Messing with the Mob (Chinatown)

I was once told that China was the cradle of civilization, a nestling rock for the Golden Age of reason and the centerpiece of global philosophy and knowledge. Having never been to China myself, I can’t even being to tell you if that statement is true or not. But, as a resident of the fine island of Oahu, Hawaii, I can tell you that walking through Chinatown evokes none of those notions.

The atmosphere is a chaotic disarray of tourists, locals, and all those in-between bustling about in bare recognition of one another. The air smells like the strong mixture of booze, piss, and the aroma of meat and foods being cooked. Police sit on every corner ignoring homeless bums and thieves alike. Each little nook and cranny has its own interesting interaction of life-shattering proportions. One is just as likely to make a friend as to get robbed here.

It was the perfect place to go if you were looking for trouble, and I, myself, am not a man of plain demeanor.

My place in Chinatown’s underworld is that on the borderline. I interact with it, and waver back and forth between criminal miscreant and troubled citizen regularly. It feels like it was only yesterday that I met a drug dealer, took a walk, and found myself tumbled into a world of underground gambling halls, whores, and drugs that would make even the most Holy of Priests and politicians blush in discomfort.

And I find myself returning to it. Not because I’m a miscreant – no, I’m perfectly fine not being involved in any of that nonsense – but the thrill of interaction with it is a high all its own. That’s why on this night, like many nights, I rambled half-drunk down King Street.

“Hey boy! Hey! Haole boy!” A familiar voice called to me. I didn’t even need to turn.

“Not interested, Lani,” I responded. I was not in a whoring mood. Don’t get me wrong, she was the most adorable Samoan whore in town – I was just not in the mood.

“Oh please, please Robbie!”

“Not tonight, hun. I’ve got things to do.”

With that, the interaction ended almost as fast as it began. She had other customers, and I had more important matters to attend to. Stopping an opiate fiend on a hunt is a futile endeavor.

There are only a few places that one can get, guaranteed, no-cop-set-ups, high-grade Opiates. Aside from a few shady niches in Nanikuli, there was an opium den in North Shore. But I was in town, and in no mood to travel that far. No, here is where I would make my mark.

My eyes darted back and forth King Street before sprinting across. The only thing that could ruin my night, aside a mugging, was a Jay-Walking ticket (same difference in my book. One is legal). And, sure enough, I was standing before a shady building with all cameras and blacked out windows.

This was a place of legends. Nowadays, when people usually talk about “fronts” they are talking about loaning people drugs – they rarely mean an actual Business Front. The kind of business that is never closed, never has traffic in nor out, never has the “OPEN” light on, and nothing ever happens at. But never goes out of business. Seemingly.

This is a place of lore. A pure, legitimate, mob house. I dare not write its name, but any man worth his means can find it.

When I was first here with my drug-dealer connection I was picking up a bottle of Vicodin for my knee (I promise). Today they treat me with the same respect then as they do now – none – but with a little less suspicion of the scrawny white guy in the large sunglasses. The atmosphere is much lighter for me as well. Now when I walk into the empty diner with no chairs, tables, or menu I can just cut straight to the chase. No double-talk.

But the eyes still follow me. The eyes of the three big braddahs sitting near the entrance, and the one sitting at the rear door behind the counter never leave you. I’m no longer worried that they’ll beat me down, take my wallet, and dump my body into the Pacific – but the fact that they could never really leaves the mind. And that’s just the way they like it.

“Oh hey, auntie! Howzit?” I say, walking to the counter.

”Howzit boy? Whatchu looking for?” the woman asked.

“Lookin’ to party, auntie. What’s good on the candy menu?”

She shuffled under the table in a lock box for a moment before looking up.

“You know the rules, boy. You ask, I show.” She responded. She was never off her game.

“Oxy. Largest doses you can scrounge.”

“Oh. Into trouble again tonight?” She replied, making small talk. That’s cool of her – she rarely makes small talk. I could speculate that it’s the batu talking, but I shouldn’t assume. That’s just methed up.

