked the question in a less presumptive way—“Were you born here?”

“Oh no, I was born in Florida . But it’s a good question. I’ve learned what it is like to be on the other side of the racial divide. I’ve come to know just how crazy and silly humans really are. I don’t feel hatred, but rather somewhat ostracized and insulated because I’m white. Funny having the tables turned brings to mind a story that a Rabbi told me about a young man.”

He said the man asked him:

“What is the meaning of life?”

“Well,” the Rabbi said, “The first question God asked man was, “Where is Able?” Cain responded and asked God, “Am I my brother’s keeper?”

“The Rabbi said no more—the answer was obvious to the Rabbi. However, the first time I heard the story I didn’t get the true meaning,” the young doctor explained. “My brother Derrick died at 26 from a drug overdose”. The young doctor began to cry quietly.

“Derrick was a free spirit, often reckless, and daring. He loved the edges, and was fully engaged with life. Derrick got into trouble with the police for running a traffic light, and then for trying to out run them on his motorcycle through three different counties. They weren’t serious crimes, i.e. capital offences, but they were troublesome and our family had to deal with it through the legal system.

Nonetheless, my brother was ordered by the court to get help. We got Derrick into a drug rehab program, but the doctors only prescribed more drugs. Three different medications were prescribed, but the affect of the new drugs were more corrosive than his drinking, smoking weed and his occasional use of cocaine. Ultimately, my brother became addicted to legal drugs, and subsequently spent too much time under their influence and alone, sleeping alone, living alone—he was actually deteriorating all alone and I should have been there. It wasn’t as if I didn’t care. But I was waiting for the phone to ring—I should have gone to him. I know better now. I didn’t know why I waited so long, but my brother never came home. I’ve been sitting in the dark—thinking about that”

“Do you know the first question asked of God?” The doctor answered his own question.

“Am I my brother’s keeper? Yes, is the only answer, we should be servants to the living, and that is the meaning of life. The Rabbi’s story has been ringing inside my head ever since my brother’s death last month. Yes. I am my brother’s keeper.”

I listened as the young doctor wept in the sauna and I turned out the lights.

Ω

Kapiolani Park

The following story is true. No names were changed because the innocent are protected.

Located at the foot of Diamond Head Crater in the east end of Waikiki is the largest and oldest public park in the state of Hawaii.  Kapiolani Park consists of 300 acres of moderately wooded, gently undulating land of indescribable beauty flanked by the Honolulu Zoo, an endless turquoise sea and an elliptical field of dreams.

This is where the story begins – and ends.  It’s late on a Sunday afternoon and the park is vibrating;  soccer, cricket, football, families cooking, children’s laughter, young men lying and looking at young women reclining, bathing in the sun, ukuleles strumming, and resident birds and dragon flies just flying

Jaden is in the fourth grade.  His favorite thing is playing football and doing exactly as he pleases – spontaneously.  This is the place for spontaneity and gazing into the clouds or rolling atop the thick lawns, seemingly insect free, with zebras in cages nearby.

Grandfather is a young sixty-five. Jaden is a precocious nine, however, he is big for his age. Jaden challenges his grandfather to a foot race. Suddenly, man and boy dash off as if a starter’s pistol exploded. The old man is just a little faster. He is outrunning the kid when Jaden suddenly tackles his grand father and the two of them tumble onto the grass in a jumble of arms, legs and laughter.

“It’s all about what is in the heart grandpa,” Jaden says. “No little champion it is about the speed in the feet,” the old man admonishes.

Jaden grabs the football, and flings it high and hard. For a brief moment the spinning ball seems to eclipse the meaning of time as it spirals through the aromatic air and then is pulled back to earth. The old man catches the ball in one large hand and does his “Prime Time” impression as the boy mocks him with his own end zone dance and more laughter.

Nearby, the old man’s daughter shouts from the car: “Do you want me to lock it?” The old man automatically pats his pockets making certain he has the car keys, and to his surprise, realizes his pockets are empty. “I’ve lost my keys!” He says aloud.

“You lost the keys grandpa?” Jaden asks.

“Yes—yes! I can’t find the car keys.”

“Where did you lose them?” His daughter asks.

“I think when Jaden tackled me the keys must have fallen out.” At that moment the three of them returned to the scene of the crime where Jaden had tackled him. They got down on their hands and knees and began to pat the ground because with grass so lush and thick car keys could hide anywhere.

At that moment a man with an eye-patch was walking nearby with his dog. He was about the same age as grandpa. “What are you doing,” he asked?”

“We have lost our car keys.”

