Not everyone works in an ABC store

On a moonless night, the beach at Lanikai looks like an inky rug studded with little glowing stars, except
they don’t twinkle, just pulse gently, left on the sand for some mysterious prank. No sooner would you find
your favorite constellation when a bright blue wave breaking on the shore’d wash away the old star map
and fill the spaces between the grains of sand with a fresh new universe of phytoplankton.

“You like this towel, Sid?” Wanda spread out a colorful oversize terrycloth map of the islands on the white
sand. “I got it with ABC store receipts. It’s kind of our towel because I used a bunch of your receipts.”

Sid glared at Wanda. Was he offended? “You never take your receipt,” she said apologetically.

“Well, then.” Sid smacked his lips. Guess that makes me a majority shareholder,” said Sid. He dragged his
tongue across the word ‘majority’. He’d seen her tucking his receipts down the back of her hot pants. “You
reckon?”

He was teasing. So hard to read that man. She lifted up her nose, but flirtatiously, also teasing. “Well, that’d
depend on how many of them smokes and beers ended up with Shithouse Rick,” she said. “The way I see it
he smokes a hell of a lot but never has any of his own. He never brings any beer neither. Which, possession
being nine-tenths of the law, may make him the rightful owner. What do you reckon?” She looked at Sid for
approval.

Soul Patch Sid pulled a pouch of drum and started making a rollie. “Well, I’d reckon he’d be right pleased
his holdings were being safeguarded by his best buddy from a conniving businesswoman.”

Wanda watched him pause to tongue dart the cigarette paper. Lord help her! “Where the heck is
everyone?” said Wanda, nestling into Sid’s side.

“Well, for one thing, it’s late,” said Sid. “A lot of folks have gone home. The surfers prefer Sandy Beach or
Makapu’u because the reef breaks up the waves a long way out. And the tourists would rather cut their feel
on coral in Waikiki and buy junk at the International Market Place.

“So fuck them. That’s a good thing,” he said. “When the sun goes down, this here place is paradise
abandoned. And it’s ours.”
Tonight reminded Wanda of a Star Wars comic book cover or something. A wet February moon giving the
Molukua islands horns.

“Shithouse Rick says he slept here one nights and the noctiluca’d made a perfection reflection of the night
sky.”

“Gosh, he knows a lot of shit. That why call him Shithouse Rick, Sid?” Wanda gave her underwire a tug, and
pressed her breasts against him.

Sid spat out his cigarette, and sat straight up. “What the hell, Missy? Suppose you tell me right now why
you’d bother to ask such an ignorant question? Why’d you think they call him Shithouse Rick?”

“How would I know that, Sid? I don’t know many folks in Waikiki yet.” Wanda’s voice quavered. “No need
to get all upset and stuff. I just like to learn about your friends.”

Sid’s eyes fired up like twin laser pointers. “So how about I make it real simple for you, Miss High-and-
Mighty-Works-in-an-ABC-store? They call him Shithouse Rick because he lived in a shithouse for a couple of
seasons.” Wanda whitened. “Happy you asked?”

“Sid,” she said. “It wouldn’t make no difference to me if your best friend lived in the Waldorf Astoria or a
second hand chicken coop.” With her Marilyn voice: “I wouldn’t care if he still lived in a shithouse.” She
took his hand, traced the spaces between his fingers. “You got such nice long fingers, Sid. Bet you could
play ukulele like that guy on YouTube if you put your mind to it.”

“Pansy-ass instrument,” said Sid, “for playing sissy songs. I was a serious shredder before my hand seized
up.”

“If I’d ever saw you making music, Sid, I’d be wishing I was the guitar.”