Читать книгу Gallivanting on Guam - Dave Ph.D. Slagle - Страница 5

“Buenas Noches, Hafa Tatatmanu hao? I just said Hello, Welcome and asked how you are in Chamorro, pahtnaaaah. Chamorro is the name of the indigenous people of Guam, like me. Also, Chamorro is our language. I am Mr. Randolph Colpio but please, call me Randy. I am Elisa’s cousin” says the man standing before me. He’s well dressed in a white designer suit and Gucci sunglasses, a guy who looks like he stole his wardrobe from Tony Montana the main character of the movie ‘Scarface’. He’s standing here staring at me as if I should know him.

“Elisa Ke’gacha Saru?” He asks, as if he is quizzing me.

Exasperated, he lets out an overly dramatic sigh and says “Mr. Saru’s wife, Mrs. Elisa Saru, she is my cousin. You are the new manager of Tropics Gym, yes?” he asks.

I smile and nod, not quite sure how else to react. His tone switches from disappointment to excitement as he says “Welcome, pahtnaaaah, welcome to the Saru’s home. Mr. and Mrs. Saru will be down to greet you very soon.” I take his extended hand and shake it.

“Pahtnaaaah” he says, drawing out the word partner while shaking my hand. “Welcome, welcome, welcome, come inside and meet everyone.”

Walking into the Saru’s house is like walking into the Ritz Carlton Coconut Grove, it’s enormous and full of life, an imitation of an Italian villa, complete with ceramic tile flooring and a spectacular spiral staircase in the heart of the entry way. I follow Randy into a large room where I am surprised by the size of the partying crowd. There must be forty or fifty people in this room. Some people are standing around the perimeter; others are sitting on the couches encircling a stage with a large screen karaoke machine. A woman is onstage singing along in with the karaoke system. Words scroll across the screen as she attempts to keep up. It looks vaguely like Spanish or Tagalog but it must be Chamorro. Two men and a woman are sitting on the stage encouraging the singer with loud clapping and cheering. Others are singing along. There are several servers with trays of drinks. Across the room I see Nestor sitting on a couch talking with a group of people so I walk over and take a seat. Nestor is talking about his workouts with Fernandez and the great time he had in Honolulu. He glances over and nods at me. Alan, the government security guard and driver is sitting across from me and he also nods. “Whas up? How you like Guam?” he asks taking a sip of beer. I don’t want to tell him that I feel awkward. “So far, I really like it. Mr. Saru has a beautiful home” I say.

‘Yah, yah, Saru’s get the best of everything. You lucky you work with Mr. Saru” Alan says, putting the beer bottle to his mouth and looking around, scanning the room, keeping an eye on everyone. I can’t tell if he is actually drinking the beer or using it as a prop. He takes a swig of beer, swallows hard, cringing like someone who doesn’t regularly drink beer and then continues scanning the room. Finally he looks back at me and continues telling me again that I am lucky to work for Mr. Saru.

“Saru family owns most the commercial property on the island. Mr. Saru can get anything. You know? He can do anything he wants too. Mr. Saru is pahree with Carl Segura, the governor.”

“What is a pahree?” I ask.

“Pahree is one best friend, like family but not a real brother. Mr. Saru is pahree with the governor so he can do anything.”

That revelation answered the question that I had since getting off the plane. I first met Alan and his coworker, DJ, about an hour ago, when I walked off the plane. They were waiting to greet us at the airport. I could have predicted the huge Hafa Adai Welcome to Guam sign as I walked off the jet bridge, but seeing Mr. Saru standing between two men, both large islanders wearing police badges on lanyards that hang over brightly colored aloha shirts was a bit unexpected. Mr. Saru introduced me to both men. DJ is a five foot ten, three hundred pound gorilla with a badge and a gun. Alan is a five foot four, two hundred plus pound meathead also armed and shielded. Mr. Saru explained that DJ and Alan are security officers for the governor of Guam. Alan is a full time security specialist and both men are SWAT police officers. They met us at the airport to provide security and an escort back to Mr. Saru’s house.

At the airport, the line of people waiting to pass through customs was long. I had figured on an hour wait but as we approached the line, DJ kept walking towards the front gate. Mr. Saru was following directly behind him. Nestor was pushing one cart of luggage while I followed him pushing the other. Alan was walking behind us, bringing up the rear. At the gate, two customs officers came over. They said something to DJ and then one of them used a key to unlock the gate and he held it open for us. Something didn’t seem right and then Alan pointed at Nestor and me and then said “cocaine express coming through!” The customs officers stopped our carts and began laughing. Alarmed, my first thought was that maybe I was only brought here as a mule to carry cocaine into Guam. Before I could blink Alan patted me on the back and told me they were joking. It was all a joke. But the customs agents did let us walk through without being screened. They didn’t check anything.

“I can’t believe we just walked through customs without getting checked” I said but Nestor had ignored me and kept walking towards the parking lot. I started to wonder if Mr. Saru was really trafficking drugs. Parked in the passenger loading zone I saw a line of black SUV’s with blue police lights on the dashboards. DJ held the door for Mr. Saru to get into the back of the first SUV. Alan motioned for me to follow him to the second SUV. He must have seen the look of shock on my face because he told me not to worry, that we were going to Mr. Saru’s house. Nestor walked down to the third SUV and waved to the driver. I wondered if that was normally how they travel and then I was startled by the wail of a police siren and the roar of acceleration as JJ drove away with Mr. Saru. Alan was more subtle, only using the lights and siren to run through the traffic light at an intersection. I had been nervous the entire drive and I couldn’t help but think about how I was alone, riding in the back of a government SUV with a SWAT officer as the driver and I have unwittingly violated the federal airport customs rules. I was on an unfamiliar island, on my way to, who the fuck knows where, maybe a fiesta with my new boss, maybe to jail for trafficking narcotics. Alan drove us into a private community and explained that the Saru family owns the property and each home is owned by a member of the Saru family. He continued to explain that Mr. Saru is the grandson of Tarugu Saru one of the first multi-millionaires on Guam. It’s the same story Mr. Saru told me about himself, but I nodded and smiled as though I was hearing it for the first time. When he finally stopped in front of the house I became more anxious. Even now this all seems too surreal. I have been anxious since I got on that damn plane. Fuck, I wish I could go home and go to bed. I wish I was back at home with Emiko. The girl who was singing earlier just walked over and sat down next to Alan on the sofa across from me.

