Plutocracy

I've never been one for social networking. In fact, I've never owned an Asian Avenue page, never logged onto friendster, avoided myspace, and dismissed Facebook. So while I was shocked to find out that all of my information was posted online on a website called The People's Market, what pissed me off more was the fact that I was for sale.

Along with my photo was a listing of all of my specs, — 5 foot 8", 160 pounds, brown hair, brown eyes, single, Masters in English, one quarter Chinese, three quarters Portuguese, optimum health, and a "Hawaii Born" written in a starburst next to my name, Travis Guerra. I was going for $10,000. Not bad — I thought — for a high school English teacher. But I'll be damned if I get moved to the bargain bin. I clicked around and realized there was no way to register or sign up. The clientelle must have been pretty damn exclusive.

So I went to the FBI and reported the site. Inside that elaborate, concrete wedding cake, after an hour of waiting, an agent greeted me and sat me down at his desk. "The People's Market. Damnedest hypothetical," he shook his head and told me that they had been on it for a year, but that it was nearly impossible to track their activity. "One guy, I hear, sold for $1,000,000, and he hadn't seen a dime of it. He'd been sold and bought with no knowledge, and just went on with his normal life. Then one day, he gets a letter in the mail. It's from the president at Sony, wishing him a Happy Birthday. Then he goes inside and there's a new Sony Bravia in his living room. 2 weeks later, they renovated his house." The agent paused and offered me coffee, Kona Macadamia. I politely declined. He popped a donut hole into his mouth. "This other guy I know," he continued, "sold for about $3,000,000. As soon as he was bought, he had a new SUV delivered to his house with a message informing him that Mukesh Ambani was his new owner."

"Who?" I asked.

The agent tried to hide the fact that he was a bit ignorant on the matter himself. "Petro, I think. Anyway, he would check in, personally, via skype. He'd buy them all gifts for Christmas and birthdays, then just disappear."

I was having a difficult time believing this. "So who makes the money?" I asked.

"We'll, that's what we're trying to figure out. The buyers are really just the victims here. They buy you, and then they want to take care of you. They spend millions, sending money for home upgrades, physical trainers, dietitians, paying for your kid's college tuitions, doctor's bills. Then they find out it's a scam. Poor guy, when we got hold of him and told him, he nearly broke out in tears. He had really gotten close to that family."

I was having trouble sympathizing. The entire endeavor sounded downright philanthropic. It was like some sort of wired-in Robin Hood.

The agent tapped his pen on his desk. I think he knew what I was thinking. "Here's the dark side," he said, leaning forward. "Most buyers, they invest in you like property. They pay for new cars, home upgrades, they send you on trips, they take pride in your health, they pay for your physical trainers, they send you back to school, help you get started on a new career, they pay for cosmetic surgery or whatever personal enhancements you can think of, and then they just flip you," he clapped his hands. "They sell you for twice as much as what they bought you for. And on it goes," he said.

"So what can we do? Once, we're stuck in the current of being bought and sold?"

"The best you can do is decline all of their gifts. Discourage it," he paused and assessed me. "Some find it hard to do. I mean, if you get a check for a million dollars, you'd have to be a special breed to even think about turning it away. So, how much are you going for?" he asked.

"$10,000," I answered.

"Oh." He shrugged. "We'll, it goes to the highest bidder. Don't feel bad, maybe it'll go up."

"Maybe," I said, and walked out. I got in my Nissan, hoping maybe I'll be getting a new one soon from some mysterious benefactor overseas. When I got home, I rushed to my computer and checked my profile. Turn's out I was sold for $11,320 to Kelsey Grammar. He had sent an email. "Hey buddy," it began. "Just got you season tickets for UH football! Also, in the mail, you'll find the Season 1 DVD of Frasier. Enjoy!"

I was never a fan of the show, but I guess it's never too late to start. At least he wasn't asking for feedback.

Maynard and the Mynah

The mynah bird started talking at around noon on a Saturday. It was perched like a crow on the koa dining room chair, watching Maynard wash the dishes. "Maynard," it said. It's voice was a squawk, but it sounded strangely human — as if someone were talking through a walky talky — it's voice frayed with static around the edges. "Maynard... Maynard, you slut."

Maynard set a wet silver rimmed plate into the dish rack and turned down the water. He peered out of his window. The lawn was a radioactive green, baking under the sun's zenith. A red toyota hatchback drove by. The ti leaves rustled next to the window and Maynard ran out of the house to see if there was anyone there.

"Maaynard. Come in my face," said the mynah bird.

His wife, Sandy was out on a trip. She had flown out to Chicago to promote a fashion event. As an event promoter, she traveled frequently, sometimes spending only a few weeks at home in Kailua then flying back out for months. She had brought in the mynah when it was still an infant. "Found it out back," she said. "Must have fallen out of it's nest, or something."

Maynard had always liked mynah birds. As a photographer, he took many portraits of different birds on Hawaii, but the mynah bird was his favorite. Their dark plumage and their bright beaks and yellow rimmed eyes made them look like bandits. Regardless of their comical walk, they always seemed smarter and less flightier than the other birds. They were schemers. He would see them waddling around parking lots, stealing bits of food from the other doves and finches. He would often see them staring at him with indifference through intelligent, conspiring eyes. Smart, yes. But could they talk?

"Put in in my mouth," said the mynah. It's name was Keo, and lately, it had been spending more time outside of it's cage than within. It had figured out how to lift the cage door and let itself out. At first, this was a nuisance to Maynard and Sandy, but eventually, they had warmed up to the idea of a roaming mynah, exploring the home like a kitten. After all, aside from the occasional droppings, it did very little damage to its surroundings. It was a novelty after all, to have such an obedient little bird.

"Oh yeah. Oh yeah. Ohhhh!" screamed the mynah. "Harder Maynard!"

This was not good. How many times had the mynah let himself out of the cage, waddled out to the bedroom, and stood in the doorway? The first time he let Allison come over, they were having sex in the bedroom when Allison let her head hang upside down over the edge of the bed and exclaimed "There's a bird in the doorway. He's just watching us."

"Keo! Scat!" yelled Maynard, and the mynah skulked off.

"Keo! Scat!" said the mynah, now. "Oh yeah. Fuck me."

Allison was always a performer. That's what he liked about her. But now he had a problem.

Maynard sat on the chair next to the mynah, and it hopped down to the seat, jumped onto his lap, and started pecking at his zipper. "Mynahs don't talk, do they? Do you?" he asked, half expecting an answer.

"Oh, oh, oh... uh, uh, uh..." said the mynah, looking up at him. "Maynard, oh Maynard. Oh, Allison. Allison, I love yoooo."

Shit. This was a problem.

* * *

There were two friends he could call. There was Josh, who he was closer to. But there was also Alan. Josh, the more sensible of the two, would talk to him about his feelings of guilt, and would attempt to counsel him on his attitude toward his relationship with Sandy. Alan, on the other hand, would help him figure out how to avoid being discovered.

He called Alan.

"Yo," answered Alan. "May-nawd, what's up. What you been up to." It wasn't a question so much as a greeting.

"Alan. I'm in the shit here." Maynard explained the entire situation and Alan was cracking up on the other end of the line. "If I don't figure something out, Sandy's gonna find out all about me and Allison."

"No way. This is too rich. Okay. Buy the beers. I know what to do." said Alan. "I'll come over in ten minutes."

Maynard hung up and sat in front of the television. The mynah bird was perched on the arm rest, watching him curiously. The screen was off, and he could see his own reflection silhouetted against the picture window as the curtains billowed in and out like lungs. The bird began to speak. "Yo. I'm at May-nawd's house now. Yeah, he's gone at work. He's got a lap top and a camera, about 7 grand worth of stuff."

"Woah, woah. Play that last part again," said Maynard to the mynah.

The mynah bird bobbed its head up and down.

"Once more. Play it back," said Maynard.

"I'm at May-nawd's. How much you give me for a tool set?" said the mynah.

It was unmistakably Alan's voice. He was the only person who pronounced Maynard, May-nawd. When the house got robbed, there was very little sign of a break in. Aside from the broken lock, the house hadn't been ransacked. It was as if the burglar had known where to look all along.

