When I told them I could handle this problem we faced, I was surprised to find that no one seemed to want me to do it. They were all, “Ah, maybe it’s not that much of a problem,” or “What makes you think can do it if the rest of us can’t?” or “What, brah, you tink you good?”
The last of these was the ultimate putdown. What someone means when he says that to someone is that he thinks the person overstepping his bounds. Is guilty of being big-headed. Is like Icarus putting on his wings.
As for the first two, they were saying they didn’t think I could handle it. No faith.
What is a “big problem”?
Losing your job. Not being able to pay your bills? Finding out your spouse is cheating on you? Being held up at gunpoint?
So was this a big problem in the grand scheme? I don’t know, but I did know I could handle the situation. I’d seen something similar to this before. And I’d dealt with it. I had experience they didn’t know about.
But it bugged me, you know? Everything from their end – these are my friends, mind you – was doubt, pessimism, and derision.
So be it. With or without their blessing, I would proceed.
First stop, Harry’s Music Store on Wai‘alae Avenue. The selection of possible instruments gave me pause. I’d need something portable, and since I might have to hold it for a long time – like Aloha Festivals Parade long – I wanted something pretty light.
I’d taught high school band before I retired, so I could play almost anything. I narrowed it down based on what I thought they might like to hear. Something calming, enticing. That was it: a flute.
After I bought the flute, I went home and worked on getting my chops back. I used my guitar the previous times, but my voice was no longer what it was back then. Once you quit drinking and smoking, your voice goes to hell.
Once I felt confident in my playing, I searched the internet for some song that would best appeal to them. In my earlier work, I depended on the Alice Cooper hit, “Road Rats,” but as I say, I could no longer decently carry a tune.
I tried out a few tunes, but nothing stuck. What was I looking for? I needed something that would draw attention, a piece that would flow together with the tone of the flute to get them to follow.
Finally, I hit upon it. “Stairway to Heaven” would do the trick. It’s a song I never get tired of hearing. It’s haunted me ever since it came out. It’s one of the first songs I learned to play on my first guitar. I’ll be walking along nowadays and the intro will kick in in my head. I lose track of what I’m doing, then. And I’m discombobulated until I can think out or hum out the whole thing while I wander in a haze.
If the song could affect me that way, then it would surely have the same effect on them. My gut often speaks the truth to me. I had faith in this strong feeling.
Now, to Chinatown.
I parked my car in the underground Beretania Garage just ‘ewa of Nu‘uanu. Armed with my flute, I proceeded to Hung On Chop Suey.
Mr, Quon, the owner, sat making wonton with a tongue depressor. I’ve always been impressed by his technique, and when I was younger, I used to eat here regularly. It had been a while. I wondered, with the problems plaguing the area, how anyone could eat there.
The last time for me here had been The. Last. Time.
As Mrs. Quon had been taking my order, a roach suddenly appeared on my table. Instead of brushing it away, she slammed her hand down on it, the guts splattering widely enough to ooze out beyond the cover of her palm.
She apologized, went back to the kitchen to retrieve a towel, and then came back to mop up the mess.
“So sorry about that,” she said. “And did you want just the wonton mein soup or wor wonton mein?”
I looked at the spot where the roach had met its end.
“You know what, Mrs. Quon,” I said. “I think I need to go home now.”
And with that, I departed, never to return. Until now.
The news – again, maybe dire only to me – was that the roaches were overrunning Chinatown now. And even if many people simply accepted that it had always been that way in the many Chinese restaurants in the area, I did not see this to be the case.
I’ve eaten in Chinese restaurants, even many in Chinatown, that I thought might be free of cockroaches. And I wanted to return to eat here. It had always been my favorite place in Chinatown.
Mr. Quon looked up from his wonton production when I came in.
“Oh,” he said, standing and bowing. “Mr. Lee, is that you? When did your hair turn white.”
“Yes, Mr. Quon, it’s me. Or as English majors might say, It is I.”
Mrs. Quon came through the cloudy plastic flaps that separated the dining from the kitchen area. “Oh, Mr. Lee,” she said. “I thought you were dead you never come so long time.”
I smiled. “No, Mrs. Quon, I’m not dead. The truth is, the last time I was here – you may not remember – you squashed a cockroach on my table when I was ordering. I was so repulsed by that action I chose never to come back. Until today.”
“You like wor wonton mein or just plain?” asked Mrs. Quon.