“Alan, introduce me” she says, smiling at me.

“Eh, Marissa, we talking, you get introduced later.” Alan says to her.

“Hi” she says, extending her hand to me. “I am Marissa Colpio” she says as we shake hands. “So you are from Hawaii and you are moving here to manage Tropics Gym?”

Marissa Colpio says that she grew up in Baza Gardens, Guam near the village of Yona. “It’s pronounced Zhoad-nyah.” She says, sounding out both syllables. Marissa attended the Academy of Our Lady of Guam high school. After high school she moved to the United States mainland for college, graduating from University of San Diego. She then enrolled in the University of Hawaii MBA program and moved to the island of O’ahu. She has been talking at me non-stop for the past ten minutes. She is still talking at me now. “But I plan to move back home after I finish school, I really miss it here” she says.

According to Marissa, the Saru family is one of the most powerful families in all of Micronesia. They own property on Guam, Saipan, Tinian and Rota and they are friends with the governor. Marissa is a cousin of Mrs. Saru and a member of Tropics Gym. I asked her about the business of the gym, if she thought the gym was doing well but she turned the conversation to Chamorro food, karaoke and what she considers the basics of life on Guam.

“What about the snakes? Are there a lot of snakes? I ask.

She is practically choking on her drink, snorting a laugh and waving her hands in front of her face.

“No ways, you did not just ask me about snakes” she says. “That’s too funny, yah, we have brown tree snakes on Guam but you never see any. Not unless you go out into the jungle. Why do all Hawaii people think that Guam is covered in snakes? It’s so stupid.”

“That’s a relief” I say. “I heard that snakes are everywhere, slithering into houses, hiding in toilets, strangling babies and pets.”

“Ai adai that is so not true!” she says.

“Really?” I ask.

“Really Really!” she says.

“I guess I just heard a lot of rumors.” I say. She looks at me confused.

“You from Hawaii, yah?” she asks.

“No. Well, yes, I am moving from Hawaii but I am originally from California” I say.

“Yah, I thought maybe you was a mainlander. Haole, that is why” she says.

I nod and smile at Marissa. She just called me a haole, the island slang for a Caucasian but I think she is flirting. Alan winks at me, points at his beer and shrugs his shoulders.

“No, I don’t want a beer, thanks” I say to him.

“Marissa, compared to Hawaii, how is the weather here?” I ask.

“It’s similar, but a little more humid. I think if you like living Hawaii you will like Guam. Same laid back attitude, but we have better food and prettier girls” she says with a smile.

Before I can continue volleying flirtatious conversation with Marissa, the sound of television static fills the room. After a few seconds the static stops and Randy is now standing center stage holding a microphone.

“Bien binidu, welcome, welcome everyone!” Randy’s voice booms through the loudspeakers.

The crowd responds by jeering ‘Raaaaaaandy”, “Hey pahtnaaaah” and “Hafa Randy?” Randy enthusiastically smiles and continues. “Please welcome the new manager of Tropics Gym” he says, pointing at me. I stand up and wave hello to the room. There are a lot of smiles but the people are silent.

“The Chamorro in this room are all very shy” Randy says with a laugh. He begins clapping his hands and the room comes alive with applause. I smile and say “thank you, I feel very welcome” and quickly sit back down. Randy looks over at me and asks into the microphone, “What are you drinking pahtnaaaah?”

“Diet Coke” I say.

“Diet Coke, we only have rum and coke, okaaaaaaaaay? No? I have a vodka tonic, let me get one for you too” he says, handing the microphone to one of the pretty island girls sitting by the stage. The girl holds the microphone close to her chest as the karaoke system starts playing Aaliyah’s “If Your Girl Only Knew” and with a beautiful voice she begins to sing the lyrics scrolling across the screen. This is like a goddamn Japanese variety show, except this isn’t Japan and it seems like everyone here has a great voice. Randy sits next to me and with a snap of his fingers summons one of the servers and asks him to bring a vodka tonic and a Diet Coke for me.

“Hey pahtnaaaah, I saw you talking to my cousin, Marissa. Did you just meet her or did you know her from Hawaii?” Randy asks.

“Just met her, she seems cool” I say.

“Cool? Yes, pahtnaaaah, Marissa is cool and she likes white boys like you, okaaaaaaaaay.”

“You’re not married are you?” he asks.

“No” I laugh, “I’m not married.”

“Oh good, I can introduce you to some single girls” he says “you are going to be popular around here, okaaaaay” he says.

“Thanks Randy” I say.

“Ok, now let me fill you in on what is happening here. It’s like show and tell and you are the “show”. You are the new manager of Tropics Gym and Mr. Saru wants to show you off to his friends, okaaaaay. There are some of Guam’s movers and shakers here tonight. I am the “tell” so I will tell you who’s who, okaaaaay?” Randy says.

