My Kind of Town

by Don Chapman

Friday, June 15, 2001

Yo, Mistah Existentialist!

>> Portlock

Mickey ducked back into the kitchen as the maid opened the sliding screen door from the lanai. Grabbed a very large kitchen knife. Heard her footsteps lightly approaching. Waited to grab her the moment she stepped into the kitchen, put the blade to her throat. Heard her light footsteps just around the corner. Heard a phone ring and a young girl call, "Mama! It's Auntie Lily!" Heard the maid let out a sigh and turn around.

And Mickey suddenly had a problem he hadn't expected. There were two other people here he hadn't known about, at least, a woman and a young girl. Mickey wasn't the smartest guy when it came to figuring things out. But he was a creature of instincts and action, not to mention multiple perversions.

So it could be one thing at a time. Or more. Depended on how it all came down.

But if the maid was on her way to the kitchen once, she would be back. Mickey would be ready.

And as long as he was in the kitchen, hey, he'd come back here in the first place to find something else to drink and maybe some food. Which was still a good idea. And there on the counter at the other end of the long kitchen, a wooden rack that held bottles of red wine lying on their sides. And a corkscrew. Mickey was starting to like this Portlockian life.

>> Kalanianaole Highway

"So how's the drunk girl doing?" Quinn said with that boyish grin of his as they passed Kuliouou in his truck.

And Lily had to grin back. "Grateful, Quinn, that's how. Boy, I really overdid it. Thanks for rescuing me."

"Any time." He meant it. "You want to tell me why you decided to get wasted in the middle of the day?"

Her anger returned in a heartbeat. Quinn could feel it across the air-conditioned cab. He had an impulse, and suddenly braked and turned into the Maunalua Bay parking area. Later Quinn would wonder why. So many things could have been different if he continued straight ahead to Lily's house, starting with the melted Popsicles. But he knew it was too late already. The turn had been made. And besides, he couldn't be sure what might have happened. Nobody could ever say with certainty. Things turned out the way they turned out, that's all you could ever say. Quinn was a realist.

In fact, Quinn was a total existentialist. But you wouldn't want to say it to his face.

He parked to the right of the boat launch ramp as a crescent moon charmed the dusky sky.

Don Chapman is editor of MidWeek.
His serialized novel runs daily in the Star-Bulletin
with weekly summaries on Sunday.
He can be emailed at

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