My neighbor across the fence says,
“They just keep adding onto it,
day after day, week after week, month after month.
It never ends.
I hate it. I want to report them.
I want the City and County to check their permit.”
It’s what they call here in Hawaiʻi
a monster house,
a huge mini-hotel
right there in your neighborhood,
housing too many people,
jammed into too few bedrooms,
with not enough bathrooms.
I go to Nissan to buy a Leaf,
aloha spirit, you know,
mālama the ʻāina little bit,
make smaller footprint,
do my part.
The woman who sells me my car
moved here from the Philippines,
listens to my story about the monster house.
“You know us, yeah?” she says,
“Filipinos would buy that house.
Move all the relatives’ families inside.
And then,” she laughs,
“we go paint um all funny colors.”
I drive my conscience-soothing
new electric car home,
see my neighbor standing on the street
watching the carpenters going at it,
pounding away this unquiet Sunday morning.
I can see by the expression her face
I won’t be telling her
what the woman said.