* * *

When Alan showed up, he was carrying a crowbar and a pair of black gloves. "You got any beer?" he asked as he walked up the gravel driveway.

Maynard blocked the doorway, and Alan stepped back. He knit his bulbous brow and frowned for a split second before resuming his usual hyenna-like grin. "No worries!" said Alan. "You wanted to push the button on the bird right?"

Maynard folded his arms. "You spoke when you were going through my house, right?"

"What do you mean?" asked Alan, almost convincingly puzzled.

"When you took my laptop and my camera. You were talking on the phone," said Maynard, stepping forward. "You think the mynah bird recorded only my exploits?"

Alan let his head drop. He removed his gloves, "Oh shit," he said. "You gonna call the cops? I can pay you back for all that stuff. It was a tough period for me, remember?"

Maynard pointed to Alan's new Acura. "Yeah, hard times. Get the hell outta here. Don't ever call me again."

"What about the bird? We gotta destroy the evidence. No one is clean here," he said.

"Get off my lawn," shouted Maynard. "Before I push the button on you."

Alan turned and walked off.

* * *

When Maynard went back in, he saw that the mynah bird was perched high up on the bookshelf next to the television. Somehow, it had come to know that he had the goods on all of them, and took his perch elevated high above the living room. Perhaps it had already suspected that his life was in danger.

Maynard laid down on the sofa and began looking through his schedule. There was a shoot for at Ko'olina on Wednesday. And on Thursday, there was a shoot for Foodland. Other than that, his schedule was wide open.

He was about to fall alseep when the mynah began speaking again.

"Maynard's not coming home until late," it began. This time, it was Sandy's voice along with another woman's whom he didn't recognize. "Just, bare with me. Here are the first two account numbers. 40 in this one, and 9 grand in this one. Correct? I got three socials for these cards."

Maynard sat up and listened as the mynah bird recited the entire conversation verbatim. There were bank accounts, credit card numbers, social security numbers, names and addresses. When the mynah had stopped speaking, Maynard had it all put together. It was some sort of identity theft ring, and Sandy was one of the top members of the circle.

No one was clean.

* * *

When Sandy returned home the next Sunday morning, she dropped her bags to the floor, and sat down in the dining room chair. "Whew,"she said. "Mayn, you home?"

Maynard walked out from the bedroom with a cup of coffee. He folded up the Star Advertiser and dropped it onto the table. "How was the trip," he asked.

"Busy busy," she said. "The event was a success. We made a lot, I mean, a lot of good contacts. I think there might be something for me in New York, but we'll see. How was your week? What did you do?"

"Oh. A couple of shoots here and there," said Maynard. He sat down and propped both elbows onto the table, slowly turning the coffee mug in his hand. "Did you know," he said. "That mynah birds could talk?"

"Yeah, sure." Said Sandy. "They repeat words and stuff, but you need to be really patient and train them. I don't think Keo would be able to learn anything at this point. He's too old. You need to train them before they hit six months or so. Speaking of Keo, did you remember to feed him the apple cores?"

Maynard leaned back in his chair and set the coffee mug down. "He can speak. And I mean, really speak."

"Yeah?" asked Sandy, mildy surprised. "Let's hear it!" She looked around the living room. "Where is he?"

"I'm talking long monologues and soliloquys."

Sandy grew silent and waited for Maynard to continue.

"Long, really long telephone conversations were recited. Hour long conversations. All in pitch perfect imitation. There was never really any question of who he was imitating."

"Really," said Sandy. Her eyes were gleaming like cold stones. She stared icily at Maynard. "So, what did he say?"

"Oh, a lot. A whole lot. For example, my conversations with you. Two hours of it was repeated to me verbatim. Smart bird."

"Uh huh," Sandy strained to read him. Her eyes narrowed. "Where is he?"

"Oh, he was just. Too. Much." said Maynard. They stared at each other over the table like a pair of poker players. "I let him go," he explained. "Couldn't take another moment of his, constant. Meaningless. Babble."

"Well," whispered Sandy. "I'm sorry to hear that."

They sat in silence for a while.

"Trust me," said Maynard, finally, letting his hand rest on hers. "It was for the best."

"Yeah. No. I believe you. You're such a sound sleeper. You can sleep through anything. If he bothered you, then well. He really would have gotten under my skin."

* * *

When Maynard let the mynah bird go, it took flight immediately. It circled high overhead then returned to the lawn where it perched on the fence. It turned its head to regard the home with his left eye, then with the right, taking in one last look. In the sunlight, it's dark, oily slick plumage took on a new iridescence of blues and purples. Without sentiment, it stretched out its wings, let out a final squawk — "5441 4112 8458 7551!" — and flickered up over the rooftop, high into the blue sky.

Out in the world now, riding tradewinds over Oahu, sailing over the Pali, over rivers and reservoirs, over parking lots and forests, the mynah bird is at long last part of a flock.

Occasionally, mistaking a household as the home of his youth, it would land outside of a window and start speaking. And if the home owner were lucky, he would hear the bird recite love poems, strings of credit card numbers as well as some of the filthiest sexual commands anyone would ever want hear coming out of such a bird. Then the mynah would flit upward into the ether again, it's wings soaring so cleanly above it all you would have never known it was once mired in the dirt below.

A Good Man

Trace Sato was on the bus en route from Salt Lake to Honolulu, standing near the rear door, grasping onto the railing with a clammy hand when the first hint of trouble began. As a frequent bus passenger, he had spent many mornings meditating on the possible follies of his own short life, reveling in the foolishness of his own misanthropic adventures. Often these thoughts led to his own contained life as a bus passenger, from the loud and aggressive way in which he chatted up people at the bus stops, to his own quiet and secret crushes on fellow female passengers. As a young, aspiring comedian or – when considering his track record at onstage performances – an aspiring joke writer, it was important to stay attuned to everyday situations and elicit forced folly and interaction. It was where the gold was, he had once read. Comedy came from life. Harvesting it, however, came at a cost.

The weather outside was cold and grey, obscured by a heavy onslaught of rain, with the windows fogged on the inside and smeared over by the deluge on the outside. Trace had been surveying the passengers on the ride, taking note of their clothing, their tweed jackets, their yellow plastic bags, greasy hairstyles and rumpled collars, and was composing a comic litany of detail in his head. It was an industry tip, that in orchestrating long jokes, one must create an image in the audience's mind. This way, they would come along for the ride. And so he carried on cataloging every odd detail of his fellow passengers; their checkered shirts, plaids, pinstripes, polka dots, paisleys; from a woman's checkered scarf, to a man's checkered tattoo, to an older gentleman's Davy Crockett-style red fox tail hat — its tail so malnourished it looked like the tail of a stray cat. With these details in place he began crafting a kit for a story and punchline. This is where the trouble began.

It was a minor flutter — butterflies in his abdomen slowly migrating to his lower intestines. Somehow, some slow distant process had begun to unfold and an unknown variable was wreaking havoc in his digestive tract. The elliptical orbit disrupted by some unseen force was creating a crisis of gastroenterological proportions. Atmospheric pressure began to build. Trace gnashed his teeth and cursed himself. Entire civilizations were destroyed this way, by way of biochemical warfare. Dinosaurs perished when the universe dropped a bomb onto the earth's mantle. Somewhere deep within his lower regions, another astroid was approaching the irreversible gravitational field. His immediate world was at risk. He cleared his throat and kept his eyes on the bus driver, a man oblivious to his plight and telepathically begged him to keep his foot heavy on the pedal. What was the euphemism? He quizzed himself. Dropping the kids off the pool. Or leaving them on the bus.

Why hadn't he gone at home? What did he have for breakfast? Was the milk fresh? Why did he have to wake up so late, having to rush for his day job interview? On this particular day, his mother had taken the car to visit his late grandfather at the cemetery and had not gotten back in time to give him a ride. It was on this day that he had a scheduled his first job interview in months. Couldn't she have gone at another time? It was his mom's fault, then — this intestinal gurgling, this unexpected development, the need to drop a hoopsnake.

