Friday

At Kona the low tan blocks have been replaced by a-frame huts-- yes, huts-- with thatch roofs and low walls of volcanic rock and light grey mortar.  A surprisingly helpful luggage agent tells us that our bag did not make it and could he have our address so they can send it down?  He practically rolls his eyes when we tell him.  Apparently we are in the back country.  No matter, the bag is coming on the next flight and by the time we have our car-- a process that always seems to take way, way too long-- the bag is sitting in a row with some others just under the agent's right elbow.

The country round about is a terrain of jagged black rock sloping down from greenish uplands, whose tops are hidden by grey clouds.  The roads undulate over the piles of clinker and here and there show their age with great potholes and sections heaved up.  Pretty soon the rain starts-- as it does here every day in the late afternoon-- and a light drizzle turns to a heavy cataract, a thing that gives sudden, urgent meaning to the signs that warn you about certain low sections of road.  Gradually we climb out of the flatland around the airport and onto the shoulders of the mountains, through drooping coffee plantations and rusty steel roofs covered with what used to be green paint, light pink and aqua ranch styles set back behind trees of red blossoms like bursting star mines and great dangling pink trumpet flowers.  And at the foot of every driveway hand-painted signs:  "No Spray"; "No Spray- Mahalo".  Also faded signs for family mac nut farms and postage stamp plantations.

Sometimes there's a retail district of low, white lapboards and the rare 40s-era stucco block, perhaps a filling station, and all of it pleasantly down-at-the-heel as if it were abasing itself for the brilliant orange, red, violet, yellow and pink blossoms that seem to decorate every available space here.  Then there are the great, spreading trees with crowns the size of small houses-- banyans?  I expect to see Jupiter threading the gold bug through a skull, high in the black Os and Us under the leaves-- and the mangoes, with their spear-like leaves and clusters of delicate green/orange fruit.  

 There is a complex of modern, hard-edged buildings back of Kailua-Kona, with a Marshall's, Old Navy, McDonald's--but even these have to perch on the ridiculously steep parkways that seem to be the norm here.  And even the busiest intersections are decorated with wild tangles of pink blossoms and jagged yucca plants.

But in the rainstorm we have no colorful cabinet signs or green and white legends to guide us, so we nearly miss the turn for Ka'awa Loa Plantation.  The situation, too, is improbable-- there is a sign, and, apparently, a driveway on the side of a hill that seems so steep as to permit only a footpath-- and that a precarious one.  But there is a driveway.  We both fall silent as the car labors.  We are both thinking that we will simply tip over backwards and go crashing through the coffee bushes and mangoes and creepers and explode onto the road below.  A patch of moss on the steepest section underlines the point.

At the top there is a tight circular drive around a lush planting, all under a flat roof.  You walk under and through a pair of heavy screen doors and stand  in  a quiet entry with a white staircase climbing to your left and another set of heavy wood screens straight ahead.  To their left is a sitting room with overstuffed, modern couches, lots of tropical hardwood and prints of local scenes and artwork.  To the right of the sitting room and down a short hall is the kitchen.  We walk into this darkened entry, still unsure even of where we are.  For a terrible moment I think "My god, we're standing in someone's living room; we have the wrong house."  Then I hear a man's treble welcoming a guest in the kitchen.  It is vaguely familiar, as is his face.  He turns and holds up a hand while he talks.  I relax inside; we are expected after all.

This is Michael, one of the two men who run the plantation and minister to the guests' many needs.  On a shelf over one of the kitchen counters is a photo of him in tee and dogtags standing next to Robin Williams, a snapshot, I assume, from the production of the film Good Morning Vietnam.  He has a constantly sly look, as if he were hiding a secret that will please you and he's enjoying the anticipation.  Usually this is the case; we find that he's extremely well-informed about Captain Cook, Kailua-Kona and the island in general and seems to know just what you require before you require it.  He groans sympathetically when he learns we came from Portland and shows us our room, a charming, well-lit corner with big, soft bed.  A small room to one side, closed with shutters, is the toilet.  Then we come back downstairs and find fresh mango juice and hot brownies waiting for us.  Soft guitar and a man's falsetto, singing in Hawaiian, filters from the sitting room and we sit on the other side of that second set of doors.

