Failing To Stop (Completely)

We all succumb to rash impulses. The sort later regretted. My faux pas began following happy-hour on a sun-drenched Ka’anapali beach in Maui. Perhaps the second Bikini Blonde pale ale (“large draft please”) was ill-advised and affected my sense of road decorum. Maybe watching humpback whales frame a tropical sunset induced my giddy driving pattern.

I felt okay behind the wheel… but should’ve stayed on the proper side of the road.

The names of certain culpable characters in this story have been altered, e.g. my brother and his wife are referred to as “T” and “K” from “L.A.” – thus cleverly masking their identity from, among others, innocent children such as “T” and “Robby”, who coincidentally also reside in “L.A.”.

The whole mess wouldn’t have occurred had not K had to pee. The drive from happy-hour at the Sheraton to T and K’s digs was only five minutes but, after three piña coladas, K “really had to go”. So it seemed funny – and harmless – to veer the rental car around a long line of vehicles at the security gate, ignoring the frantic waving guard. And all may have been well had not a geriatric vigilante, appalled at my rules-of-the-road flouting, tried to sideswipe me. His blaring horn alerted the entire resort to my intransigence. The gate radioed my impending arrival to reception. A group of disgruntled uniformed Hawaiians awaited.

K (of the full bladder) made a hasty run for the lobby, exiting the car before it had stopped. I explained to the baton-wielding Islanders that we were in the midst of an emergency – not exactly life or death – but serious nevertheless.

“My sister-in-law was about to pee her pants,” I said.

After a careful and apologetic offering of Irish Blarney, (“Sorry I failed to stop completely.”) we retraced the drive to the resort exit. All was well again with the world.

Until the burly entrance guard whose military sensibilities I had offended blockaded the road. Unlike his counterparts at reception, he was in no mood to forgive. He was angrier – and much, much bigger.

He strode into the car’s path arm extended, preventing our departure, furiously noting our plate number. I was going to mention the urgency created by a sister-in-law’s swollen bladder but his resemblance to an irritated heavyweight boxer kept my tongue-in-cheek-comment checked.

This was one pissed Hawaiian.

“You completely failed to stop and tried to cause an accident. I am calling in a Citation 68”.

While he dialed the police I asked:

“Pardon me sir, but what’s a 68 Citation?”

“This vehicle is permanently forbidden from entering these premises.”

No problem, I thought. I’m never coming back here. T and K, on a short junket from their fancy L.A lives, were moving into our place up the road in the morning. Just let me out the gate before the cops show and I’ll never darken this roadway again. I inched out while the Polynesian behemoth in the rear-view mirror confirmed the numbers on our plate.

Later, T and K joined us for dinner. Following a repast of lightly seared ahi tuna and pinot noir, we had a jolly laugh recounting the day’s events.

Then a heated argument ensued between L.A. husband and wife over the relative merits of Sonoma and Napa Valley vintages. They are wine snobs. After failing to gain her spouse’s affirmation that Napa wine was luxuriant, fruity and deep (and that Sonoma merlot tasted like piss) K stormed out into the tropical night, the slam of a salt-encrusted screen door exclaiming her departure.

“It’s okay. She’ll be back. It’s a two-mile walk to our hotel”, said T. “And K would never leave without her purse and sweater.”

An hour and a half passed. No K.

I’d have been sick with worry were it not for the soothing effect of chocolate-covered macadamia nuts, copious quantities of merlot and the raucous laughter accompanying a ukulele jam.

After an unsuccessful search of the grounds and, having reached the conclusion that K had indeed walked, my “Bra” (as they say in the Islands), announced his departure and drove off. Seconds later in strode K, tugging at the rusted patio door.

“Where’s T?”

“He left,” I said. “You’ve been gone forever. He looked for you.”

“What! He knows I’d never leave without my purse and sweater.”

She announced her intention to walk home but when the screen door refused to budge she accepted a lift.

I don’t generally quibble about the superiority of one wine region over another and, having heartily sampled all the California goof on offer that evening, was in no shape to drive. I agreed to ride shotgun and offer moral support while Florence drove K back to… OMG – we were headed back to the Hawaiian giant’s stomping grounds! I checked my watch. It was almost midnight. The happy hour episode was six hours removed. Surely he’d have gone home by now.

I peeked tentatively out the window as the gate approached. There he was, looking like a juiced weightlifter. We crawled to a stop as his flashlight panned our plate and combed the car. I cowered in the back, feebly trying to look more like a drunken reveler than a criminal flaunting the vast legal implications of a Citation 68.

After an age the guard said, “Aloha, welcome home”, and waved us through.

I wanted to be a gentleman and walk K to her room but thought better of it after envisaging the impending reunion with her beloved. We abandoned her at the curb and buggered off.

In the darkness, meters from our escape, the guard jumped like a ghost out onto the road. He pointed wildly at our license plate, jolting us to a halt. We stopped dead, resigned to certain imprisonment. He gestured at the window, which Florence reluctantly lowered. Although seated, her legs failed. Devoted husband and brave warrior, I sat quavering hidden in the back.

His face peered ominously through the window. Then he said, “Ma’am your headlights aren’t on.” Florence, legs regained, flipped on the beams and applied the pedal.

“Drive safe and come back again real soon,” he shouted happily after us, “Mahalo.”

The car drove itself home.

This story pales in comparison to the epic Feehan automobile antics of old. But hey, it’s still nice to feel the ticker thump from time to time.

And yes I learned an important lesson from my intransigence: when your sister-in-law storms out into the tropical night make sure she takes her purse and sweater.

This story is partially fabricated. T and K are not wine snobs.

Gerry

P.S. YouTube “Leaving Tomorrow For Maui” to hear why “T” ended up in “L.A.”