“Okay” I say. This is weird, fucking weird. I just got off that fucking plane and walked into the twilight zone. What the fuck is going on here and where the hell is Mr. Saru? Fuck. I ‘m tired and hungry and sitting here with this guy, Randy and he keeps leering at me from behind dark glasses. I would leave but I don’t know where the hell I am. Nestor is gone, I don’t see him anymore. I wonder if he left. Fuck. The only people in this room that I know are Marissa, Randy and Alan. Randy must know that I am getting anxious because he is pointing out a few other the people around the room; “The big man with a silver pompadour is Bert Shino, the governor’s chief of staff and the people with him are his assistant, Mr. Kamu and Mr. Kamu’s girlfriend, Trish. C’mon, let’s go over there I want to introduce them all to you.” He says.

Walking across the room I stop to ask Alan where the bathroom is. He is standing in the corner, scanning the room. His gaze is fixed upon a the framed number fifty two jersey of the Baltimore Ravens Ray Lewis hanging between a copy of a Jackson Pollock painting and a picture of Mr. Saru finishing the Honolulu Marathon. “Lewis was the MVP at the Super bowl this year “Alan says quietly. “Mr. Saru already get one autographed jersey. Damn, he has the best of everything.” As he says this, Alan raises his eyebrows to direct my attention towards the wall behind him, where there is a sculpture of a male torso and a framed poster of Mr. Saru shaking hands with the Chicago Bull’s Michael Jordan. Around the room there is an eclectic mix of artwork and memorabilia. Artwork like a copy of a Frida Kahlo painting hung next to the picture of Mr. Saru with a Marlin that he caught in Hawaii. Eclectic items like the velvet Elvis painting that hangs above a drum set in the opposite corner of room. Randy comes over with a fresh drink, slurping down a mouthful.

“Hey, there you are. I thought I lost you” he says. “I guess I will have to make the introductions later because right now I need to keep an eye on the staircase so I can announce the big entrance.”

“What big entrance?” I ask.

“The Saru’s are making their grand entrance, pahtnaaaah” Randy says “let’s go, come on let’s go to the entryway.”

“Finally Mr. Saru is here. I was wondering where he was.” I say.

“Mr. Saru came in through the garage to avoid being seen by anyone. He likes to make an entrance. And an entrance it will be!” Randy says.

The entryway is filled with a raucous laughter as Mr. Saru appears at the top of the stairs wearing a scarlet red shirt, white slacks and a pair of shiny red house slippers. Slowly descending, Mr. Saru flows with the grace and flamboyance of a Las Vegas show girl. He seems to be eclipsing someone as I catch glances of a small figure moving down the stairs directly behind him. He takes a bow at the bottom of the stairwell and a petite, elegantly dressed island girl steps out of his shadow and stands on his left side. She has long dark hair with a red plumeria behind her left ear and a radiant smile.

“That is my cousin, Mrs. Elisabeth Ke’gacha Saru.” Randy whispers to me.

Mr. and Mrs. Saru walk through the entryway and into the karaoke room with the rest of us following. The girl with the karaoke microphone asks if anyone would like to hear Mr. Saru sing. The crowd comes alive with applause. It’s a strange scene to witness as Mr. Saru, Mr. Shino and Mr. Kamu walk to the karaoke stage to perform. The crowd is reacting as though the Beatles had just reunited right here in this very room. The big screen scrolls the lyrics of the song ‘The Hurt’ by Kalapana. Mr. Saru begins to sing the lead vocal with Mr. Shino and Mr. Kamu joining in on the chorus. How surreal to be standing in Mr. Saru’s house as he sings a Kalapana song. Back in Honolulu at Kapono’s I had wondered if he even liked the band Kalapana. Now here he is singing one of their songs in his house.

“Do they sing karaoke a lot?” I ask.

“Oh yes, they sing karaoke all the time! Mr. Saru is a slave to his every whim and caprice and this is comical . . . like a musical comedy” Randy laughs spilling half of his vodka tonic on the marble floor.

“Oh, my pahtnaaah, let me get something to wipe that up.” He hurriedly walks away to find one of the kitchen staff and I am left standing in the entryway with Mrs. Saru. She smiles at me and says; “Hafa Adai, welcome to Guam. It’s nice to finally meet you after hearing so many good things about you. I am Mrs. Saru, but you may call me Elisa.”

“It’s nice to meet you Elisa” I say just as Randy and one of the kitchen staff walk up and begin to wipe up the spilled vodka. Satisfied that the floor is dry, Randy thanks the staff member, Joe, and asks him to bring another vodka tonic. Randy begins methodically waving both hands in the air, as if he is signaling a landing airplane. “Edward Matuna” he calls out, waving to a muscular Caucasian man with dark hair and prominent features who is standing in the hallway. “Edward Matuna come over here and say hello, okaaaaaaaaay.” The man that Randy called to is walking over towards us. Randy tells me that Edward Matuna works for the Guam International Business Advisory. Both of his parents are half Chamorro and half Caucasian.

“But as you can see he inherited the haole genetics” Randy says shaking hands with Edward Matuna “and he is just as white as you.”

“Eh, maybe we related” Edward Matuna says to Randy before he turns to me and extends his hand.

“You the new manager for Tropics Gym, I’m Ed Matuna” he says, shaking my hand.

“Call me Tuna, everybody call me Tuna. Eh, you hungry umby?” he asks.

C’mon, let’s go eat” he says before I can respond.

I like this guy, Tuna. He didn’t wait for me to answer. He must know that it is a long flight and standing here smiling while being stared at by a group of strangers is making me uncomfortable. Besides, I really am hungry. I follow my new friend ‘Tuna’ Matuna into the dining room.

