David Ayabe sat down at his desk. When he was much younger, he’d had the intention to do something. Writing a book came to mind. What kind of book? He had no idea. Income usually came from somewhere, so why not from publishing a book?
Many had done so. He pictured bookstores and libraries he’d visited. So many authors, so many books. Surely a decent percentage of them made a good living doing so.
His sharpened pencils sat neatly lined up next to a sheet of paper. The paper had an interesting watermark. It was a single circle. David wondered what that was supposed to mean. Sipping his can of Coor’s Light, he pondered this.
He put down the can and stared out the window. Chewing on one of the #2 Eagles, he wondered about marketability. Perhaps a history of some kind. But that would involve research, and if writing papers in college had taught him anything, it was that he would prefer never to do any research ever again. All that time in the library. It was lonely and dark.
Do I know a lot about something? he wondered. In what area might I be considered an expert? If I were going to write something that would sell, I’d want to write from a position of authority. The readers would want to feel that they were in the hands of someone with some kind of expertise.
While he sat puzzling over where to begin, a jogger ran into the frame of David’s window on the world. He watched the man move from right to left as if he were viewing a TV screen.
The man disappeared.
That was interesting, David thought. Did that man have no shoes?
A jogger with no shoes. That must hurt, mustn’t it? Or maybe not. David had grown up running around barefoot. Perhaps the jogger had, too. This was Hawai‘i. Loads of people ran around barefoot growing up. His neighbor, Harold Chang, who had to be 60 years old at least, did most of his yardwork barefoot.
“Gives me better feel,” Harold had said one time when David had asked why he worked in his yard with no shoes or slippers.
“But aren’t you worried about slipping and falling, Harold?”
“Nah, I not worried,” Harold had said. “I took couple courses for kupuna on falling down.”
“What? They teach you how to fall down? Why would anyone want to learn how to fall down? Better you learn how not to fall.”
Harold nodded. “Yeah, right. But what a falling course teaches you is how to protect yourself when you fall. The most important thing is protect your head. Cuts, broken bones all that kine-a stuff can heal, most likely. But brain damage, maybe not. Protect your brain if you fall, David. Main thing.”
David had thought about that many times. Every time he slipped or tripped, he’d remember Harold’s caution.
Well, he thought, I’m sitting down, so no need to worry about that right at this moment.
Staring out the window again, David noticed an elderly man on crutches limping into his TV window screen. The man moved slowly along from left to right.
Oh my, he thought, does that man have only one leg? He remembered the time he’d fallen off a swing and broken his wrist. The cast had smelled bad, and his arm always itched. He looked at his ankle.
I wonder if he fell down? David thought. If he did, it looks like he protected his head, but not his leg. Losing a leg, that wasn’t going to heal. But at least it looked like his brain was working.
The old man limped out of view. David played with his pencil, tapping in on the desk. He’d been a drummer in his high school band. He had a good sense of rhythm and could still remember how pieces like the Hawai‘i Five-0 theme sounded. He picked up another pencil and banged out a mini-concert.
Picturing Steven McGarrett standing atop the Ilikai Hotel, he was startled to see him suddenly plummet over the edge. An adrenaline rush surged in him and his heart beat wildly.
Am I having a heart attack? he wondered.
Sitting back, he took deep breaths and tried to calm down. What would McGarrett’s body look like on the sidewalk now? It was awful to picture.
He blocked the scene out of his mind and thought about seeing his book in a store window, then on a library shelf. Gradually his pulse returned to normal.
What should I write about? he wondered. Now he could feel his frustration growing. “I need to write a bestseller,” he said aloud.
An old woman in a wheelchair came into view on the right. She was being pushed by a man, elderly as well, and it appeared as if he were struggling a little.
What happened to her? David wondered. Did she fall, or did she just get old?
The old woman and old man rolled out of sight to the left.
Sipping his beer, David looked at the blank sheet of paper. It had a watermark that looked like a circle. It was like some kind of hole, a rabbit hole, and he saw himself running down into the white. Was it white that made you look thin, or was it black?
David looked up. The sun was setting. His TV window on the world grew dimmer. He put down his beer.
Darn, he thought, how many hours have I spent at this desk with nothing to show for all that time? What a waste. How do all these authors get their ideas?
Just then the doorbell rang. Suddenly irritable because he felt as if his concentration had been disturbed, David rose from his desk in a rage. Striding purposefully toward the door, he twisted the knob and threw it open, ready to scream at whoever it was.
David recognized Harold standing there.
“Are you all right?” Harold asked.
This threw David off. “Am I all right?” he echoed.
“Yes,” said Harold. “After you fell yesterday, I was worried. You didn’t sound like yourself.”
“Didn’t sound like yourself?” David said.
Harold frowned. “You hit your head. I thought maybe you had one concussion. You okay, or what?”
David was amused. “A concussion? Sure, Harold, I’m fine. Fine. I’m writing a book.”
Harold gave him an odd look.
“What?” asked David. “Don’t you think I can write a book? One day I’ll be in a bookstore and in a library, okay? You just wait to see me in there.”
Again the odd look. “Okay, David, okay. I wanted for check on you.”
“Well, thank you so much, Harold. Thank you for your concern. Now please, I have to get back to my book.”
Harold nodded. “Okay, David. If anything changes, call me, yeah? If you like go hospital, I’ll take you, okay?”
David smiled and nodded. “Thank you, Harold. I’ll be sure to call if I need you. Right now I have to write something.”
After he closed the door, David went back to his desk. Sitting down, he stared out the window into the darkness.
What should I write about he thought? Again he drummed on the desk with his pencils.
As the sun came up, David thought about the times he’d wake up on Christmas mornings. Early. Before his parents. All those presents from Santa. Where were they now?
Still, nothing to write about had come to him. Then, all of a sudden, an idea hit him.
He picked up his pencils and began drumming the Hawai’i Five-0 theme.
I’ll write about . . .
And just like that, the idea disappeared.
What was it? he wondered. What was I going to do?
At that moment, he realized he was urinating. Damn, he thought, I should have gone to the bathroom.
Now he went full bore into drumming Hawai‘i Five-0. He was back in high school. He could remember playing in the band.
Lanning Lee 