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?"