On the other side is a lawn, backed by two immense mango trees.  At times, perhaps every ten minutes or so, something heavy crashes through the leaves and lands with a thud.  At first you are alarmed; then you realize that these are mangoes dropping.  "If you like mangoes, pick 'em up and eat 'em," Michael says.  "No extra charge."  Doves trill to each other in the upper branches and add their part to a chorus of metallic whirrs and growls and cries.  And you can witness this from a veranda covered by a  roof supported by graceful turned columns and served by not one, but three sets of heavy screen doors:  two into the sitting room, one into the kitchen.  You may sit at one of several tables with high-backed chairs, or take your ease in a rocker, or sink into one of a pair of deeply-padded wicker swivels.  At the far end of the porch, at the driveway end, is a teak couch with immense cushions and an end table.

You stay on the porch, not just for the handsome lawn and park-like stand of palms and mango trees, but what is beyond that back yard:  look.

Behind the mangoes, a rank of tall, graceful flowering trees, their tips orange and red blossoms like fireworks.  Beyond that, a screen of banana palms and tropical fruits rapidly disappearing, because remember we are on the face of a scarp, and far below, far, far below, so that the belt highway is a shoelace, a quilt of light and dark green, the stitches stone walls and narrow gravel roads.  And in the center of the quilt a white country church with red roof and steeple.  And beyond all that?  The measure of the vast Pacific, brilliantly blue and scratched with fine white lines:  the odd yacht or deep sea fishing charter.  And beyond that?  A pink haze and the heavy clouds of Hawai'i-- and perhaps Captain Kidd or Billy Bones or Squire Trelawney on another crazy junket.  Somewhere back of the clouds your waking ends and the dreaming begins.  Then the clouds seem to roll in and even up the mountainside and then...  Who's to say where the dreaming ends and the waking begins?  Jim Hawkins knows.  The Squire knows.  Long John Silver knows.  Billy Budd knows.  Tashtego knows.

By God I miss that place even now.

Thursday

Saturday morning comes slanting in, ducking its head for us.  I read my mother's letter.  As usual, she reads my mind.  Somehow I am still carried by the ship of state that left her slip the day before and don't delay but find some cream-colored stationery in the desk by the window and fill a page with careful explanation.  It's truly remarkable how quickly I grasp the requirements of the office.

As I write I can see the little boy looking on at this grown man, suddenly quiet and solemn at what seems a minor task; I can sense his uncomprehending stare.  Perhaps he is awed, perhaps he is impatient, perhaps he is bemused.  Then I feel his impatience turn to grief:  the blossoms falling, the smell of cut grass, the golden acorns littering the sidewalk, they are no longer there for him, merely there for anyone who sees them.  And he must take from them what he can.

And the day before, standing in the center of that circle of stone, I have already told the world-- my family, my friends, what can truly be called the world as far as I am concerned-- that I know this finally and completely, and now they know that I know.

And like a swift ducking in an ocean wave I find my eyes opened, smarting and the truth all around me and containing me, a truth so big it's another world.  She is my only point of reference and I instinctively take her hand.  She and I stand in the immensity.   This is what the man knows and the little boy cannot know.

And, of course, standing behind the little boy is his mother.

So I do not delay.  I write the careful explanation, I write her title on an envelope and seal it carefully-- then, a bit shamefaced, as this, like so many other details, was one that should have been finalized days, even weeks ago-- I call my mother and tell her yes, we will need a ride to the airport.  She must read this before we leave, must not be kept in suspense.