“Nah nah nah, auntie. No trouble tonight. Just looking for a nightcap.”

“Still talking to Lani?” she said, the sound of shuffling pills in bottles shaking beneath the table. And there it was – she pulled out that lovely orange bottle. Inside was an assortment of Red, Blue, Green, and White pills. This was the good shit. The time-release shit.

“Only when I have money,” I said. “Now what do we have here?”

“I got sixties on the pour, boy. 30s, 15s, and 5s if you’re looking for something lighter.”

“I’m looking for a nightcap, not a hospital visit.”

“Same difference. Now, what’s your number?”

I pondered it for a moment. I could always chop up the larger ones in parts – less time if I was caught with less pills. But the larger the amount the less likely I was to ration it. Opiates have a habit of doing that to a man.

I finally settled on three 60s - $120, if you’d believe it. A buy-two-get-one-free deal.

As much as I’d like to tell you there is more to this story, there isn’t. I could, possibly, tell you that I went in the back and played video slots. I could have told you how I went back to Lani and lopped off a corner for a night of company.

But none of that happened tonight. I was not in the mood for gambling, and Lani was already booked up for the evening.

With that in mind I left the front store. Stumbling to my car, I tossed the parking ticket into the bushes and drove home to my Pearl City abode. As paranoid as I am, I felt safer in a den of thieves than I do on the H1.

After all, who knows what kinds of madmen are out there?

Big Trouble in Little Chinatown, Hawaii...

It is in the course of human events that men in my stature and position (spoken in true humor. I have no position, nor stature. I'm just a drug-addled, drunken writer) come to cross words with police officers from time to time. This is not a regular occurance nor is it wanted - it simply happens.

I live and breathe my life in what I would like to call the Gray Zone. In the Gray Zone, a man finds themselves breaking the law, but not enough to where a police officer would bother nor care about enough to waste their time on you. The law is Black and White, of course, involving all sorts of horrible and atrocious acts: Homicide, Theft, Selling drugs, J-walking, driving without paperwork, speeding, driving under the influence, etc. etc. etc.
But the Gray Line is where one finds themselves then they are breaking the law, but not enough to be bothered with. This varies, of course, from pig pen to pig pen upon what the Long Arm of the Law defines as undeserving of their time. Most people wouldn't be bothered much by J-walking enough to chase down a suspect...

Boy, am I having a bad fucking day then.

Never in my entire life had I anticipated such a heightened reaction from Honolulu Police Department's finest for the simple act of walking across the street. I billowed out grunted, tight huffs as I proceeded to jet down Beritania Street, darting on my first right and into the heart of Chinatown, Hawaii. A quick glance over my shoulder revealed a single, lone HPD officer barrelling down the sidewalk in hot pursuit.
You see, normally the reaction wouldn't be as harsh nor as immediate as a footchase with the police. Usually they would give up and go about their way - but no, today by the hands of fate I crossed paths with the only fit, non-lazy officer in the entire HPD. The term "pig" would be unfitting to describe this most-likely-Japanese gentleman, for he was neither fat nor lazy. No, I was being chased by a damned shark. A demon. Satan himself wanted to see justice done and unleased the hounds of hell upon me.
Not to mention: If the police have to chase you, they're bringing an ass-beating with them. Just ask Rodney King.

I looked forward, charging into the ruckus of Chinatown on a busy Monday, and attempted to wrap my cocaine-coated brain around possible options. I grabbed a shopping cart from a homeless man, turning it down behind me in hopes it would delay my pursuer.
Alleyways? - unlikely. Chinatown's alleys are all sealed.
A store? - Not with him in sight.
A bar? - Yeah. In midday. Next.
The harbor? - This isn't a videogame. Besides, that's a crime in and of itself nowadays. I'm not feeling a trip to GITMO anytime soon.