His job interview was at 10am at the Moilili Library. For the past year since graduating from college, he had lived at home with his mother, staying up late and watching Richard Pryor videos. It was she who had finally forced him to initiate his search for employment opportunities.

* * *

A millennial, he had heard himself called. A spoiled and entitled slacker who constantly held out for the perfect job regardless of experience. It was a label for a generation reluctant to leave the dock, who dropped a second reinforcement anchor in their parents livingrooms after graduation. According to his aunts, he was at an integral crossroad. He could get out, get a job and begin his adulthood, or become a permanent fixture of his mother's pea green sofa. He could be a precocial bird, or an altricial bird. "Kick him out, or he'll be dependent on you forever" his aunts Janet and Kim once said to his mother while eyeballing him. They would visit often over the weekends and scowl over coffee, picking at portuguese sausage and dried Akule, while watching disapprovingly whenever Trace migrated from the sofa to refrigerator.

It had been three days since their last visit. They came in through the front door without knocking, threw their purses onto the table and surveyed the living room for any hints of dishevelment; an empty coke bottle, a t-shirt strewn carelessly over an arm rest, all the tell-tale signs of a lay about. Trace had just set down a biography on Lenny Bruce, and had begun concocting his own "Aristocrats" joke, as it was common for most stand ups to have their own unique litany of vulgarity made up for it. It was an insider thing, and it gave the entire industry a mythic quality.

"Trace," his aunt Janet called out, taking a seat at the head of the dining room table. "How are you? You find a job yet?" she asked.

"He's trying," his mother said, emerging from the bedroom. "Hello Hello. How are you? Want some coffee?"

"Just a little," said Aunt Janet.

"None for me," answered aunt Kim.

"I've got some things going," Trace responded.

"Like what?" Asked his aunt Janet.

"Some gigs."

"Gigs?"

"Some shows. Some stand up bits."

"They pay you?"

"Open mic."

"What is this? This open mic?"

"He wants to become a stand up comedian, and open mic is how they cut their teeth," his mother explained to his aunts. "Which is fine as long as it's a hobby and he has a primary source of income." She shot Trace a look.

His aunts frowned, their mouths a pair bland colorless rainbows.

"A comedian? Is that what you went to school for?" Aunt Kim asked. "To waste all that money?"

"Actually," Trace stood up, "That was my minor..."

"I don't like comedians," said his aunt Kim. "So obnoxious."

"A waste of talent," continued his aunt Janet. "What good is your college degree pursuing a career like that? What are you gonna do? Make light of life? Be a class clown forever?"

"There's nobility in making people laugh," he said. "Not all people are as humorless and soulless as —"

"Trace!" his mother interjected.

Both aunts shifted disapprovingly in their chairs. They tilted their heads and looked at him askew. "Telling jokes," his aunt continued, picking at piece of fish with a pair of black chopsticks. "What good is that? You would think a grown man would want to be taken seriously. Do you want to be like your father? All jokes but no spine. Couldn't even look after his family. Now look...."

Trace threw a coke bottle across the room and knocked over a mustard vase holding an orchid, breaking it in half and spilling the water out onto the floor. "Aunt Janet, is that your face or is that a connect four board?" he said.

His mother began picking up the shards of glass scattered along the floor. "Trace. Leave right now. Before I lose my temper."

Trace stormed into his room leaned back into his desk chair, arms crossed and fumed quietly, surveying the gallery of smiling comedians he had pasted to his walls. There were tributes to the likes of Andy Kaufman, Steve Martin, Eddie Murphy, Richard Prior, Bill Cosby, George Carlin, game changers as he had referred to them. Through the wall however, past the grainy montage of photographs, in the kitchen with the beige, plaid tablecloth and two cups of coffee, and three short and plump women sitting at the table, he could hear his mother admonishing her sisters. "That was uncalled for. You know better than to bring him up."

On the wall was a quotation by a the theorist Martin Armstrong, "For a few moments, under the spell of laughter, the whole man is completely and gloriously alive: body, mind and soul vibrate in unison... the mind flings opens its doors and windows, it's foul and secret places are ventilated and sweetened."

His father had been a natural when it came to wit and humor, using laughter as both weapon and shield. He disarmed skepticism and diffused tension with a simple handshake and a wry observation. If only he were still around. Trace had often found himself tongue-tied when confronted with certain situations, and he often wondered what his father would have come up with in the same circumstance. What would he have said back there to his two in-laws sitting at his table, stirring sugar cubes into their Folgiers and stuffing their faces with red been cakes? "You need to find the incongruity in things," he once said, and Trace struggled now in attaining the necessary perspective to pick out such incongruities. Now in his absence, he was painfully aware that there was an entire education on the matter that was lost to him forever.

* * *

Holy shhh... he thought. The pain was now extraordinary. I need a submarine hatch. He closed his eyes and clenched his jaw. The bus hit a bump on the road and his abdomen jumped, its contents shifting and gurgling. He was a walking well cap. In the front of the bus, where the seats faced each other, people were staring past each other into the passing world. There was a stop every five minutes, and a few people shuffled off as another handful waddled on. Watching this process was excruciating.

A Korean woman was talking on her cell phone. She wore a visor and her hair was pulled back. Her shirt was tight around her chest and she wore a fanny pack around her waist. At her feet was a paper bag, and in it — toilet paper.

A few days ago, the incessant storm had flooded the sewers near his home and brown water gushed along the streets carrying a torrent of toilet paper and tampons. In Kailua, raw sewage was was filling the ocean and warning signs were stapled to trees surropunding the beaches. Trace would need such signs here if the situation did not improve.

Another stop. An old woman took her time boarding the bus. She shook and collapsed her umbrella, stepped up to the yellow line and began searching blindly in her purse for a tattered bus pass. Meanwhile, a mountain was moving within Trace. He was pushing a mountain through a molehill. A planet was traveling through a wormhole. A bottleneck effect, was in effect.

The Korean woman stepped off at the next stop. Quickly, he slid into her seat, folding the garden hose inside, tying off the water balloon. He twisted and turned, trying to work things upward. Meanwhile his face remained as stolid as everyone else's.

The bus picked up speed and slowed down. It was a fact that stormy weather had always slowed the pulse of Oahu traffic. The windshield wipers screeched like manic violins. Outside, Trace could barely make out the road ahead. Three buses made their way down a sharp curve, came to a halt, and sat there like linked sausages. There was a clog at the intersection. He contemplated getting off right there. His eyelids began sweating. He blinked hard and bit his lower lip. He closed his eyes and the image of a turtle laying a hundred shiny eggs in a sand pit came to mind.

Breath. But not too deeply. Think, yoga. Think, tree pose. Think of ice melting. Imagine becoming air.

He began playing games with himself, observing the likeness of each passenger with that of a celebrity. There was Madonna's stunt double, if the stunt double was a male in his forties. There was a somber Gilbert Gottfried sitting next to slimmed down version of Israel Kamakawiwoʻole, who sat across from Don Rickles, if he were Samoan. The game lasted ten seconds before the pain reintroduced itself with guests. He felt like a balloon with genitals.

There was no other recourse, Trace decided. The only way to alleviate the agony and distract himself from the boulders rolling down his innards was to initiate a short comedy bit. Yes. It was genius. It would work. A conversation wouldn't be distracting enough. Only an adrenaline rush would do it and going live in front of an unsuspecting audience would provide it in bursts. He thought about telling his Aristocrat's joke but remembered that it contained too much of the same vulgar content. It would have been akin to staving off hunger by talking about food. No. Perhaps an improvisational audience participation bit would have been better. Maybe it would even reverse the entire painful process. All at once, he would to be careful not to get punched in the gut. It would be a delicate negotiation, but desperation prodded him forward.