The buffet table is overflowing with platters of food. Following Tuna’s lead, I take a plate and some chopsticks. I have only seen set ups like this at catered events like wedding receptions and I am so hungry this is a welcome sight but I don’t see any familiar food except for some small tortillas and a platter of BBQ Chicken. I take three small tortillas, and pile on some kind of ground up meat.

“Like Kelaguen?” Tuna asks me. I smile. I have no idea what the hell he is talking about.

“Umby, that stuff on your plate is one mix of lemon pepper, onion, peppers, coconut an shredded chicken, called Kelaguen” he says as if he can read my thoughts.

“Try put kelaguen on tahteezahs. Had Chamorro food?” He asks.

My blank expression makes him laugh.

‘No worry, umby. On Guam we call corn tortillas, tahteezahs. Its spelled T-I-T-I-Y-A S but the letter Y is pronounced like ‘ZH’. Take one scoop red rice too” he says, scooping some reddish orange colored rice onto my plate. “Chamorro style rice, we put achiote seeds into the steamer with the rice. It gives the rice one nutty flavor and make it red. Try fiddahdenny” he says handing me a small saucer with what looks like soy sauce.

“Is it shoyu?” I ask.

“No, F- I- N- A- D- E- N- E” he says spelling out the word and then pronouncing all four syllables for me: “fin-ah-den-ny. Is soy sauce, lemon juice, chopped onion an chop chili pepper” he says.

I take the small saucer and follow Tuna over to one of the large dining room tables. There are two long tables, each with seating for twelve and two smaller circular tables, each with seating for six. Randy sits next to me to my left and Tuna takes a seat on my right. Tuna is talking to a girl on his right side so I just start eating.

“You will love it here pahtnaaaah” Randy says “the food, the weather, the people, pahtnaaaah, you are going to love it here! But you probably don’t know anything about Guam and if you do, you probably only know the history that you read in text books and they are filled with lies, okaaaaaaaaay!”

“The history of Guam, the real history”, Randy says “cannot be found in text books. You may have heard that Ferdinand Magellan named the island of Guam Los Ladrones which is Spanish for ‘the thieves’ but Magellan was a pirate who stole from the Chamorro people. He got away with it here but he paid for it in the Philippines. That is where Magellan the pirate met a fate similar to Captain Cook in Hawaii.”

I’m stuffing my mouth with tortillas and kelaguen so I shake my head back and forth to respond.

“You don’t know? “ He asks. “Oh my, my pahtnaaaah, the Hawaiians killed Captain Cook and then COOKED the Captain” He says laughing.

“Pahtnaaaah, when Captain James Cook and his crew returned to Kealakekua Bay only three days after finally setting sail at the end of an extended stay, the Hawaiians took it as a bad omen. And the sailors provoked the Hawaiians. It finally ended when the Hawaiians clubbed and stabbed Captain Cook to death, cut up and burned his corpse. The Hawaiians brought Captain Cook’s scalp, skull, both hands and the meat from one of his thighs to the sailors as an offering of peace. I don’t know if they ate it or not.”

I stop eating and look at Randy. Is he really telling this to me at the dinner table? Before I can say anything, he continues with the history lesson.

“That other celebrated pirate, Magellan, he was shot by the poisonous arrow of Chief Lapu-Lapu and then he was stabbed to death by Pilipino warriors! Magellan’s dead body was chopped up and fed to the fish. Smart people those Pinoys, okaaaaaaay!”

Randy’s sitting here talking about savage killing, mutilations and burnt human flesh which might normally make me puke but I am tired, overwhelmed and still very hungry. I excuse myself from the table to get more kelaguen and titiyas.

Randy is not at his seat when I return to the table and I manage to eat without interruption. I really like this kelaguen stuff. When I finish, I notice Tuna staring at me. “Umby, you one hungry haole!” He laughs “need to balutan when you go.” Tuna explains to me that balutan is the same as ‘make plate’ in Hawaii. Basically, when you a guest at someone’s house, you take a plate of food with you when you leave. Most hosts provide paper plates and foil for just this purpose.

“Yah, I know about ‘make plate’. I lived Hawaii about seven years.” I say “but why do you keep calling me umby?”

“Eh, umby means friend in Chamorro, same as Spanish word ‘hombre’ but we spell it u-m-b-r-e and say it umby like Gumby, umbre” he says with a laugh.

Tuna explains that he grew up on Guam, went to the University of Guam and had been the manager of the family bait shop until his father sold the business and moved back to the mainland USA with a new wife. After the sale of the bait shop, Tuna spent a few months partying and playing around blowing most of his share of the payout from the sale of the business and after a few months, he became bored and decided that since he was practically broke, he needed to find a new job. Tuna’s mother, Mrs. Matuna and Mr. Saru’s mother are cousins and because Mr. Saru is pahree of the governor, he could help Tuna get a government job and he did.

“Is how things work here. Mainlanders call it nepotism but here we just helping family” Tuna says.

“Pahree is like a best friend, right?” I ask, remembering what I learned from Alan earlier.

“Pahree is spelled P-A-R- E and is like one brother not related to you. Mr. Saru pare with the governor and he helped me get one job at GovGuam, the government of Guam, giving advice for new business.” He says.

Not only had Tuna managed a bait shop, but he says that he has an economics degree from the University of Guam which means that he is not only qualified, but also a good candidate for the job.

‘So why didn’t you just apply for a job?” I ask.

“Umbre lai, no one in GovGuam get hired like that. Everybody hooked up by one relative. Everyone get one pare with one uncle that work for GovGuam.”