I looked back behind me, my sunglasses blocking the sunlight long enough for me to see the Terminator vault the shopping cart like it didn't even exist. Do they make new recruits take track?!

I cornered hard onto infamous HOTEL STREET - which, in modern times, has seen a hell of a neutering of it's once-grimey atmosphere. The only whore houses that exist do so in back rooms and there's a decent gamble that you're going to get a male companion. This wasn't exactly on my to-do list at the moment, though. The only thing I was focused on was the 5'6" of pain with it's sights honed on my ass.
I was barrelling towards the Marketplace, careening through groups of people and desperately looking for something - anything - for a way to lose him.
Pressed for space, I made a move that would make or break this chase. I darted into the chaos of Maunakea Marketplace, with absolue uncertainty of where I was going to go. Here stands change regularly, and there is no predictable path of persons to follow. By instinct I ran for the food court, my cocaine-hightened senses imbewing within me some kind of Spiderman-esque reflexes. I slid across it, and didn't dare to look behind me. I could feel his eyes on me: his flaring, just breath on the rim of my collar.

There is no other event in my mind at this moment. I was pure instinct - run. Escape. If I was caught, I was facing 6 months minimum for this escapade alone. If they connected me with any warrants, I'd be seeing the gray-green walls of a cell for 2-3 years.
Fuck that. People zoo is not where I'm planning to spend any portion of my life - those animals would devour an intellectual being like me up for lunch.

I found myself drawn to a particular shop with a decent-looking Chinese woman at the front end. She couldn't have been any older than 30 (Context: I'm from a small town in Nowhere, Alabama originally, so the age of asian persons is a struggling art for me), and had a very ugly smile as she greeted me.
"Welcome to CoCo's Dre-" she began, but was immediately hushed.
"Excuse me. I'm looking for a dress for my wife do you mind no thank you." I pushed the phrases out, turning behind a rack of silk and nylon dresses. For what felt like an eternity of time I shuffled the dresses, pretending to look for something that would match my non-existant wife's body. It was a grueling process, sorting through dresses and making a hallowed attempt to look busy.
My ears then picked up on a subtle communication:

"... Nonono. He not in here." The lady said aloud, her chinese accent swam through the dresses like ether through a rag.
"Miss, you understand that hiding a fugitive is a crime, yes?" Said a very distinct and commanding voice of a well-trained demon pig.
"He not in here! We sell dress. We have officer special - half off for Christmas, yes?!" She said back.

There was a pause. I heard radio traffic on the officer's walkie-talkie. Seconds ticked by with the steady unease of hours until finally:

"Thank you miss." The officer's voice said, before hearing his communication on the radio:
"Lost suspect. BOLO for a white male, approximately 5'7" with sunglasses, white Hawaiian shirt, sandals. Possibly under the infl~" his voice trailed off.

I let out a sigh, and fell to my knees in a state close to tears. It wasn't emotion, however - it was all of the anxiety build up releasing into my hyped-up system. My brain couldn't process the relief I was feeling at the moment. After a second I recomposed myself and pulled up from the floor of the store, leaning on the wall next to the silk dresses. Standing at the far-end, glaring at me with the heat of a million foul Chinese women was the lady from the front.
"You lucky that you cute." She said simply, crossed arms tied before her like two snakes bound in fate. Her face had a cruel, smug grin on it revealing her crowbar-pulled (yet, startlingly white) teeth.
"... Kindly, Miss Coco. I can't even-" I began saying in return, fixing to give her all the praise and adoration she was likely expecting.
"You take me to lunch down at Pig and Lady," she said, turning beyond the corner and out of sight. If you've ever delt with any Chinese business, you know that negotiating is futile in the face of a Chinese woman.

"... Yes ma'am." I responded. Who would really argue with that? Besides, dinner didn't seem THAT bad of a punishment for that whole ordeal.

