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My Kind of Town Don Chapman |
Opportunity
to return>> Kaneohe
When Quinn Ah Sun made the turn at the bottom of the drive onto Lilipuna Road, it was as if he didn't have a passenger on the back of the big BMW.
The second Lama Jey Tsong Khapa rode in perfect balance, maintained his posture with the bike as it leaned into the turn.
Unlike Lily, who'd brought a healthy fear to getting on a motorcycle for the first time, even if she was riding with her husband, who had again recently won the annual HPD solo bike skills competition. A graceful runner, dancer and lover, on the back of the bike she froze, stiffened up, rode like a truck's load that hadn't been tied down properly.
They meandered now with Lilipuna's curl along the bay glimmering in morning sun to their right. The bike was an exact replica of the one Quinn rode on the job in every way but two, the red color and the pop-up blue light
"You're doing very well, your holiness," he said over his shoulder. "Is there anything you'd like to see?"
"Those mountains up there," the young lama said, loving the rush of tropical flower-scented air in his face. "We came through them the other night, and the lights were dazzling, but I would like to see the view in daylight. Would it take too long?"
"The Ko'olau," Quinn said, "Few minutes only."
"Good, then let's go. And perhaps then you could drive a little faster than this."
Quinn was doing the posted 25 m.p.h., as much because it was the law as because he wanted to take it easy on the lama.
"You want speed, eh?" Quinn said, smiling at the enthusiasm of this holy boy. "You're not afraid?"
"What is there to fear? What will happen will happen. And as Buddhists, we do not fear death, for it merely presents an opportunity to return as a higher being. In fact, after 1,400 years away, I have decided that even if the Chinese secret police are able to kill me, as they seem so intent on doing, I will return. I will return as often as is necessary to strengthen Buddhism among my Tibetan brothers and sisters, but also in Hawaii and beyond.
"It would be a shame to waste the time invested in this life, which I am enjoying, I must say, but 18, almost 19 years is as nothing. Just as long as I don't turn out like my poor friend Muhammed."
"You know Muhammed?" Quinn said as they crossed Kamehameha Highway and continued onto Haiku Road, passing Windward Mall. "The Islam guy? You know him personally?"
"Of course."
"Then tell him something for me. Tell him his freakin' religion sucks."
"I'm afraid he agrees. Every time he comes back, the criminals who've taken over Islam kill him for preaching peace. He gets sooo frustrated."
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Don Chapman is editor of MidWeek. His serialized novel runs daily in the Star-Bulletin. He can be e-mailed at dchapman@midweek.com