“What does umbre lie mean?” I ask.

“Already tell you that umbre is friend. Chamorro word for boy is lahi so when I say umbre lai is like saying oh boy or oh brother” he says with a smile “like saying oh brother, no way anyone get hired by GovGuam without knowing anybody that work there already.”

Before I can ask, he tells me that seventy percent of the local population works for GovGuam.

Randy takes his seat and says that the desserts will be put out in about ten minutes. The kitchen staff is replenishing the food right now if we want more.

“How long does a fiesta last?” I ask

“Pahtnaaaah, every village has a fiesta. Village fiestas go on for days, okaaaaay. But this is a private fiesta, in your honor. Enjoy it while it lasts, okaaaaay” Randy says.

Tuna is nodding in agreement.

“Umbre, like leave? Wait ‘til after dessert. Should eat dessert or you act like one haole” he says.

“Same as Hawaii” I say with a smile.

“How long you worked gyms?” Tuna asks.

“More than a decade” I say.

“Been working out long time too. Was one competitive weightlifter an get plany medals. Workout at Tropics Gym too. You like workout? Can work out together if you need one spotter” he says.

“Okay, sure, we can work out together” I say.

“Eh shoot, I forget about my trip. Going Honolulu for training on my job an stay off island one whole week” he says with a look of concern.

“You live Honolulu, yah?” he asks.

“Yes, I live in Honolulu. I meant until today, I used to live in Honolulu until today” I say, stumbling over my reality. Fuck, I live on Guam now.

“Evah train at Da Gym Honolulu?” he asks.

“I used to train there before it closed. I was training at Gold’s Gym South Street until I moved here” I say.

“Shoots, I like train there too! Eh, you like train heavy? Like workout tomorrow?” he asks.

He is offering me a chance to engage in that bonding experience popular among the weightlifters. The invitation of “Let’s train together” is usually another way of saying “think you can out lift me?” It’s like asking ‘how much can you bench? And then telling the person to prove it however, among gym rats, friendships are forged in iron and I am not about to turn down the opportunity to make a friend. Tuna says that we can meet at Tropics gym tomorrow evening, after he finishes work. I agree although I have no idea where the gym is located. I don’t know where I live and shit, I don’t even know where I’m staying tonight.

“Actually, I don’t know where the gym is.” I say to Tuna.

“Eh, no worries is one small island, only get one Tropics Gym. You find it by tomorrow night” he says with a laugh.

“Sounds cool” I say to him. The thing is that I’m sitting here eating strange food with people that I have known for about two hours and I feel panic creeping inside of me. Fuck, am I working tomorrow night? I just made plans to workout with Tuna, I guy I hardly know at a gym that I have never even seen, my gym, the gym where I am now the general manager and I don’t even know where I am. I don’t really know anyone, except Mr. Saru. Fuck, I don’t even know where I am sleeping tonight. Looking around this table I am starting to wonder what I am doing here. The house is filled with guests, family, friends, political associations of Mr. Saru and a few of the people are all in one and then there is me. I am the new guest, observed and ignored save for Randy, the host and Edward ‘Tuna’ Matuna.

“Umbre, we go out, yah? You and me go Gallivanting” Tuna says.

“What is gallivanting?” I ask.

“You know, pick up chicks, poke squid, you know, be gallant.”

‘I don’t think gallant means what you think it means.” I say.

“What? Ok, what means gallant?’ he asks.

“Gallant is to be noble and courageous.” I say.

Eh? That’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout, we courageous an noble. We pick up chicks an poke squid” he says laughing.

‘Alright.” I say laughing. I think this guy just speaks a mix of Chamorro and Hawaiian slang or at least it sounds like Hawaiian slang. The words I don’t understand are Chamorro. At least I can understand most of what he says.

“Hoi, let’s go gallivant, meet girls, be gallant” he says enthusiastically.

I like this guy, Tuna. He’s outgoing, I’ll give him that. The other guys here are looking at me like I’m an outsider, another damn haole. But this guy Tuna is alright. The quick glances and hardened stares from around the room are making me feel awkward. Randy asks one of the kitchen staff to bring me another drink. Randy is on a first name basis with the kitchen staff. He explains to me that the Saru family has a staff to cook, clean, wash the cars and polish the watches and jewelry of the Saru family. The look of disbelief on my face amuses Randy as he confides “Mr. Saru is a fashion icon on island well at least he thinks that he is pahtnaaaah. He has a collection, dozens of wrist watches. He also has necklaces and bracelets but his passion is shoes. He has more shoes than Imelda Marcos, okaaaaaaaaay.”

“I did notice that he seemed to be wearing a new pair of Nikes each time he came to the gym back in Honolulu.” I say.

Yes, Mr. Saru never wears a pair of Nike’s for more than a week” Randy says in a serious tone.

Looking about the room, my eyes meet Mr. Saru’s and he motions for me to come over. He introduces me to the governor’s chief of staff, Mr. Shino and his assistant, Mr. Kamu, the men who sang back-up during Mr. Saru’s karaoke performance.

‘He was a bodybuilder and is one of the best trainers too. He even managed several vitamin stores. This guy is going to make Tropics Gym the best gym in all of Micronesia!” he says about me. The men all smile and we shake hands.

“Thank you for the warm welcome” I say “but I was wondering where I am staying tonight?”

“I will have Alan drive you to the Guam Airport Hotel” Mr. Saru says, “You have a room there with a full kitchen including kitchenware, a full sized refrigerator, stove, and a microwave. Everything that you will need until your apartment is ready.”

“All I really need right now is a bed” I say with a wink.