"Hello everyone!" He said, rising up from his seat, grasping at a hanging handle bar. "Good to be here! Looks like we've got a nice audience today! Man! What a nice looking crowd." A few passengers regarded him wearily at him and returned to staring out the window. "It's stormy as hell today isn't it? I mean, between the AC and that hot seat over the rear tires, you we've got ourselves a low pressure weather system in here. That hot seat, it's like a hot spring isn't it? I man, you might as well giving up on the idea of having kids, sir, I feel bad for your lost future generations. I mean, you got on at Safeway. Your testes are probably cakes by now!" The bus hit a bump and the passengers all jumped in unison. Trace continued, "You know when you're really cold, and your genitals shrink up? Wouldn't it be great if they expanded in the heat? Say, you take a hot shower and you look down and your balls are the size of casaba melons. I'd take a date to the sauna and just let my towel accidentally drop off. Whoa, hey! Another added inch."

The passengers groaned. A few of them opened their mouth and rolled their eyes back, sighing in resignation.

"Great day isn't though?" Trace continued. "I love the bus. Da bus, as they say. I used to ride the bus everyday as a kid, going to school, parties, crack houses. We had a great bus system. I used to ride the bus and when we got to school the bus driver would carry my books and backpack out for me. Such a nice guy. Sometimes he'd wheel me out in a wheelchair and set me out curbside. I mean it really was handy. I guess that's why they called it the ... handy van."

More groans.

"One day I got home and I told my mom that everyone in my bus must have been the worst students ever. 'Why is that?' she asked me. I told her everyone on my bus must have been at least eighty years old. They must have been the oldest seniors in high school."

There were no reactions but Traced trudged on through his narrative. "She told me that I was riding the senior citizen van. Oh! I said. So that's why the classes consisted mainly of knitting and puzzle making. Still! That's the most female action I've had since the ninth grade! Made me wish there was a sauna there!"

"Shut up!" cried a man from the back.

"Ouch a heckler!," said Trace. "Well, lets get to know the audience a bit. Hi there, sir. What's your name?"

The man stuck his middle finger out.

"Great. How about you, with the face," Trace said to a small, middle-aged filipino man sitting across him. He had a head of thick curly hair with a circular patch of white hair just above his ear as if he had been tagged by a spray can. "Where are you headed on this fine day? You married? I hear your wife is so fat, you proposed to her with a hula hoop." Trace's delivery was flat and casual, but he realized that it was a rocky transition and it betrayed his lack of confidence.

The man jerked his head back, and turned to look at his neighbor, and turned to face him. Who me? he seemed to be asking. My wife? He smiled. It was working. His reaction was golden, and it finally relieved a ring of pressure around Trace's belt buckle.

"So big she has her own basement," Trace said, his voice low and controlled.

The man looked over at him. "Whass that again?"

Trace took a breath. A woman two rows up removed her old walkman earphones from her ears and turned around for a look. The air had gone electric, buzzing with possibility. Trace pressed on. "What's the matter, an I and a Q short an alphabet? You're so dumb you use cheat sheets for hearing tests." Instantly, another stone was lifted off his stomach. The pressure was liquifying and being reabsorbed into his body. At least it felt that way.

The man's eyebrows rose to within a half inch of his hairline. Three deep creases magically appeared as if he had been clawed by a tiger. Trace could see his jaws grinding his molars back and forth. The man maintained eye contact "You know me?" he asked.

"Nope," laughed Trace. "What, you think everyone knows you? Who do you think you are? Earth?" His heart rate picked up, bringing with it another awesome wave of relief. "Jeez you've got a big head. Your head is so big," he continued, rolling his head back and staring at the ceiling, "it shows up on radar." He held up both hands a foot apart for effect. "Your head is so big you don't have dreams, you have movies. Long three part documentaries... mailed to you... by Netflix."

No one laughed. A woman behind him yelled out "Oh, enough!"

"Nice," said Trace over his shoulder. "Another heckler. What, you don't like my jokes? I'm kidding." He held out his hand to the man he had been insulting, let it linger over the aisle and offered a handshake.

"Don't touch me," said the man. "Just get off the bus."

Trace smiled. He was starting feel like his normal, antagonistic self again.

The woman in the rear continued. "People like you make me sick."

Trace turned around, rolled his eyes and laughed. "You sure it wasn't the bucket of fried chicken you had for breakfast?"

Another disapproving moan came from the rear.

"Or the motion sickness?" Trace continued. "The bus is a little lopsided. Maybe you should sit more in the middle."

A cry of dismay came from the back. "Give it a rest asshole."

Trace clammed up, both above and below his waist. The gurgling continued. Last night, his mom had made one of those hormonally wayward roasted chickens, which was so large Trace could swear it had nipples on its breasts. She had served it up with broccoli, mashed potatoes, gravy — the works — and he had scarfed it all down.

The pressure returned. Trace looked down and studied his slacks.

The insulted man had been watching him the entire time. He leaned toward Trace and began nodding. "So you think you know me, funny man?" he asked again. He turned in his seat. "You know my life?"

Oh, great, he thought. I've messed with the wrong guy.

The bus made it's way down King Street. They passed the American Savings Bank and he knew they were almost there. Finally. This would be the last time he would be caught on a bus. What could have been a routine 10 minute drive had stretched out to an hour's worth. There was a rotting smell, a cross between a turning mango and a man's armpit. The stench pervaded his nose.

The man continued talking in a calm manner. "Hey," he whispered. "When you get off, I'll follow you," he said as if discussing the details of a surprise party. "We finish em up then. That cool with you?" he asked with quiet menace.

Trace shook his head and held his hands out, "Look," he confided, leaning across the aisle as a bubble of pain popped just inches from ground zero. "Look, man" he said quietly. "I just really need to take a shit. That's it. I'm fucking panicking here. That was the only thing I could think of to get my mind off it. I apologize."

"I can help you with that," the man offered. "I can beat it outta you," he said as if offering to replace a flat tire. "The shit. No worries."

Trace made a visible show of discomfort. He gritted his teeth and clutched his stomach.

The man went on, "Man, how stupid are you? With all the shit-cans in the world? You decide to take one on the bus. You insult my wife. Now I've gotta defend that swine's honor. Now that really pisses me off." The man wore a strange grin, giving him an ominous air.

There were a few chuckles throughout the entire bus as they passed Washington Park. Trace kept his eyes on the front of the bus, but he could see that the man hadn't turned away.

"Sorry," offered Trace. "I didn't mean any of that. For real. I mean, I just really gotta go man. Seriously."

"Oh. We're going. As soon as we get off the bus. Me and you," the man reassured him by giving him a few firm pats on the back.

* * *

The bus stopped in front of the McDonald's and Trace stumbled off. He began walking, hunched over like a zombie chewing on his own intestines. He quickened his pace, but kept his strides short, as if he were holding an egg between his thighs. When the bus took off, he saw that the passengers were all watching him. When he turned around, he saw that the man — wearing a tattered, ash grey shirt, tucked into dirty, faded denim jeans and high tops — had gotten off with him.

"So what? Tummy ache? Want me rub your stomach?" The man called out.

In the light, the man looked crazier. His left eye sported a burst capillary like blood splattered across a windshield. The letters PTOO was tattooed on his scabbed arm. Trace backed off. "Look, sorry again. I can't fight. I'm not a fighter. I just need to get to this job interview," he pointed to the Moilili Library. There was a homeless man leaning on the concrete pillar next to the entrance, and the steps leading up to it smelled of urine.

"Oh you like work there?" asked the man. "A smart kid?" He was a few inches shorter, but he was wider. His face was weathered and creased, and betrayed no emotion. He may as well have been talking about the traffic. "What, you read books? Harry Potter? You like Harry Potter?"

Trace turned and kept walking as if both his legs were broken. A sharp blade of pain shot through his gut. He felt bloated, as if a spiny puffer fish was expanding in his stomach.

The man kept up with him, stride by stride. "You like wizards? Do you know of a fuck-move called the twisted wizard? Teach your girlfriend. You got one?"

"Leave me alone, man. I got nothing for you," he said

"Full of shit, pussy. Come on!" yelled the man, his voice muffled by a passing moped.

"Sorry," said Trace and walked up the steps. He pulled open the library's glass doors, pushing his sweaty face into the cool air conditioning and the musk of old children's books.

"I'll be here," said the man from the steps. "I can wait."