“Wor, Mrs. Quon, but not just yet,” I said. “I’ve been hearing about the major uptick in the Chinatown restaurant roach population. I figured your place would be one of the worst hit, given that they were already here in emboldened force from way back.”
“Ah, yes,” said Mrs. Quon. “It is so bad now, Mr. Lee, that when my husband make wonton over there, the roaches sometimes swarm over the pork. But we spray them and they mostly die.”
She pulled a can of roach spray from her apron pocket. “I always ready to kill them if I can. If they get away. Auwe. They come back double.”
“I think maybe they live after that, they come back like super roaches,” added Mr. Quon. “No matter how much we spray them.”
I imagined the taste of wonton laced with Black Flag. I could not see it improving the fare.
At that moment I produced my flute.
“I am here to solve your problem,” I said. “I will attack your roaches with this.”
The two looked bewildered.
“More better you use your slipper,” said Mr. Quon. “Hard for hit roaches with a skinny flute.”
“No no,” I said. “I am going to lure the roaches from your place by playing music. They will, I hope, follow me outside.”
The two glanced askance at one another.
“How you know this going work?” asked Mrs. Quon.
I nodded. “Well, I don’t. But I had great success with this technique in the past. I lured all of the rats out of the Kāhala Hotel. That place was always highly unsanitary due to rat infestation, as is the Kāhala area in general, especially the homes along Kāhala Avenue. Black Point is about as vermin-infested an area as you’d ever see. I don’t know why it is that rats feel so much at home in that area of town. But I helped the hotel at least to rid themselves of the problem.”
The two were nodding their agreement with my assessment of that rather unsanitary part of the island.
“So shall I try it?”
“Oh yes, please try,” said Mrs. Quon. “I don’t know how much longer we can stay in business if we cannot control the roaches.”
And with that, I launched into “Stairway to Heaven.”
After a few minutes, I could see that the Quons seemed to have fallen under my hypnotic spell, and I was worried that I might drift off before my target audience appeared.
Then, we saw it. Roaches began to crawl out of the woodwork. Hundreds at first. Then into the thousands.
“Ho ho ho,” said Mr. Quon. “Mr. Lee, this is wonderful. I not doubt you anymore.”
“But now that they out here all over the floor, what?” asked Mrs Quon. “I should start spraying?”
I stopped playing for a moment. “No no,” I said. “I am going to lead them out of here.”
And that’s what I did. I began playing again as I turned toward the front door. Stepping out onto the sidewalk, I waited for the roaches to follow. It took a while for me to be sure that all of them had joined me on the sidewalk.
When it was clear they had, the Quons were cheering.
“You miracle worker!” said Mr. Quon.
“When you get rid of them, come back for wor wonton mein on the house,” said Mrs. Quon.
I smiled and turned down Smith Street toward Honolulu Harbor. The cockroaches were mesmerized indeed. It was a slow slog. I was glad I’d considered how long I might have to hold my instrument of choice. You’d be surprised at how slowly several thousand musically drugged roaches can move.
People jumped out of the way when they saw our strange procession moseying along. Many screamed. Some laughed. Others threw up. I worried that all this might distract the roaches and break the hypnotic hold I had over them. Especially all the vomit. For roaches that would be a supreme snack.
But I had put them too far under with my Led Zeppelin lullaby. After what seemed like an eternity, I spotted a Carnival Cruise ship docked and unattended, the crew all on shore leave.
Still playing with dreamy aplomb, I led the mass of little bodies up the gangplank. When I’d lured them all aboard, I stopped playing and waited. Sure enough, the spell gradually was broken, and the mass dispersed, moving in all directions around the ship. It would be a good home for them.
I slipped away and went back to join the Quons.
A steaming bowl of wor wonton mein awaited me. “Thank you so much,” they both said. “Please sit and enjoy.”
I noticed there was no mention of paying me for cleaning up the place, but I shrugged it off and slurped up my victory meal.
“You know,” said Mrs. Quon, “More roaches come if you don’t clear out all of Chinatown.”
“Oh yes,” I said, dabbing my lips with the flimsy napkin. “I intend to clean up the whole area pronto.”
And with that, I stepped out the door, trusty flute at the ready.
Hung How Chow House sat just opposite.
As I crossed the street, I wondered what all my doubting friends might say now. Not that I’d want to brag about my prowess. But maybe Mahealani Richardson would interview for a future newscast. That would show them what I could do.
And yeah, folks, I do think I’m good.
Lanning Lee 