“It has a bed too” he says smiling.

Elisa Saru smiles and says; “I am impressed. You came into a house full of strangers and made new friends. And you ate Chamorro food. You didn’t make faces or say ‘Ewwww’ to any of it like most haoles. Have you had Chamorro food before?”

“No, this was the first time and I really enjoyed the food” I say.

“I know you are going to do really well here” she says.

She doesn’t know about all the mistakes I made when I first moved to Hawaii like wearing shoes inside a house, making comments about the strange food, asking for a fork. But I have not made any cultural faux pas tonight. Tonight I was able to impress Mrs. Saru with my understanding of island customs, my ability to use ‘hashi’ or chopsticks or whatever they call them here. And the rules of the fiesta seem simple enough, eat when you are hungry. Eat when you are offered something. Eat when you are told to try something. Drink. Drink a lot if you want to. Sing karaoke, have fun, all of them simply a sort of unstructured formality. But Mrs. Saru was sincerely impressed that I ate the kelaguen and red rice even though those foods were not familiar to me. I was starving when I got to the Saru’s house. Other than some trail mix on the plane, I had not eaten anything since my lunch with Emiko this afternoon. Or wait, what time is it?

“Mr. Saru, what time is it here?”

“It’s a quarter to eleven but for you it’s a quarter to three in the morning, Honolulu time. You must be tired. I’ll tell Alan to take you to the hotel. Get some rest and I will come by and pick you up tomorrow morning around nine” he says.

“You like good music?” Mr. Saru asks. Stevie Wonder’s Superstition is playing as Mr. Saru drives us to dinner.

“Yes, I like good music.” I say, confused. What kind of question is that? Everyone likes good music. Good is subjective. But I do like Stevie Wonder’s music and I would tell him but he wouldn’t hear me because he is singing along with the stereo. His car has an impressive sound system, loud enough to rattle the windows and vibrate the ground beneath the car, but without sounding distorted. After another verse he turns the volume down.

“So, what did you do today?” he asks.

I wasn’t prepared for that question. How do I tell him that this is a conversation that I don’t want to have? I want to go home. There must be a flight back to Honolulu tomorrow morning. I am not sure what I should tell him. I miss Emiko. I don’t like it here. But the truth is that I spent most of the day sitting in my hotel room. I watched TV, I took a nap. I really didn’t do anything. I don’t want to tell him that after I picked up my rental car this morning I got lost, panicked, became frustrated and decided to sit in my hotel room talking to Jay. I want to go home. Back to Honolulu and it hasn’t even been twenty four hours since my arrival on Guam. After looking at a map of the island it is hard to believe that I got lost. But I did get lost. I have a horrible sense of direction and I left the rental car parking lot and drove right back into the airport. Of course it could have been a subconscious choice to go back. Go back to Honolulu, back to Star Markets, back to Emiko. After circling through the airport a few times, I did manage to make my way back to Marine Drive and then down to a shopping center. There was a supermarket, Payless Supermarket to be precise. Inside the store it was like taking a step back in time. The store fixtures were from the 1960’s and 1970’s and the brands were mostly unfamiliar to me so I ended up buying a loaf of bread, a jar of peanut butter and a twelve pack of Diet Coke. When I left the parking lot, I drove the opposite direction on Marine Drive, hoping to find my hotel. I got lost again and started to panic. It’s not like me to be somewhere, lost and without any way to call anyone. And stopping for directions wouldn’t have helped because other than Marine Drive, none of these streets have street signs. After an hour of driving around I ended up parking at a place called Y’pao beach where I walked around for about two hours until the panic wore off. The one thing about being on a tropical island is that you are surrounded by the natural beauty of the ocean. For awhile it was really nice to just sit in the shade, staring out at the ocean, wondering how to get back to my hotel.

After another hour of driving I made it back to the hotel and just as I opened the door, the phone rang. It was Tuna calling to see if I was going to make it to the gym. Frustrated, I told him that I got lost and didn’t think that I could find the gym, even with directions. He laughed and told me that nobody can get lost on Guam, not even one haole.

“Well, Mr. Saru, I was mostly just resting, watching TV in my room, but it seems like something is wrong, like the stations are not broadcasting the normal programs.”

“What channels were you watching?” he asks.

“I clicked through all of them.” I say.

“Well, the Korean station and CNN Asia are current and so are the local newscasts by KUAM. But the regular network programming is two weeks behind schedule because the local cable company plays tapes from the mainland USA affiliates. “

“Ah, that explains why MTV News is reporting things from awhile back. I felt like I was in the Twilight Zone.” Mr. Saru laughs and although I don’t say it out loud, I still feel like I am in the twilight zone.

He drives into a parking lot and sings along with the last few verses of Superstition. His voice is off key as he sings at full volume. As the song ends he looks at me and says; “I was a singer you know. I sang in a band several years ago. I still like to sing and I love listening to live music. We should go listen to live music.” I nod in agreement but I hope I don’t have to hear him sing again. We are parked in front of a restaurant, Ocean Bay Chinese Seafood.

“Ocean Bay is known for their Honey Walnut Shrimp.” Mr. Saru says as we walk towards the front door. “My family comes here all the time. It’s one of our favorite places.” The hostess greets us as we walk in the door and she leads us to a large circular table. Elisa Saru and the Saru children are there waiting for us. The dinner conversation is casual and I am happy to discover that Mr. Saru was right about the honey walnut shrimp, it is fantastic. So are the salt and pepper shrimp, the shrimp fried rice and actually, everything else. When I say everything else, I mean that the wait staff has loaded our table with platter after platter of food. I believe that we have received one order of each item on the menu. After dinner, Mr. Saru announces that he is taking me into Tumon to experience Guam nightlife. Elisa looks at me for a minute and then tells Mr. Saru that I look like I am too tired to go out. I nod in agreement.