* * *

When Trace finished his business in the rest room, a wave of relief and euphoria washed over him. Just ten minutes earlier, he had been on the verge of exploding, rendered mindless by gas. But now he could breath and mentally prepare for the interview.

As he zipped up he heard a voice come from the stall next to him. "Some shit. Not too bad. Not worth talking shit about. I was expecting Pele herself."

Trace's heart began beating rapidly, tinting the room red. Suddenly, he was filled with fear. "Oh man. Come on. I don't want any trouble," he said. Their voices echoed and hung close in the restroom.

"No trouble? Come on. You can scrap, I bet you can. The way you flick that sharp little pink tongue out."

Trace examined the tiles on the floor. He could see the shadow of a pair of legs standing outside of his stall. "I'll call the cops," he said. His hands here shaking.

"Cops? Nah. You don't wanna call the cops," said the man, tapping the wooden door lightly.

"I got a cell phone on me, I'm dialing," Trace said.

"Screw the cops. They frisk you, you know. You want that?" He filled the room with heavy breathing. Trace could hear the man's joints click as he walked away. A weak squeak echoed and suddenly the lights went out. Everything went black, leaving phantom shapes in the air. "Unless you wanna be frisked," said the man, tapping on the door again. "Got any jokes now?" he was breathing loudly, as if drawing air in through his mouth, over the tip of his tongue like a snake. "'Come on, tell me a joke." he hissed and began kicking at the door. The loud bangs filled the darkness and each kick seemed to emit a faint pulse of light. The man hissed and kicked. Trace dropped his iphone and fell against the toilet. His left hand went deep into the bowl and splashed around as he scrambled to his feet and began whimpering.

The lights went back on. "Fuckin, pussy" said the voice. "Act so full of beans, nuthin but gas. Next time, watch what you say. You dunno know what other people go through." The water faucet went on and off, and then all sound was blown over by the air dryer. When the machine whirred to a stop, the man spat and said "Fuckin' punk bitch." He kicked the trash can over and walked out, casually dragging his feet.

* * *

The job interview went well. The ordeal had left Trace rattled and neutered. The man who interviewed him was a young caucasian man with a large jar-shaped head. He had been scrolling through a Dungeons and Dragons website when Trace approached him. Normally, Trace would have felt superior to this sort of character and would have been more comfortable, allowing for his usual jokey demeanor. In his head, he would have been assembling a list of nicknames and references, stockpiling them for recitation to his friends later. This sort of cockiness would have worked against him. Instead, shaken and vulnerable, Trace answered every question subserviently.

The man warmed up to him immediately and hired him on the spot. "I think I've seen you around," he said. "Maybe at school. We both went to UH. You used to hang out with a bunch of punk rockers outside Manoa Gardens right?"

Normally, Trace would have made fun of his use of the term "punk rockers" as a descriptive device. Instead, he nodded. "Maybe. A few friends."

"Those types. I don't know about them, they always got something wise to say. An air of superiority. You don't seem like that type a guy though. You play Dungeons and Dragons?"

There was a long silence and the man stared at Trace, waiting for an answer. There was some incongruity this sitiuation. It was funny. Somehow, throughout the gastronomical accretion of it all — the bus ride, the scene in the restroom as something out of Deliverance, and the job interview — a comedy bit was forming.

"No," Trace answered. "But I've always wanted to learn D and D."

"Good man," said the interviewer. "When can you start?"

The Persistence of Vision

Someone was reviewing Stanley Gold's reviews of films and it was a cheap gimmick if anyone asked him. These were reviews of his reviews. Unwarranted. Unmerited. For Stanley Gold was a famous, veteran film critic, and if anyone could get under his skin, it was another younger critic.

At first, it began benignly, as posted comments on the online edition — simplistic remarks that contradicted his viewpoints. "Gold's a coot!... Wrong again!... The Tin Man reviews a romcom!..." Then came the blog on wordpress, in which his language was critiqued for its persuasiveness. Then came the reviews that included pointless personal assessments as when Stanley panned a movie about a talking cat, the other reviewer ousted Stanley as a "dog lover". All of this was fair enough — everyone had a right to post their opinions. It was the link on the Star Advertiser site, right below his column, that upset him.

It was a Wednesday afternoon

when he first came upon it

. The dry vog hung heavily over Honolulu and he was sitting on his apartment lanai, eating a red lentil soup and toasted sliver of french bread. He had been reading his own article on online edition of TGIF on his antiquated Sony laptop — as it was a quiet pleasure to see his own work disseminated to the masses, be it in print or pixel form — and had noticed a link to another review just below his.

In his review of the film concerning characters pondering the afterlife, he stated that the film's"meandering tone, and trite yet earnest dialogue, made for an extended exercise in navel gazing. Death and the afterlife were everywhere, but where was life? I would have rather watched my dog ponder the skyline for two hours," he wrote.

The review of his review began

"Stanley Gold does not believe in the afterlife. He does not believe in God. He doesn't have the imagination for it."

An inset photo revealed the writer to be a younger, twenty year old with a mohawk and a weak jaw. He was tilting his head and squinting one eye as if his views were skewed and he had the edge on any matter. Who in the hell did this kid think he was? How would he know what Stanley believed in? Granted, the kid was right, but it was a fluke speculation from a disrespectful young brat. Perhaps he was a relative of the publisher. At least he was confined to the internet, where the column widths were free and he could drown with the rest of the nattering bloggers. To hell with him!

From beside him, Herzog, a white Jack Russell with brown spots around his eyes and ears stepped out onto the lanai and whimpered.

Quietly, Stanley closed his laptop and set it down. "Herzog," he said. "You ready for that walk?" He struggled out of his chair. "Let's off with us. The old man needs to get some air. The place wreaks of bullshit suddenly."

* * *

There was once a film maker who proclaimed that the world was filled with two types of people – creators and destroyers – and within that continuum, critics were indeed the destroyers. They felt entitled to excellence yet they lacked the talent to achieve it. They attached themselves to art forms and acted parasitically, inhibiting the joy derived in creation, killing it from within. In the online world,

the neo-noosphere of information, most critics were just hacks. Many of them wrote without a system of rules and principles. Some lavished praise too easily, touting a film as among the best of the year on a weekly basis. Others derided films

arbitrarily, without systematic criteria, as if being

impossible to please were the qualities of a superior intellect and therefore good criticism. Mostly, the passionate yet unfocused masses were merely fans selectively reviewing films based on versions they had already imagined in their heads. These were peddlers of opinions, nothing more.

Stanley Gold was not one of the those peddlers. Although he himself received a degree in journalism and not in film theory, his knowledge of film over the decades had grown encyclopedic. He had sat on the panels of thirty eight film festivals across the country, had curated the HIFF, had written numerous essays and published collections of them. He attended Cannes and Sundance yearly, sat and conversed with Scorcese, Lumet, Altman and Leigh among others,

and was not among the cacophony of voices in the anonymous online democracy.

His reviews were in print, and he was paid as one of the few genuine authorities in film. He was neither the "destroyer" nor the "creator" of that scornful and reductive philosophy, but a guardian. It was a priviledge he had worked twice as hard for as an outsider working his way in for over 30 years. A true critic could only be someone who cared deeply about films, about the state of films, about the state of the world that is reflected in films.

So who the hell was this kid? He was a hack! Why bother being bothered?

"Darwin Shaw," the kid introduced himself one Thursday afternoon at the editors meeting at the Star Advertiser office. They were standing in the hallway, in front of a labyrinth of cubicle walls and hairlines when the kid, bigger than expected, turned to him and held his hand out.

"Stan Gold. Nice to meet you," said Stanley, clearing his throat. He straightened his back but the kid towered over him by half a foot. "Are you in one of my classes?"

"No no. I'm actually new on staff. I write for the weekend section. I do a critic's column. Like you."

"So, you're a critic."

"Thatʻs right."

"Food critic."

"No. Actually. I comment on your work."

"That critic?"

Stanley nodded and appraised him. The mohawk was gone and his head was clean shaven.

Stanley stiffened and took a single side step away from him. "The tapeworm," he concluded.

The kid fidgeted, "I wouldn't put it that... But I just want to say, I admire—"

"You work here?" asked Stanley, pointing to the floor on which he stood, his lip curled, barely concealing his disgust.