And now the sun truly sets on our marriage:  we take a late morning bus from downtown to the sleepy bustle of Westmoreland and gratefully stretch into our our baggy weekend clothes.   There is one last occasion:  a brunch at Kay's, where we finally-- for shame!-- introduce ourselves to the bartender Jeffrey (a thousand apologies to him-- I have not seen his name in print) and explain to him that his bar saw the dawn of our married life and is now witnessing the sunset of the first day.  Also attending:  (from the left):  Debbie, Dena, Stan, Mary, Lindsey, Evelyn, Gina Marie, Meredith, Aaron, Justin.   This is the family I am gaining.  I now have siblings...  I scarcely know where to begin.

It's too short a time before we are packing and wondering why we didn't do it before.  Then a restless night followed by hurried coffee and my mother early and encumbered with a clutter of minor questions.

She's so distracted on the way to the airport she drives over a low divider at the Powell/ I-205 on-ramp.  Her explanation:  "I was looking left".  We arrive without further incident and with my letter safe in her hands.  Then the rude awakening of the TSA and their schoolmarmish fluid restrictions and stocking feet and belts in trays.  But my face, scrubbed clean as it is, newly rinsed as it is, can keep smiling even in the midst of this tiresome routine.  In fact, one endears himself by advising me when I offer to take off my ring.  "Not that.  Never take that off."

The flight is interminable, with a thousand glimpses at the slowly inching pictogram of the jet tracing its white line across the Pacific.  By the time we see the low blockhouses of Honolulu International we are already nearly a half hour late and running for our connection.  We are so close the agent has to shout directions to us as we jog into the breezeway.

But we make it, we make it.  Thank God.  And it is not jets but props we hear, not a compact screen but a featureless drink tray, a small price to pay for the blessedly short flight from Honolulu to Kona.  

Friday

The roses put on all their jewelry for us today.  Yes, it is raining.  Yes, there is some kind of crap in the city's drinking water.  Yes, there are last-minute calls made in the dripping breezeway of the Bi-Mart.  But nothing can disturb the quiet dignity of the firs and dogwoods in their new leaves, the trunks purple and dun in the slanting sunlight.  And best of all, we are ready.  Ready deep down.  And there is time for a drink, maybe two, on my own, with The Magic Flute playing in the background.

I change up to the 9th, Beethoven.  I want him in on this, this rare feeling of confidence and mastery.  The sweat dried long ago and I have no qualms, no doubts.  For now I am complete.  And the city is complete with me.  She and I will get along fine.

My family and friends are behind me:  a bundle of sticks you cannot break:   the fasces of office.  But today I am delegated to carry the family name, in that meld of the personal and public, the individual and the family, a union so old, so human.  And I am held up by it.

And by God, I do love her.

(Thank you Beethoven)    

Friday

"I thought it was a woman's drink," Vargas said.  "Gene gave me one and I drank it down in one gulp; I was like whoof."  Stan leans forward.  "It is a woman's drink," I said.  "It is almost all whiskey."  We are on the night bus, all loud, all painters, almost all in Section 3, except Atanacio (or Nacho), who is not parked in Section 3, but in Section 1, because, he said, "They don't let me park there."  He looks down after informing us and continues to clean his 5-in-1.

One day just before the toolbox meeting Joe turned to one of us with a dazed smile and said "Look what Nacho did for me."  He held out his 5-in-1 and I could see its edge gleaming.  "You could fuckin' cut paper with it," Joe said.  "Did he use a grinder?" the other said.  "No, man," Joe said.  "He used another knife or something.  That is sharp."  I thought of all the 5-in-1s I had found at the bottom of the tool crib, their edges permanently fouled by grey and white epoxies.  I turned to Nacho.  He was leaning against the neighbor's trailer, scraping his hardhat.  This, in fact, is what he does most of the time during the bull session and toolbox meetings.

Another time, in the trenches, now long since covered over by concrete walls, steel cladding and miles of pipe, we were squatting and kneeling with our angle grinders, occasionally tilting up our face shields to read the profiles we had made in the concrete, when Darby appeared above the edge, backlit and muffled by his half mask.  "That looks like shit, Nacho," he said through the respirator.  For some reason Nacho was uncovered.  Probably it was breaktime.  "Yeah, it look like shit," he said, tired.  "Everything look like shit."