“I am tired. It’s ok, Mr. Saru, you can show me around another time” I say.

“C’mon, you’re not tired. Let’s go. Let me show you around Tumon” he says.

“No, thank you, but really, you don’t have to show me around tonight.” I say.

“Nonsense, you are new to the island and I am going to show you around. You don’t want to sit alone in that hotel room. C’mon, let’s go down to Tumon” he says in a demanding tone.

One of his sons asks Mr. Saru if he is going to ‘see her’, a question which quickly answers with a nervous laugh.

“No, no, daddy will be home later” but as he says this Elisa notices that I am paying close attention and she looks away.

With all the neon and tall buildings, Tumon reminds me of a small scale version of Waikiki. But that is not what Mr. Saru meant when he said that “Tumon is like Waikiki.” As he describes it, Tumon is the place on Guam with the resort hotels and most of the tourist attractions.

“I chair the board of the Guam Tourism Authority” he says.

I pretend like this is news to me although Alan, the government driver already told me that last night. Mr. Saru continues; “You know, Guam has many great tourist attractions and we get more tourism than most of the beach resorts in the mainland USA. We compete with Hawaii for tourism too. Guam is only a three hour flight from Japan, Hong Kong, Korea and the Philippines whereas it takes at least seven hours to travel from any of those destinations to Hawaii” he says.

I notice that we are passing a Hard Rock Café, a Planet Hollywood and a Gameworks. There are resort hotels and restaurants, pool halls and strip clubs, lots of strip clubs. There is even a Duty Free Shopping mall next to a Louis Vuitton store. Mr. Saru is narrating the tour and as we pass one of the clubs, a club with a sign proclaiming it as ‘The World Famous Club G Spot’ he asks me if I like strip clubs.

“Strip clubs? Sure, they are ok.” I say.

“They don’t do anything for me, it’s a big rip-off!” he says. “I would rather stay home with my wife than go to a strip club. I don’t want to pay for sex. Those girls are not worth it.”

I nod in agreement but what the fuck? What was that about? I hope he isn’t taking me to a strip club.

“Over there is the Tumon Sling Shot, a ride where people are strapped to a seat inside a caged ball and then shot into the atmosphere. Japanese tourists love that thing” He says, continuing the tour.

Driving past another row of bars Mr. Saru points out and says; “Those are hostess bars. You know, buy me drinky bars. Are you familiar with that?” Before I can answer he continues; “there are these girls that work there, hostesses, and they will sit next to you and say ‘buy me drinky’. The girls make a commission on the drinks it’s another damn rip off but they do a hell of a lot of business.”

We finally pull into a crowded parking lot. There are a few nightclubs, but the one with the loud live band and a long line out the door is a club called ‘Casa’. But we aren’t going to Casa. Instead Mr. Saru leads me towards a bar named Kitano Zaka. Fuck, it’s a karaoke bar and I hope he isn’t going to spend the night singing. As soon as we step inside we are greeted by several hostesses and seated in a private section at the front of the club. Everyone here seems to know Mr. Saru. The bartender comes over to our section to greet us and Mr. Saru introduces the bartender, Omar, to me. An older Asian woman wearing a kimono comes to our table and greets Mr. Saru. He introduces her as the Mamason, the owner of the bar. Mamason leaves our table and comes back with four girls; none of them look like they are older than twenty five. The one girl sitting next to me is holding a song book to choose karaoke songs, Japanese, Tagalog, English, Korean, Thai and even English. Her name is Mai and she is asking me to sing a song. Paging through the book surprises me, they have a lot of recent pop songs, songs that are currently hits on MTV and top forty radio. One of the girls sitting by Mr. Saru has chosen a song. Mai says that it’s a popular Thai song. Mimi takes our drink orders, I ask for a diet Coke, Mr. Saru asks for a blend of lychee, papaya and pineapple juice.

“I don’t drink alcohol” he says to me. “Never acquired the taste for it, you?”

“I like to drink sometimes. I drank a lot when I was in college, but the novelty has worn off. Besides, I am more health conscious now.” I say.

The bar girls are taking turns with the karaoke. Two of them are entertaining us by singing a duet of Say, Say, Say, the Paul McCartney, Michael Jackson collaboration which is fairly entertaining. Mr. Saru leans close to me, as if he has some very important, very private news to share.

“Chamorro have different traditions then mainland Americans; he says. “We have different cultures and languages.” I nod to show that I understand but where the hell is he going with this?

“We have a word ‘achatma’ that means girlfriend or mistress but it’s not a very nice word. But having an achatma is acceptable and in fact, admirable. But that word, ‘achatma’ is considered derogatory to the woman. They like to be called a girlfriend or fiancée.”

Okay, so he is teaching me a new word, a Chamorro word, achatma.

“So a mistress is an achatma?” I ask.

“No, no, not like a mistress. An achatma is a legitimate girlfriend.”

Amused and confused by his distinction but distracted by the bar girl who is singing the song “Mickey” and waving pom-poms in the air, my mouth is agape. Looking around at each booth there are men, older, well dressed men with several young women. It also seems like the girls of the Kitano Zaka are required to sing.

“Have you been to any of the hostess bars in Honolulu?” Mr. Saru asks.

“You mean the ‘buy-me-drinky bars?” I say with a laugh, “Yes, I have been to a few. And I understand about mistresses. I mean, not mistresses, but girlfriends. I understand the distinction between wives and girlfriends.”