“Well then,” he said, “you should take off your shoes because in grass this thick the feet become eyes.” At that moment everyone took off their shoes and allowed their feet to feel the grass. The old man had a large reddish dog with him, but only the dog had two good eyes and the old man also removed his shoes.

Within seconds another person, a younger, very large, man with his teenage daughter asked grandfather. “What are you looking for?”

 “We have lost our car keys.”

“And I have lost my home—actually I am houseless,” he said. The big man then smiled. “Listen if we form a line and move in mass we can cover more ground,” he said. Quickly, they formed a line—shoulder to shoulder. The one-eyed man and his dog, the houseless man and his teenage daughter, grandpa, his daughter and of course Jaden made an arrow straight line and searched the spot beneath the tree, and all around the tree. They searched with their heads down, their shoes off and their eyes wide open. Each one committed to the moment. It was as if their initiative had sparked a flame and turned the flame into momentum.

Nearby other people in the park seeing the guide dog, the one-eyed man, the giant and the children all with their shoes off and their heads down instantly joined them in exponential expression. Suddenly, there were twenty people searching, and then thirty people with their shoes off moving in right angles and concentric circles in search of the key. “I found it!” Jaden screams. “I found it…I’ve found the keys.” The park erupted with enthusiasm. A cheer went up as if 30 minors had been rescued from a caved in mine shaft, or bawling babies had been saved from a burning building. Thirty strangers were cheering, giving high fives and hugs. It was an unexpected and unforeseeable moment within the moment like faith within victory. At the vertex of that moment Jaden whispered to his grandfather. “The keys were in the front seat of the car all the time, but it doesn’t matter because it’s all about what is in the heart grandpa.”

Ω

EXIT STRATEGY FOR A HERO

CHAPTER ONE

“Until the grave is allowed to speak, the graveyard will always keep its secrets…”

We all have to make a living and do things we do not like to do. Joey’s new hang is as a vaccumm cleaner salesman. Yes, a vaccumm cleaner salesman, which brings him to the point of getting into a van with five other strangers.

It was unusally dark for high noon. The edges of the sky were blue-black. A thunderstorm was rolling in hard and low. Joey looked out the window as pieces of Honolulu sailed past.

“Hey L.A. you ever make $1000 in a day—L.A.?”

The man yapping was 25 or so, short, with a local cast. He offered a blunt the size of a Cuban.

“If I don’t make a sale today, I’m doing a home invasion tonight. You know what I’m sayin!”

The squat, formidable looking man was dead serious. Joey didn’t bother to answer. The radio blared and a baby, no more than two, was bawling in the backseat, strapped in and choking on the smoke. Joey wanted to say something, actually do something, but what, and why? This was an urban orbit of dysfunction—there ain’t no more righteousness in play—the right thing is the wrong thing. There were five people in the smelly van. They were being field trained in the art bait and switch by low I.Q. wannabes. Joey imagined a hampster furiously running on a treadmill and focused beyond the window. He was a fighter, actually a boxer. There is a subtle difference. He’d won every fight he’d ever been in except for the last one. He’s quit the game since, but whenever he’s alone its automatic: jab, double jab, feint, slip, dip, pivot, straight right-hand, upper-cut, hook to the body, back to the head—breathe—breathe.

Three thousand miles east on a stage beneath factured light beams and shadowy illusions, Taraqui Zac, “Z”, was playing his axe. He’s a natural, and very cool in the same way the sun appears to sink into the sea. Taraqui and Joey are brothers, which is an important distinction because life is a series of adjustments, connections and disconnects. He’s with this girl. She is high-brown in color and as organic as a weed. Tall, well formed, athletic. They were introduced during the wee wee hours, between night smoke and morning dew. It is just the two of them sitting at a small round table next to the bar. And what am I doing there? I’m like Hamlet’s ghost…I look very much like their father—who is also dead. Taraq and the girl are unaware that a ghost is sitting in their midst. He tells the girl,

“My brother is in danger.”

“And how do you know this?”

“A little birdie told me”

“Yes, of course, who else,” the girl says with considerable indignation. “So-ooo?” She queried back.

“So I’m leaving L. A. on the next smokey for Hawaii.”

“But what can you do?”

“I can’t let him get stepped on for something he can’t see coming. My brother has always relied too heavily on ‘what will be—will be’.”

He deftly kissed the girl’s hand, her cheek, and gently bit her generous lip. He stood up and left her sitting at that little table on a backless chair. I followed him outside.

“Hey L.A. !” The guy wouldn’t leave him alone. “You gonna sell something today?”

Joey wanted to be free of the annoying voice, the pathetic, bawling baby and the pungent smell of Chronic. But he knew he had to play the waiting game. He needed the money.

“I can sell a cripple a running shoe—yo,” Joey quipped. The yapper chuckled.