For some reason, though, this Friday, there is no implied tension, though we are in just as much a hurry as any other time.  Even Lance seems more relaxed; while we are wrapping up for the night, coiling cords, stuffing trash bags, he reminds me to look for the most beautiful place on earth, a place in Wyoming whose name, I blush to relate, I have forgotten again.*  While he tells me about it his motions are rapid and purposeful, but it is cleanup and everyone is suddenly sure of what they're doing:  they're going home.  Tools are stowed in the tent, dirty thinner is poured through funnels, grips are packed, to the rhythm of the statement "Let's get the fuck OUT of here" in a kind of subterranean jazz beat.  But in the prelude, while Jesus and I are saturating and laying fiberglass on an equipment pad, instead of quizzing us on our procedure, he chats about the problems of the crew downstairs and occasionally shows us the silvery spots in the material that mean holidays--  as if there was no piano-sized deadline dangling over our heads and this was some kind of class and he was the instructor.

And so later, when he mentions Vedauwoo, I can see the same expression on his face as he looks through his windshield at the passing granite towers and sage forests of his home.

*Vedauwoo, Wyoming.  http://tools.wmflabs.org/geohack/geohack.php?pagename=Vedauwoo&params=41.178396_N_-105.356312_E_

Wednesday

My head hurts from trying to keep everything straight.  I need to visit the men's store to try on suits, I need to assemble a guest list, I need to sort laundry and on and on.  And it is all at the behest, the small things I need to do in exchange for the generosity of others:  my mother, my grandfather, my wife.  The confusion is of my own making, the cost of waiting too long, too many decisions to simply put off...

At the men's store the salesman is instantly casual and personable, an adept of the new model that says you should come off like a high school friend that only shared the good times.  He makes the suits, shoes, cedar hangers a personal favor to him.  While pretending to study the dim rows of charcoal, navy and tan I think that perhaps there were reasons I delayed this chore.  I have the strength of personality to turn down socks.  I'm so relieved when I walk out that I walk all the way to the rink end of the mall, climb the stairs and buy a mocha and biscotti.  Enough feeling comes back that I can even congratulate myself a little.  The suits really did look good on me, I should wear  turtlenecks, there's nothing affected about outfits, etc.  These daydreams meld seamlessly with the general mood of sunlight, instant reward and hushed footfall on carpeting.  My impending ten-hour shift seems like a momentary pause...

Back in the hot parking garage that stinks of gasoline, burned and unburned, and the pent-up frustration behind cars endlessly waiting for that chirping and blinking Explorer that never backs from its spot, back in this World War II-era fascist fortress, reality sets in.  Sarah Vaughan's voice rises to a shriek and I jab the button too late.  After some minutes of pushing and prying the cassette pops free, trailing a syrupy line of tape.  The cassette renaissance is over after a brief few days.  I practice my coping skills and turn on the radio.  A decent instrumental starts in, to cheer me in the darkness of the out ramp.

And more importantly, the bastinado torture of my $20 boots is over.  Beside me, nestled in their box, is a perfectly serviceable pair of Roebucks, all clean gold leather, brass hooks and eyes and leatherette padding.  At work, waiting for the shuttle, I feel protected and buoyant, even cautiously optimistic.  I make small talk with Mark while watching for the white rectangle of the bus.

Today's toolbox meeting is run by Jody, who, as usual, has no list of warnings and adjurations, but contents himself with a description of what we will do; it's bad enough:  we must kneel and crawl under some newly-installed gratings to hang fiberglass on the walls of a great sump.  While we kneel and make great Ss and Us with our drywall knives in the bug filler Stacy recites his favorite bits from Commando.  We make this last the rest of the long, tedious time under the gratings, even branching out into Robocop and an appreciation of Ronny Cox.