Mr. Saru is smiling at my attempted empathy. Mamason escorts a chubby young woman to our booth and Mr. Saru introduces her as Adipo and tells her that I am the new general manager of Tropics Gym. Her chubby face suddenly flushes with anger.

“How can you do this to him?” Adipo asks. “Why did you bring him?”

Mr. Saru calmly responds; “I needed him as an excuse to get out.”

Adipo smiles at me and politely extends her hand.

I take her hand and say “It’s nice to meet you, Adipo.”

“Welcome to Guam” she says before turning back to Mr. Saru and asking; “Why did you bring him here? Why are you exposing him to this?”

“We already had this argument.” He turns to me and laughs, “She and I already had this argument earlier but I was right about you. You aren’t going to be bothered by my relationships. I bet this is somewhat familiar to you.” He turns to face Adipo and says “He has been around the block. He understands this part of our culture.”

Adipo turns away and begins browsing through one of the song books, obviously irritated. This is uncomfortable and I realize that this must be the woman that his son asked about back at the restaurant, she must be his atchatma. Mai, one of the bar girls, sits down next to me placing a drink in front of me. “It Diet Coke” she says. “He order for you, he say you don’t drink.”

“Thank you.” I say.

Adipo has a microphone and she is starting to sing as Chamorro words scroll across the screen overhead.

“I love when she sings this song” Mr. Saru says, “It’s a Chamorro love song. Adipo has been my achatma, my girlfriend for three years. She is my soul mate.”

Sitting here in the Kitano Zaka, my mind wanders back to the days I spent as a personal trainer at the prestigious Honolulu Club. Some years ago I was the personal trainer of Tomoko Tanaka, the fashion model, Ms Universe contestant and mistress of Mr. Fujikama, the owner of the Fujikama Golf Centers of western Japan. I also trained Mrs. Fujikama. It began one day when one of my clients, Mrs. Fujikama introduced me to her husband, Mr. Fujikama. All I knew about them was that they were Japanese Nationals living on O’ahu. Mrs. Fujikama brought her husband to meet me one day because he wanted to thank me for doing a good job of training his wife. He was very pleased with the results as she had lost 15 pounds and was now very toned. “Like a fashion model” he said to me, while admiring his wife. Mr. Fujikama thanked me and left us to our workout. After I finished training Mrs. Fujikama at 12:30 and would not have another appointment until 4:30 so I decided to go to the I Love Country Café for some food. As I walked past the front desk, one of the front desk staff called me over and handed me an envelope. It was one of the Honolulu Club envelopes with something bulky inside. I opened the envelope and there was a note that said to meet Mr. Fujikama for lunch at the Kahala Mandarin Hotel. Mr. Fujikama had left one of his cars for me on the 3^rd floor parking level. Reaching into the envelope my hand felt a key; it was a black key with the Ferrari logo. In the far corner of the parking garage sat a brand new, bright red Ferrari 360 Modena. I remember my hands shaking when I opened the door and sat inside the car. Mr. Fujikama’s note stated that the 360 Modena has six gears with a semi-automatic F1 gearbox and that the shifters are actually paddles behind the steering wheel. It also instructed me on how to shift the gears by placing my hands on the steering wheel and reaching my fingers back to feel the shift paddles. The right paddle is to engage the transmission and up shift, the left paddle is for downshifting. The floor pedals are standard, brake on the left, accelerator on the right. I started the powerful car and stared at the dash as an array of gauges came to life. There were less than ninety miles on the odometer. The engine whined like an Indy car as I slowly engaged the right paddle and smoothly rolled forward. I was on my way. I instantly became intoxicated with power and I was sucked into the surrealism of a reality somewhere between Ferris Bueller’s Day off and Magnum PI but it was me, driving the streets of Honolulu in a brand new, dazzling red Ferrari 360 Modena. I was on my way to meet with a man for lunch to discuss something, anything, it didn’t really matter. I was driving a new Ferrari down the H1 freeway, the experience, amazing and the reason, a mystery to me.

After valet parking the Ferrari, I walked into the Kahala Mandarin hotel and was greeted at Hoku’s restaurant by Mr. Fujikama and his lunch date.

“Please allow me to introduce Ms. Tomoko Tanaka.” He said to me. She was stunning, a beautiful Japanese girl who I had recognized from the Shiseido advertisements in the Honolulu Advertiser. That was the day that I became the personal trainer of Miss Tomoko Tanaka, mistress of Mr. Fujikama. His wife, Mrs. Fujikama drove a Porsche Carrera GT and lived in a mansion while his mistress, Miss Tanaka lived in Nauru Towers and drove a Porsche Boxster. And me, I kept my mouth shut and drove a Ferrari. Well, at least once in awhile. For my part was simply to be the personal trainer of them both, wife and mistress. I chose to keep my opinions out of my reality. Yes, I have been to strip clubs, hostess bars and mistress bars.

“Where is the men’s room?” I ask Mr. Saru.

“In the back, at the end of the hallway” Mr. Saru says, pointing towards the back of the club.

Fuck it if there aren’t four private rooms in the back of Kitano Zaka. By the time I get back to our booth, Mr. Saru and Adipo are singing a duet. Ironically, the song is ‘Love and Honesty’ by the Hawaiian Style Band. How ironic, singing about love and honesty with his mistress and I wonder if he is honest at all. At the end of the song the bar girls are clapping, the other patrons are clapping, Mamason is clapping and even Omar stopped pouring a drink to join in the applause. Everyone is clapping for Mr. Saru and Adipo, a married man and his mistress and I am familiar with such things.