Z heard the 737’s wheels skirt the tarmac in a familiar way, letting the passengers know they had arrived safely. He looked at his watch, then out the window. It was raining furiously and he could not see the Ko’o lau Mountains through the deluge. He flicked open the cell cover and pushed speed dial. Joey answered on the second ring.

“What—what a surprise bro!” Joey said with feigned sarcasm.

“I’m on the ground. I’ll be at Terminal-B in fifthteen minutes, yo.”

“Cool, welcome home Z,” Joey, didn’t wait for an answer and flipped the cover shut.

The minute Z hit the ground the rain stopped. The sweet scent of ginger mixed with plumeria and fresh rain was invigorating. The tradewinds reminded him that he was home—he closed his eyes for a moment and inhaled deeply.

Rolling out of Honolulu Airport in a ragtop at sundown is the ideal transition after enduring cramped quarters and recycled air. Joey drove fast. We’re whizzing along pretty good on the H-1 East. Honolulu is reaching up out of the twilight like a volcanic testament to greed and beauty. Z flips the radio off.

“Somebody thinks they know me—you feel me?”

“Oh yeah, I got me…They think I’m you.

“Yeah…”

“Well its good to know you’re still bill—cause I got your back.”

“Fo-Ev-Vah.” The brothers smiled—Joey handed Z a note. Z unfolded it and read the message aloud: “We don’t have to worry about punishing our children once they’re grown—life punishes them for us…every single mistake inflicts a penalty. Dad…”

“The old man knew what was coming, but he couldn’t stop it.” Joey interjected. “Or get out of the way.” Z added. “Well, that explains the note. But the big picture is a little fuzzy. A year ago, me and the old man are fishing beyond the reef that fringes Hauula, when (apparently) out of nowhere a red, backpack appears.

Beep, beep, Joey hits the horn. “These mother_ _ _ _ _ _ _, drive with blinders. Sorry bro,” he interjected.

“Its bright red…like a neon sign…the backpack. I don’t know what Pop was thinkin, but my thoughts lasered. The backpack is drifting right toward us. It was a midly cosmic moment. I mean we’re a half mile out and waist deep in warm water…

“Okay, okay! I get the picture but what’s in the pack?

“It had four zippers. The old man doesn’t say a word. He just opens the pack and looks inside. Dad is usually a very controlled dude, but he’s sweating like he’s in a sauna. I say, “Dad—Dad?” He says,“Come on son, we got to roll up outta here. We’re being watched”. He left his fishing pole right there and walked away.”

“What was in the backpack?” Joey was clearly exasperated.

The Honolulu International Airport is approximately12-15 minutes west of downtown Honolulu. Its another 8 minutes to paradise. Waikiki is known for its sunny skies, warm surf, white sand beaches, sex 24-7, and long, lazy breaking curls. The ghosts and remnants of old Hawaiian culture hover everywhere. The history is palpable. Joey hits Kalakaua Avenue and slows to a roll out of respect. The avenue was named after King David Kalakaua, and parallels the most famous beach in the world. Its almost dark. Waikiki is radiant with color, teeming with excitement and people of all shapes, lured by food, both fast and gourmet, self-deceit, hard bodies, music and a myriad of cultural revelations.

Z began once more, “When we got out of the water two men carrying spear guns are walking toward us aggressively. It was an easy read. Pops tosses the backpack over one shoulder, and walks toward them. The Bronco is parked behind the two men. I’m reciting the 23rd Psalm: Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death… The two men appoach…. I will fear no evil. I can see their spear guns glimmer from the sunlight. I’m afraid, I feel strange, but energized. Suddenly, the two men, are in our face.” Z circles his face for clarity. “They walked directly past Dad and me like we were two stones. They didn’t utter a word. It was surreal. We scrambled into the Bronco. Its even funnier now because I couldn’t stop thinking, what’s in the bag? Everything is moving at atomic speed—no time for bullshit.

Dad says to me, “Zach, son—listen to me son, We’re on shaking ground here. Around the next bend I want you to jump out and hide. They think you’re Joey. They know me, but they don’t know you. You got to jump, son.”

“I did a double take.” Then Dad says to me, “Steady now,” and there was a change in his tone. Its scary not knowing what to do in the presence of danger. But I had just been told what to do. Surprisingly, I felt less afraid. I looked at Dad’s face. His expression turned to granite. I’d never seen that look before and I realized there are some decisions from which there is no way out. So—-I jumped.”

Joey pulled into his driveway. He turned the engine off and the silence engulfed them. He waited.

“The point is, Z continued, “What it is was, I stayed out of sight for nearly an hour and caught the 88 Express back to town. That’s when I realized that everybody is swinging a hammer—claw first.”