As I work the bug filler, an epoxy compound that looks and feels like snot, great drops of it coat my forearms, blending with the long glass fibers that rub from and fall off the sheets we're hanging.  The chem glove gauntlets I wear do nothing to stop this process.  For a while the coating seems mobile and relatively benign; after all, there's no odor, no irritation except from the fibers.  A little solvent will take it off.

A little solvent does not take it off, merely smears it around.  A few fibers reluctantly come off on the rag.  The rest remain in the gummy matrix on my arm ("I don't need a gun to kill you, Matrix!").  As I write the fibers jab and abrade my skin.  I've already spent a good hour tearing half-and quarter-inch pieces off my arms.  Hours remain.

On the bus Jay laughs when I quietly state that the dried crap is my skin now, I may as well get used to it.  I pull off an ugly scab of epoxy and fiberglass.

Monday

Hawks circle over the factory and light in the dead trees in the wetland south of the trailer city.  Under the truck bridge widgeons and mallards drift in a forest of cattails.  I limp along the gravel pedestrian path with my tipster, cursing the perpetually lamed Gator, idle by the lunch tent with a flat tire.  I would have had to carry these buckets anyway, for after you park by the loading dock there could be endless yards, endless steps to go til you reach your place of work in the building.

So Jose and I stand in the orange and tan scissor lift and watch the descending copper pipe stubs and goosenecked fire sprinklers and wait for the platform to stop hesitating and quivering like a nervous dog.    We check over our shoulders to make sure we're not jabbing each other in the face with our extension poles and feel for the paint troughs with our feet.  Mine ache:  the $20 boots I bought months ago are finally completely gone, little better than bedroom slippers.  Occasionally I bump my head on a pipe or a fire sprinkler.  Eventually I'm on the floor and he's in the lift and I'm slapping the eighteen-inch roller far above and coming all the way down, then slapping again a little lower, coming all the way down, all the way up, all the way down, all the way up, and laying off way over, probably too far over, this is just primer after all...

Somehow seven becomes ten and ten becomes noon and noon becomes 3:11 and I'm hurrying, wondering if I'll get to class on time.  I make a soft white burrito of the eighteen-inch and a piece of plastic and pack my grip and limp down the six stairways to the loading dock.  Mechanical engineers trudge ahead of me, slowly, (why are they never hurried?), and I grimace as I pass them and walk by the taco trucks and under the steel shelter over the guard shack.

Traffic is like cold honey on Sunset east of Sylvan Hill.  Luckily I have Andy Williams to keep me company.  Born Free, he croons as the cars inch toward their ultimate reward.  Suddenly there's a breeze on my face and I can no longer read the license plate frame of the car ahead of me.  But soon it's back to suspended animation, this time on the Banfield and the concrete echo of Sullivan's Gulch under the hospital.  There's nothing to do but watch the blocks of grey and blue and glittering cars and rooftops and listen to Andy Williams thanking his audience (has it been that long on the road?).

Finally, FINALLY, I'm moving at sixty miles an hour again and swinging around the clover petal at NE 122nd.  And the breeze is back, drying the sweat on my face and making the cotton on my shoulder stir.  I am reminded of the tension in my shoulders and neck.

In the dim warehouse we watch videos of a balding Englishman painting faux finishes.  He has a soothing drone and some of the apprentices nod and surrender; some tap their pens in irritation.  The craftsman is clean, clean, clean, with a big heavy watch and the faintest hint of a smile.  He can't quite believe, himself, how convincing his work is.

Afterwards Mr. Heino assures us we could easily ask a hundred dollars an hour for such work.

The day is nowhere near dead when I pull out of the parking lot and turn onto Whitaker Way.  I decide to take Fremont home and put on Book of Love.  The music is driving and angular but softened by the orange haze over Sullivan's Gulch and the mesas of East Portland .  The heat has finally abated and all I can think about is getting home and my beautiful wife (not really yet, but so close I may as well say it) there waiting for me.