My Kind of Town
by Don Chapman
>> Queen's Medical Center Holy hairball!
Greg was lying in Lance Ah Sun's bed and they were kissing when his big brother Laird burst into the room with fire in his eyes, unaware of the very large, very brown, very naked woman on his heels. Greg thought he must be hallucinating, but Lance knew exactly who she was. His tutuwahine had told him about Ho'ola, the goddess of life.
"Lance, Greg," Laird began grandly, "I bring you good news of salv..." But before he could get into the teachings of Christian X.O. St. James -- author of the new book "Jesus Was Straight, Mister: And You'd Better Be Too!" -- Ho'ola stuffed a cosmic sock in Laird's mouth and all he could do was hack like a cat at a hairball.
Though his eyes went wide in fear and confusion, still Laird did not see the goddess. And still he tried to tell Lance and Greg that they could be cured of their gayness and thus save their souls. All that came out, though, was "hckh!" and "crfch!"
Laird did see his sister Lily, who'd followed him from the elevator, and he frantically pointed at his back and made slapping motions.
"Laird, I can hit you in the back from now till New Year's and we're not going to dislodge whatever Ho'ola stuffed in your mouth."
The name of the goddess stirred a memory of distant days when the Ah Sun siblings were young and their Grandma Kealoha told them Hawaiian legends. But that's all it was, myth and legends, which Laird believed no more than he did tales of Zeus. Taking him by the elbow, Lily turned him around to face the brown immenseness of Ho'ola.
"Hchlt schtpt!" he said.
"You said it," Lily replied.
They watched as Ho'ola went to Lance, leaned down, breathed the breath of life across his face. The room smelled of eucalyptus and sea spray.
"Thank you for coming, Ho'ola," Lance whispered, "and for my life."
"This is actually her second visit that I know about," Lily said.
The goddess smiled demurely, then turned with a frown to face Laird.
"The message you wish to give your brother," Ho'ola said in a voice that rang like sacred music, "is not in the best interest of his health. If you promise to keep your thoughts to yourself, I will restore your voice."
While Laird was thinking this over the phone in Lily's purse rang. A minute later she announced: "Our cousin Quinn needs blood, and the bank is low, so I volunteered to give him a pint. Laird, I volunteered you too."
It wasn't until he was outside in the hallway, Lily leading him by the elbow, that Laird managed the words: "What the hell?!"
Don Chapman is editor of MidWeek.
His serialized novel runs daily in the Star-Bulletin
with weekly summaries on Sunday.
He can be e-mailed at dchapman@midweek.com