“Come on bro, what was in the damn bag?”

“What’s the matter with you man?

“What was in the bag?” Joey was trying hard to keep his cool.

“Do you really want to know what was in the freaking bag!”

“Yeah…what was in the goddamned bag.”

“I’ll tell you what was in the baaag! A heart—man, a human heart! You feeling me? Somebody’s heart was in the bag with the aorta and pulmonary arteries and all that shit, like spaghetti and marinara sauce.” The faint, distinct sound of a single guitar string was being strummed slowly, deliberately, repetively growing in intensity. Joey received a chilling bolt of lucidity.

“A freaking heart!” he said in disbelief.

“Turn that shit up!”

Joey turned the car radio up. The speakers exploded with ‘Traffic’s Low Spark of High Heel Boys.’ Someboy was clapping their hands. The Ghost.

“What the hell do you do with a freshly harvested human heart in a backpack? I mean for real—you feel me?” Z reiterated.

“Bring a case of wine—we’ll have a good time, ooooh I’m so glad to meet you?” Joey smiled. “Here’s the real deal in paradise Z. There are a lot of cultural divisions and lots of immigrants with third world ways. This carries over into the main culture, but these transplants got first world cheddar which makes just about anything possible. I can’t justifiy what I don’t understand, but the killers ain’t white, bet on it!”

As the two men prepared for the hunt, Joe asked, “And now what?”

“We twist it up and do the one thing they ain’t ready for!”

“Which is?”

“ Which is…the bleeding heart in a backpack surprise,” Z says.

The brothers chuckled. Joey handed the Glock to Z before stating the obvious: “I hate guns.”

The first time the boys learned to shoot was on Kauai. It was just the three of them. The gun was a nickle-plated, nine-millimeter, Model 69 Smith & Wesson. The old man blasted three bottles with three sucessive shots. The explosions scared the shit out of the boys. He immediately handed the gun to Joey with the following instructions:

“The safety switch is on. Take up a balanced stance. I need you to switch the safety off and place your finger beside the trigger—do not touch the trigger until you intend to fire. Point the weapon at your target, close one eye, align the front and rear sight, rest the target on top of the sight and squeeze. If you exaggerate any movement it will result in a deflection and you will miss the target. It is important to control your breathing.”

Joey pulled the trigger and the gun nearly jumped out of his hand. He handed the weapon back to his dad.

“Ok Z, its your turn,” dad said. “Do not rush. Some guys like to aim with their dominate eye. Sometimes, I use both eyes.”

Taraqui Zac did exactly as his father instructed, and nailed all three bottles.

The Ala Moana Hotel dominates its boundaries like a citadel. Joey drove up the sweeping U-shaped driveway to the glittering entrance. The valet parked their ride and the brothers strolled into the deluxe hotel. They made their way through the corridors where its said you can occasionally hear the whispers and chants of the ancient Hawaiians. Rumors is an all-night dance club located on the ground floor. It is cool and comfortable inside. The boys entered and were met with a catarac of hope as players, lonely hearts, and single-mommies played musical chairs. The sounds of Bobby Brown filled the dance floor. The heavy, insistent bass translated into a palable current of sexual tension. However, a darker, harder vibe suddenly became the seat of life. Across the expansive dance floor a big man is dancing with a small woman in red. He’s the guy their looking for. It is now a race against the dawn. Joey and Z didn’t know the woman but they knew the man, and they slipped into the deep unlit corners, committed to the next move.

“We found you mutha-fu_ _ _ _ _,” Z said under his breath. He touched Joey’s arm and then the 40 caliber Glock in his waistband. Joey nodded and identified everything that wasn’t under the influence of music and shape-shifting bodies. The big man is dancing on a dime, his massive gold chain blinging and banging like a hangman’s knot around his thick neck. Instantly, fear has the same scent as the smell of love in Joey’s nostrils. He’s on his feet and in sync with two differentt vibes at once as opportunity and danger are unexpectedly speaking the same language—it was perfect.

The big man had his eyes closed as the red dress worked and he made change. Nobody knows what Joey said to Goliath in the moment between the girl and music, but whatever it was, the big man’s eyes shot wide open as if to say, what’s the matter with you boy? The big man pulled out his cell and called Z within seconds. He was unaware that Z stood, still in the shadows, just a few yards away.

The jungle teaches every native one simple and useful lesson: the ability to read between the lines. Z knew where—when—and he now knew how, and gave the big man some free advice before hanging up:

“Everybody needs somebody to love…some just need more than others—you feel me partner?”

“You will hear from me in 30, and I ain’t your partner,” the big man emphasized.