"Yup. Right here," said Darwin.

The elevator door opened and Stanley angrily brushed past the extended hand.

As more people poured in, Stanley stood aside and held the door open. "It's one thing to have your head up your own ass. It's quite another, to have it firmly rooted up someone else's. Good luck, Shaw," he said mockingly and let the doors close.

* * *

More critics, just what the world needed! More people entitled to the best of everything. People hated critics. Industries hated critics. Film producers, writers, directors, painters, musicians, comedians, actors and actresses, they all hated them.

Once at a screening at Mann's Chinese Theatre, Ellen Burstyn herself had approached Stanley. The woman, taller and more beautiful and imposing in person shook his hand and said, "I just want to thank you, Mr. Gold. For everything you do."

Stanley was not one to be star struck. He rarely sought the company of the rich and the famous who's performances he scrutinized so closely while on the silver screen, but he was star struck then. "Thank you," he muttered.

Ms. Burstyn smiled, flashing her brilliant white teeth and tilted her head. "You know, it takes a lot of people and a lot of time to make a film. No one ever sets out to make a bad film. There are no film meetings where producers say, 'let's ruin this one'. Everyone involved, from the cast to the crew, from the star to the caterer, they invest everything they have into a film. You've watched the credits roll, you know how many are involved. For years, they work on this one thing, and they hope that it works. They may disagree, argue, make bad choices, but no one wants to make a bad movie. No one sets out to offend your sensibilities, Mr. Gold. But from it's premiere, it takes a column of about 500 words to condemn a film and send it quietly on its way to obscurity. It's as bad as actually standing in front of a theatre, waving a sign that says 'DON'T SEE THIS MOVIE'. It's actually worse. Because people read the reviews. It affects sales. And all of those hard workers, well, some may not find it as easy to find a job afterward."

Stanley held Ms. Burstyn's palm in his clammy hand and adjusted his tie. "I, well. I am..." he stammered. "A big fan..." he said, "of your other works," he added, then excused himself.

People hated critics. Creatives hated critics. Stanley hated critics. But it was his duty, and his passion, to review each film objectively, championing his standards for a better tomorrow.

A good film could reduce him to tears. It could show him something new about the world. He expected no less because it hurt to see such a powerful medium abused and so he railed against it. And, what was wrong with that?

Shaw. What an asshole. What did he think he was, the people's critic? The revenge critic? Was turning the tables on another critic by critiquing his critiques supposed to be clever? He was an asshole indeed.

* * *

On Friday, Stanley had 2 film reviews printed in the TGIF insert. He had driven home from the dog park in Kapiolani, unleashed Herzog in the apartment and sat back in his recliner.

Before settling in and starting on the new book about the Dogme Collective, he decided to look over his reviews. The first was a film about an odd couple who were randomly paired together on a road trip. He called the film's comic sensibilities "Misguided... There were moments when these characters stopped trying to be funny, and began trying to be offensive. The fatal flaw therein, that they tried at all."

In his second review about a group of middle aged men taking a vacation to the Bahamas to regain their wild bohemian youths, Stanley wrote "The film works. I laughed. I laughed hard. This is a very, very funny film."

Stanley chuckled to himself as he conjured a scene where 4 men were stuck in a hot tub together, and the sole woman had somehow disappeared within the entanglement. He was about to fold the newsprint and set it onto the back end table when he saw a name in print.

It was written in Times Roman, and was thus consecrated. Darwin Shaw had made the pilgrimmage from the blogosphere to newsprint!

"Mother Fucker," said Stanley, firming up the paper.

The review was titled The Gold Standard, and began "If you feel that Stanley Gold's reviews of this week's films seem contradictory, you are not alone. In one, he decries the slapstick mentality of the plot. In the second, he praises the very same mechanics. He laughs. He takes joy in it. Note the sudden flurry of visual details in relaying the hot tub scene. It's a standard scene. I've seen it. It is not funny. Yet he laughs fondly. Why? He is not laughing at the actors, or at the director's staging of the sequence, or at the beats in the script. He is laughing at himself. And once again, he reveals a bit of who he is for us readers and fans. Let me tell you how. It happened in a jacuzzi not quite like the one on screen. It was 1972. It was summer...."

The review went on in detail, describing that long lost summer day on his 22nd birthday in which he and a girl and three other friends tried to get into a jacuzzi. The girl's name was Haven. She was 25. Stanley was in love with her. She was an aspiring poet, as he was. They had all just seen the premiere of The Godfather and he was awestruck and aglow with inspiration. He had told everyone he suddenly wanted to become a film maker, and if he could produce a film half as good as Coppola's, he would have been happy. His enthusiasm was infectious.

They drank beer and joked and laughed, not minding the small, cramped quarters.

She kissed him in that awkward and crowded space, it was something that he would not forget.

"You see, for him the scene evokes nostalgia," wrote Shaw. "You can see it in the way he caresses the scenery and catalogues every detail. It's a lapse in professional conduct — a film review should never have anything to do with yourself — but it's a minor trespass. We're all human. In taking such pleasure and creating such a reverie linked to such a cliched scene, you may have wondered, what's come over Stanley Gold? Well, now you know."

"Jesus," growled Stanley. He crumbled the newspaper and threw it across the room. Herzog ran after it and returned with the crumpled tabloid hanging wet from his maw. "Herzog!" cried Stanley. "Trash!" The dog walked over to the white trash can in the corner and clumsily lowered the paper into it. "Good dog! God dammit," he stammered.

Shaw was precisely right. But how had he known this? Stanley got up out of his chair and fetched the leash.

"Shaw. I'm gonna have you fired... By god. Easy as you please, you'll be shit-canned.

Herzog. How's about another walk?

"

* * *

The editor of the TGIF section didn't back down. Shaw was now a full time member of the staff, and among his many contributions, "The Gold Standard" as the column had become to be known, was among the more popular articles. "It was the blog format," explained Mitch Dostevsky, the editor. "He had about 4,000,000 followers. Can you believe that? I mean, that's a hefty number. I don't think the entire cast of Glee has that many followers on twitter. Not that I follow them."

Stanley scowled, "Glee?" He shrugged. What the hell was that? They were sitting outside the Starbucks on Bishop Street late in the afternoon. "Where does he get off? What's with the fixation? Did I pan some distant cousin's buddy cop movie?"

"No, nothing like that," said Mitch. "It's just some new media thing. He pitched it, it was an interesting hook, and he had the readers. It's good for our numbers. That's it."

"This is insipid. You know this," said Stanley, tearing a napkin in half. "The state of film criticism has reached an all time low. Brainwashed by Hollywood. All of 'em fanboys of the highest degree. Do they even know what real criticism is?"

"It's a puff piece. The kid's a fan. This isn't hard news, it's entertainment."

"It's supposed to be critiqued. It's supposed to show and reveal what most wouldn't see. All we have now are consumer reports of commodities. And don't even mention the thumbs up system!"

"It's in the interest of the people."

"It seems the entire paper is one big human interest story..."

"That's why you're still here, buddy. Hawaii's own beloved, venerable, craggy, crusty, grizzly film critic."

Stanley glared at Mitch, took a sip of his coffee and crumpled up his napkin. He looked more and more like a Sylvain Chomet illustration. All fine lines and exaggerated angles. "Go see a Pauly Shore movie," he growled. "You're not bothered by this? You went from News A to the entertainment section. Our National news is laid out like some Top Ten List as if it makes it more palatable. This is basically tabloid fare."

Mitch waved his hand in dismissal. "Just another new animal shored up by these strange, new tides. Come on. Lighten up. At least they kept us on board after the buy out. We could have been on skid row. I mean, you would have been fine, what with your book deals and lectures. No kids. Healthy. But I would have been sunk! Don't rock the boat on this, I won't be able to back you."

Stanley thought about this. He was alone, then. A young woman walked by wearing a pair of gym shorts and Stanley's eyes obediently trailed her down the sidewalk. He fetched his memories of lost loves. Old friends long gone and wondered aloud, "Shaw — how's he know so much about me?"