Christmas Traffic and Pigs on a String ... A Few of My Least Favorite Things

There are few things more dangerous and more menacing than Holiday traffic - especially for the working man. And double that much so if that working man happens to live on a damned island in the Pacific. Compounded with the influences of Oxy 80s and cocaine, it becomes a total hell.
"Chinatown. The closed off fucking CHINATOWN for this parade." I said, feeling the burn of the setting sun in my eyes. "Who the shit closes off fucking CHINATOWN during peak traffic hours?!"
It was the natural order of things on this island to schedule traffic interruptions and detours at moments when it would maximize the impact upon the island as a whole. The last four years on this island have been plagued with unmentionable closures of major roadways for work during peak traffic hours - I can imagine the board of directors sitting around in a dark lair right now, cackling like menaces from a horrific B action hero movie:

So I told the City Councilman that we should close down the entire highway in the middle of the day and divert traffic into two sidestreets. AND HE BOUGHT IT! Pass the champaign boys, we've managed to artificially inflate gas prices yet again!

As much of a conspiracy nut I may sound like for mentioning such a scenario, it's the only sound and firm explenation for such asinine and troublesome inconveniences to the good, decent taxpayers drivers of Hawaii. 

I took advantage of the red light to fumble around my glove box for my sunglasses... A few discarded parking tickets and a bag of the crushed remains of a mesculine tablet or two fell into the fuzzy brown floor of the Green Machine and the sunglasses somehow got themselves intertwined with a knock-off opium pipe I got from the swap-meet. I pulled off my glasses, tucking the glazed shades over my dialated eyes to shield them from the downbeating sun.
The sun. Yeah, fuck that too.

It was then I became aware of the traffic honking around me at this red light, I glanced over and saw, much to my dismay, cars going about me. I looked over to my right, and looking at me was a rather tedious-looking Traffic Cop.
"Sorry officer," I said, paranoia bracing the back of my skull. "Bright sun, long day, you know - da kine."
It could be attributed to the gripping influences I was under, but the mound of evidence could not be heaped up anymore against me. This was it, I was done for. 10 unpaid tickets, expired registration and safety, no insurance, drug paraphinelia... He even saw me take off my prescription sunglasses. Even with my bad eyes and the shades of the lenses, I could see the officer calculating the current scenario.
"Move along, sir," The fine young man of the HPD said. Or woman, I couldn't be sure - it was the closest pig to a pig I could describe. I guess the officer decided that he didn't want to deal with the bullshit of looking me, and figured that with that many tickets and drugs I would just drive off anyways. Probably do something insane, like drive on the sidewalk or careen into the empty oncoming way (all of which I would have done without hesitation. Cocaine makes everything a great idea).

"Thanks, Officer." I said, giving him a proper salute with my right hand. "And a Merry Christmas to you."
"Merry Christmas... And buckle your damned seatbelt."

No need to ask me twice. Second gear and two streets later I'm parked on a One-Way street, bound for the gripping insanity that is Chinatown Hawaii and dodging a marching parade to chase all sorts of demons and devils that lavish this crooked side of Paradise.

Merry Christmas indeed.
Humbug.

Straight to Hell - A Brief Intro to Paradise... And Public Smoking

Let me first start off by getting this right off my chest:
I am - by no stretch nor means - a sane, stable individual.

There are no excuses nor exchanges that can make this statement any less valid. It could be argued that, in principle, everyone is a bit insane. Some philosopher or politician out there would sling that everyone has had hardships in their life that cause them to be stigmatized to society.
Doctors and psychiatrists will spin stories, arguing that drugs are the solution to outliers such as me, and that would be true...
I am no doctor, nor philosopher, nor politician... But I think it is far more likely that everyone is on Drugs. And no more a truthful statement could be said of the wonderful island of Oahu, Hawaii. A hell shaped paradise sitting in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.
No man alive gripping in their search of the great American Dream can even fathom the thought of how truthful a statement I had previously made can draw itself into context. A man without context and a few bills in his pocket could easily find himself just about any drug in the world purchased from anyone not wearing a badge at the time (and a few select of the population that were badge-carrying pigs of the Honolulu Police Department that would sell on the side just the same).
Being in the rather unique position on the Earth of having 7/8ths of it's total annual population being tourists and visitors, if it can be placed in your system and cause abnormal effects you can - and will - find it in Hawaii.