"Come on, Stan. It's not supernatural. Nor serendipitous. He's a gifted reporter. He's done the research. There's a wealth of autobiographical material sitting at the library. Native Books. Borders. All by you."

"Maybe he came from the Rupert Murdoch School of Journalism," said Stanley, air-quoting journalism.

"Could be."

"I wonder," said Stanley. "If he's somehow attached to my past?"

"What past? You haven't even dated a girl after Havanah left you. That was what, thirty years ago?"

"Ah, Haven. Maybe she's had a kid after all."

"You keep harping on about her. Why don't you move on? You need someone."

"Aw. I was never good at dating. She was the last. Explain this, how do you suppose Shaw knew about the incident with the hot tub?"

Mitch sighed as he normally did when the topic moved to Havanah. "Research. You can't keep your pen cap on. It's in one of your two collections. I read it myself."

"Maybe he interviewed her."

"Stan," said Mitch crumpling his paper cup. "He didn't need to. You dwell, and divulge. Don't get sentimental on me. Nostalgia is a killer. It'll stop you dead in your tracks."

* * *

The reviews continued. Shawʻs reviews of Gold's reviews had shifted over the months. At first, they deconstructed his writing techniques, his sentence structures as if he were combing through stanzas of poetry. Then they began to cross reference his previous writings on cinema, comparing and contrasting minor points from one of his earlier collections of essays. Then slowly, they became more caustic, and revealed personal aspects about his life. They drew on his associations and critiqued his social circles in an attempt to explain his viewpoints. Through it all, Gold refused to comment on any of those reviews. He had nothing more to prove. This was no pieta, no usurping of authority, nor a critical coup. This was simply another form of critic, and now he knew how the auteur's felt.

When Stanley published his review of an animated tale featuring inanimate objects speaking to each other whenever humans weren't around, he asked "Will kids like this? Is there any mystery here? A light switch speaks through a lightbulb. An oven heats up when angry. Will kids get the domestic satire? Where has all the wild, unfettered play gone? The open spaces? Asylums from adults? What we have is child's play curated and controlled by corporations and their commodities. This is a sad state of affairs for children." When it was published, he read it at his desk while eating a spread of sky flakes with homemade guava jelly, and black tea.

With resignation, he read his review and then turned the page to The Gold Standard, by

Darwin

Shaw. The review was titled Farewell to Childhood, and it began "Stanley, oh Stanley. You've never had kids. Havanah and yourself, nor you and anyone else, for that matter. Havanah left you because you were lacking in empathy. You show a curious lack of empathy for any case of anthropomorphics. Curiously immune. You showed a lack of empathy for Pinocchio

when it was remastered and rereleased because, well, if a thing isn't real, it isn't human. Bambi was a deer, how could he feel human emotions? And therefore, how could we? you asked. Robots and toys suffer the same fate under your scrutiny. You were once a child, don't you know that to draw eyes on an object is to make it real? You would have understood, had you a few children on your own."

Quietly, gently, Stanley folded the newspaper and set it aside. This was not how he had envisioned the twilight of his career. If he had spent a lifetime antagonizing the work of others, well here it was coming back to him on his own turf, in his own home, is his own life. They say you should separate the work from the artist. They say artists should never take criticism personally. But what of this new animal? Did Shaw expect a rebuttle? A comeback? Some sparring? Well, he wasn't bolstered for it – not at this stage in the game. If this were the state of criticism, he wanted no part of it. He bent over, scratched Herzog behind his ears, rose out of his leather chair, then walked to the kitchen. He picked up the phone and dialed in Mitch's number.

In a resolute voice, he grumbled into the phone. "Hey. It's me. Just wanted to jump on to let you know that this week's review will be my last," then he hung up.

* * *

The year passed by quietly. Stanley continued his lectures at Hawaii Pacific University. He taught classes at the University of Hawaii School of Digital Media. He encouraged students to take risks – to create from the gut. He critiqued their works fairly, and refrained from making any of the harsher judgements he had employed in his published articles. He tried again at writing screenplays but failed to complete any of them. He wrote essays on the Pacific Rim movement. He published his fourth and final compilation of reviews. He started a food blog, and ate out alone regularly.

Meanwhile,

Darwin

Shaw had grown irrelevant. With no reviews to review, his articles focused on other topics, like the Sun Noodle factory, or the different types of poke. It became clear that

Darwin

Shaw was a talentless sensationalist, perhaps with some connections in high places, and in Goldʻs absence was struggling to find new and meaningful subjects. Stanley was afraid that

Darwin

would find another avenue through which to antagonize him but he never did. This was a relief, as Stanley hadn't the energy for it. Out on his lanai at nights, stroking Herzog's back, he would gaze out at the city. The little pecker was out there somewhere. He would see the red wing tips of a plane and hope that Shaw was on it.

Oahu remained as beautiful, and frail as ever. Despite the flawed planning in infrastructure, and the eclectic architecture and design of the city, it grew more and more luminous each day. Walking Herzog around Kapiolani Park on a Sunday afternoon right after a matinee, soaking in the heat of the sun after freezing in the air conditioning on the theatres, exiting the dark and entering the light – a bustling sidewalk, a park filled with families, a beach worked over by young runners and surfers — he could then turn a corner and come upon a dilapidated structure, a forgotten pocket of refuse, filth and grime. On the weekends, he took Herzog to the beaches and parks along the south shores. They walked along crowded parks near Diamond Head and Waikiki. They sat at the pavilions along Kakaako. Herzog, growing old and tiring easily, gave it his best, but as time passed, they found more contentment in sitting along the more quieter fringes of town.

Then, one Saturday, a letter arrived in the mail. He didn't recognize the handwriting and it appeared to be an invitation, perhaps to a wedding.

When he got back to his study, he took a closer look and realized it was from

Darwin

Shaw. His heart began beating arrythmically and he quickly took to his seat. "Son of a bitch," he said. "What do you want?" Slowly, he opened the envelope and extracted the letter. It read:

Dear Mr. Gold,

As you know, I have been a big fan of yours and have been following your work since I was a child. It's been a year since your last film review and I must say that the absence of your voice is felt deeply throughout the industry.

I'd just like to clarify my position. Although it may seem that I had been unfairly attacking you, that couldn't be further from the truth. Would you say that you hated film? No. Your criticism comes out of respect and love for the craft. Likewise, my reviews of your reviews.

Film criticism is an artform. Anyone can criticize. It takes a true master to critique. And in your critiques, you have shown all of us that you have a deep understanding of film, life, and of people. Sometimes, your review of a film and its characters is so perceptive that it makes me wonder whether or not you were simply projecting – that the film wasn't as good as you had written. Frequently, I would have rather read a review than see the film. In that way you've become an artist. And for any artist of any new craft, there will be critics. I took up that watch. It's been a pleasure.

As you have retired from film criticism, I too have been forced to find another career path. I am now a writer and director. I have just completed my first film. It wouldn't be a surprise to say that it is a film about you and your life story.

You may be wondering how I got the film green lit in the first place. Well it was easy, you are well regarded in the industry, and I wrote a great script. The film debuts at Dole Cannery Theatres on Thursday at 7. I know that it would be a breach of conduct for you to review it, but I hope that you will attend.

Sincerely,

Darwin Shaw.

* * *

Stanley showed up to the screening with the sole intent of berating the flick. He would come out of retirement, break the rules of conduct and review the film under extreme bias.

The lobby bustled with old colleagues he hadn't seen in years, old friends and a roll call of his students. He felt underdressed, wearing a pair of khaki's and a blue Lahaina Sailor Spooner shirt. Above the concession stand, a plasma screen looped a trailer and the title "The Gold Standard" flashed every 2 minutes.

When Darwin saw that Stanley had arrived, he ran over and thanked him profusely for attending. "An honor, seriously," he said. "This is a tribute to you." He checked his watch every ten seconds, and repeatedly glanced at the theatre's doors. "I really hope you enjoy this," he said, lingering. "This is nerve racking."

Stanley looked around. The promotional materials were elaborate, 3 dimensional cardboard diaramas of movie theatres, complete with rows of red chairs, a red curtain and a movie screen made of lenticular paper with images that danced as you moved by. "How did you secure the budget for all of this?" he asked. "You weren't in the pictures before this were you?"

Shaw smiled and wiped his brow with a handkerchief. "No, well. My father invested in the film..."

"Ah. Nuff said," said Stanley, checking his own watch. A crowd of old acquaintances gathered around and shook his hand. They began speculating on which scenes they were going to see.

"Maybe a fight scene, maybe at that bar back in those days when you were a hard drinking son of a bitch."

"Maybe so," said Stanley. He was beginning to enjoy himself and the attention. "Who would have ever thought a film be made of a critic."

"Are you going to review the film?" asked one of his students, a younger redheaded girl in her early twenties.

"That wouldn't be appropriate, but I'll give you my personal opinion in class on Monday," he smiled and winked. Her reaction was timid and it made everyone feel awkward. He wasn't sure why he had winked at all, as it was incongruous to his answer. Perhaps it was all of the attention. He winked and winced a few more times, feigning a nervous tic. "Well," he turned to Darwin and patted him on the shoulder. "

See you in the movies," he said and made his way to the concession stand.

* * *

When the film began with a single spermatozoid being shot into pink amniotic fluid then swimming toward an egg, Stanley's face lit up with delight. The movie was about to be one of the worst in recent history! The egg developed into a fetus, and over a short montage of fetal development, the first shot of Stanley flashed across the screen. He was a screaming newborn, and a close up of his eyes revealed the superimposed image of film reels rolling along his irises. The wagnerian music swelled and the title flashed across the screen. The Gold Standard!

"Hmmckkh!" Stanley could not contain himself. He let out a snort and caught a few curious glances. He caught his old editor glaring at him and shrugged. Mitch shrugged in return and turned back to the screen.

On screen, his childhood unfolded episodically, almost like clips of Leave it to Beaver episodes. The dialogue was stiff and wooden. "Aww Ma! Can I go outside to play?"

"Now now, dear, finish your soup," said the actress playing his mother. She was astonishingly close in resemblance to his real mother, but her delivery was horrible.

By the time his father had made his first appearance, accidentally hitting his shoulder against the threshold of a doorway, shaking the entire fake set, causing the microphone boom to dip into the scene over his head, Stanley was in stitches. He was snickering so hard his popcorn had fallen all over his lap.

A nervous wave of laughter bubbled from the front row to the back and Stanley made an attempt to compose himself. This was a tribute after all.

In terms of a biopic, the film was spot on in measuring equal amounts of drama with actual events. To it's credit, it didn't play for obvious collegiate comedy when he was at Berkeley, stoned most of the time and homesick, trying to make his way back to Hawaii for spring break by selling more weed. It didn't ramp up the quirkiness with it's portrayal of his parents as two bohemians living on Maui. It avoided the usual pitfalls of condescending to eccentric characters and instead portrayed them fairly as people struggling to get by, proud of their only son, prideful of the fact that they could send him there. The film avoided sentimentalizing Hawaii and shirked from showing the usual postcard-perfect landscapes, and showed poverty for what it was. The recreation of his childhood home was just right. There was the constantly broken water heater that emitted smoke from a chimney so black it swallowed the neighboring houses. There was the garage his father had driven through in the Datsun, that remained on a tilted axis like a parallelogram until he left home. There was the failing roof, the plywood walls, the rusted bicycle he had received as a hand down for a birthday.

But the acting and the pacing was horrendous. His mother read her lines as if by teleprompter. His father struggled to avoid eye contact with the camera and made strange deliveries such as "I love you son?"

And that child actor! The boy that played him resembled him so acutely it was a shock to hear him attempting to conceal a southern drawl.

And Haven, or Havanah. The actress that portrayed her was so remarkably her yet so bad an actress, she was a jarring distraction. Her diction desecrated every memory of her.

Yet there were those quiet scenes in the later years, in which Stanley — a failed screenwriter, and poet — tells her that he wants to become a film critic. The lighting in their shabby Los Angeles apartment was so pitch perfect it was almost the actual memory.

The terrible acting gave way to a moment of serenity, as when Stanley explained his reasoning. "There's so much to admire when it comes to cinema," he said to Havanah as they lay on the floor mattress. He picked up a Henry James novel, and began scribbling in its lower corners. He then turned the pages toward her and began flipping through them. The soft pulse of air roused her fine auburn hair as she watched. In the corner, a ball bounced back and forth, back and forth. Haven laughed. "Is that a bouncing ball?" she asked. "Well, I'm no artist," said Stan. "I accept that. But just look at this," he flipped the pages again, and again her hair danced. "In the film books they call this the persistence of vision. The way our minds work, we can only process images so fast. Even though they're just pages flipping, it looks like real movement. Now add to that layers. Dialogue. Music. Have it all come together just so, and we get something like Citizen Kane. I'm no auteur, but I know art. I wanna know everything about it."

An hourglass twirled within a spiral, signifying the passage of time, and Stanley was covering his mouth with his napkin again. A map of the Pacific filled the screen and red dotted line began in California and made its way toward Hawaii, signifying the period in which Haven and Stanley moved to Honolulu. Stanley's shoulders were visibly trembling as he doubled over in attempt to conceal his laughter. Was the travel montage necessary? More nervous laugher bubbled up in the front rows. A few people glanced back. He could see Darwin Shaw sliding down in his seat.

Hula dancers graced the scene out of what may have been straight out of a Jack London story. Strangely, the Waikiki of the 1970's resembled the Waikiki of the 40's. Thatched huts and hula dancers. A priest strolled the beach as group of locals brought in an outrigger canoe. When the boat reached shore, dragging a dead shark just as an added detail, Stanley realized that he was in b-movie bliss. This was heaven. He began eating his popcorn. He was ready to truly enjoy the debacle, for it's failure surely had nothing to do with him.

But then there was Haven, through it all, she was there. The early years. The optimistic couple. Her many manuscripts sent out to publishers who then rejected her. Her growing passion for watercolor. Her first sold painting. Her first gallery showing. Then there was the miscarriage. The dissolution of his marriage. The messy divorce. All of it was handled mutedly. He would even go as far as to say, sensitively. This was not something he wanted to relive, but it was all there — strangely, almost telepathically researched by Shaw. By the time Haven had packed up her bags, leaving Stanley with a puppy named Herzog, he was in tears.

"Damn it, how do you comment on such a thing?" he whispered to himself as the credits rolled. The woman sitting next to him handed him a napkin. He took it, and shakily pressed it into his eyes. What a life – a quiet life, sitting in the dark, eyes wide open, taking in the dreams of others and reveling in them. When Haven was at her lowest point, sleeping away most of the days, he had often walked out to see a matinee for a bucket of popcorn and a window into another life. Often, he wondered if things would have turned out better if he had been more attentive. But he was wounded and angry, for she had shut him out as well.

Outside, members of the audience lingered. His students walked, bleary-eyed, to the doorway and to their cars. A few stragglers patted him on the back as they headed toward the restrooms, "Good stuff, Stan. Really moving. But, kinda weird." they said.

Darwin was nowhere to be found. He had slipped out of the theatre ten minutes before the credits rolled and was gone. The film was profoundly bad, the worst he had ever seen, yet it was sincere. Stanley would write a balanced, gracious article for the Advertiser and would send Darwin a letter of thanks.

What had become of Haven? Last he heard, she had remarried a doctor. Or a musician. The truth was his string of contacts had all fallen out of place over the years and whatever he heard had trickled through a fragmented game of chinese whispers. Wherever she was he hoped that she was happy.

He walked out of the lobby and toward the escalators. As he rose above above the incoming groups waiting in line to purchase their tickets, he thought of that one scene. What a strange time — a formative time — Haven and himself, laying in the bed in that bare apartment, young and broke, watching a flipbook for entertainment. It all stemmed from that theory on the persistence of vision — the pages flipping, the eyes and mind too slow to see the gaps, the ball bouncing back and forth, back and forth, page by page, until before they knew it, the pages were closed, and they had to bend them back, reversing time, to play it all again.