Except smoking. A smoker will find himself in a poor position in this state.

This is the shining paradise I had been living in for four whole years previous. A sailor, stripped from the uncanned and desolate suburbs of Alabama found myself infatuated with the easy life and smooth living styles of this paradise... There's something about the beaches, the waves, and the exotic women that fly trap haoles ("outsiders" in Hawaiian. Or, realistically, "fucking white boys taking our land" in contemporary slang) like me to it's atmosphere. And I've found myself unable to leave.
I stepped off the plane, my eyes darting around visciously looking for an opening in the sidewalk beat for a place to smoke. I stood steadfast beneath a break in the overpass, weighed down by my several carry-on baggage containers that held the full berth of my travels. Five cartons of cigarettes, a half-full flask of rum, and a bottle of "ibuprofin" (and some Oxy tablets I picked up in a bar during a layover in Texas).
Sparking up a cigarette in Hawaii is rather risky business nowadays. The ticket for smoke wafting in the wrong face at the wrong time in this state is in the ballpark of $200. In my last ticket I had the unique privledge of lacking identification, so I'm sure there's a nice and hefty bench warrant out for a Doctor Thompson from Hawaii Kai still to this day for the infamous and unfathomable crime of Jay-Walking in Waikiki, but it's difficult to grasp how that would work in this scenario:

What officer? No, I don't have any identification on me. I'm the only person in the Land of the Free who managed to fly without any form of identification. They took me on my word, why shouldn't you?

I'd be jailed for terrorism as well, I'd expect. Then smuggling, if they caught me with those prescriptions.
No heat yet, though: no yelling, nothing. It was also somewhere around 2 AM, so I highly doubt any of these mokes felt like chasing off some perceivied tourist from smoking outside the baggage claim. Just ignore the white guy and smoke weed behind the pillars where the cameras can't see you.

That's when I heard the familiar sound of a vehicle, careening much faster and with a much deeper incline than it should have. My tired eyes gazed through the cloud of smoke and down the speedway to spot the Green Machine - an Audi, A6 - a rolling hell on wheels, spitting smoke from the sides and through the sunroof like a demon, barreling towards hell. My car, being driven by the madman that could only be my best man, Rico Suave.
The vehicle practically screeched to a stop, briefly climbing the sidewalk before thudding back on the road with a demonic thud of a bad transmission. Out crawled a short, built local white boy with cropped hair and the kind of facial hair that, in the mainland United States would be considered that of a preteen adolescent but passed as normal in Hawaii. And, as a topper, he was the most local white guy in all of Hawaii.

"What the fuck, dude. I've been waiting here for thirty minutes!" I spat out at him, walking forward.
"Why the fuck didn't you call me?" Rico huffed back, his eyes widening as he immediately dropped into tough-guy mode.
"Because my phone died in Texas, now make yourself useful and help me get this shit" I responded promptly, tossing him the briefcase in my hand as I lugged my other luggage to the trunk.
"I'm not your fucking maid," he backed at me, shaking the suitcase before chucking it into the back seat of the warped vehicle.
"It's got your present in there. Keep it careful."
I slammed the trunk and walked to the front seat, confronting him like a bouncer would confront a bulligerant drunk at a club. It didn't take long for both of us to drop our bullshit and the smiles cracked out.

"I missed you, man." I said, climbing into the car's driver seat.
"You too, faggot." Rico spit back my way.
Our little back-and-forth pacing into it's old style. He climbed into the passenger seat as I pulled away from the Arrivals section of Honolulu International Airport and into the dark Highway, H-1, bound westward towards home.