I stood up and headed for my car. The drive downtown passed without my even knowing it. I parked across the street. There was no sign of anything having gone so wrong three months ago. The big difference I could see, as I entered the courtyard, was that a plywood-walled corridor directed all foot traffic straight to the elevators. I could hear construction going on behind the barrier.
Turning around, I went back outside and stared up at the massive building.
Since I retired nine years ago, I’ve been able to pursue my lifelong dream of writing full-time. So far so good.
Just before graduation from U.H. Mānoa with my B.A. in English Literature, I told my parents that I was thinking about trying to make a career out of creative writing. My parents, after stricken by momentary paralysis, glanced at each other, then back at me, and rolled their eyes.
They were right, of course. Money had to come more readily than that, and work got in the way of my pipedream.
But now I could do it. Maybe not make money at it, but write and write. The day after punching out for the last time, I began to seek out places where I could spend hours at a time writing.
The Guardian American, a massive 26-story building, stands at the corner of Pacific and Maluhia Streets in downtown Honolulu. Otherwise occupied by lawyers, insurance agents, and accounting firms, the ground floor is an open courtyard with tables, chairs, and benches where people go to eat lunch and drink coffee. Some socialize, others sit rapt in their phones, or reading, or meditating.
The perimeter of the courtyard is lined with various shops, convenience stores, and a variety of places to grab a sandwich, a plate lunch, or just a snack, maybe a pastry or an ice cream.
This courtyard is one of my go-to writing spots. I sit at a table near the back and drink coffee while I type away on my laptop.
That morning, I’d taken a brief break to use the restroom, and while I washed my hands, I became aware of a popping sound. Sometimes it sounded like a single firecracker, sometimes like a small string of them.
While I dried my hands, I wondered if maybe some business in the building might have had lion dancers come in to bless their new place.
When I walked out into the corridor that leads back to the courtyard, I realized this was not the case. There was screaming, and I know the sound of gunshots.
Hunched over, I moved slowly toward the courtyard and squatted near the entrance. And then I saw him. Still near the courtyard entrance, he was carrying a rifle and shooting, with great accuracy, anything that moved.
Some people were running for the courtyard entrance onto Pacific, but they were gunned down before they could get there. I saw others hiding behind benches and planters.
Once he seemed satisfied that he’d taken care of most of the people in the courtyard, he proceeded to take a step or two into each of the shops. Then there would be single shots or short bursts, after which he would walk to the other side of the courtyard, shooting anyone he might find trying to hide, then taking a few steps into the next shop and killing anyone inside.
These shops are small. Most have one or at most two employees. I imagined it wasn’t hard for him to see them, even if they were trying to shield themselves somehow.
This way, he was zigzagging his way toward the back, toward me, one shop on each side at a time. But he still had command of the ground leading to the only way out.
He wasn’t rushing, either. His pattern was measured, methodical, like he was weaving at a loom, deep in some insane meditation.
I thought about running back down the corridor and hiding in the bathroom, but I couldn’t get my legs to push me into a standing position. I’d been couched so long, and so rigidly, my legs were falling asleep.
All I could do was watch. The screaming wasn’t as loud anymore. Most of the people were lying dead or wounded, and as he came across them, the wounded were shot again.
A woman hiding behind a bench, maybe 30 feet away from me, glanced back and saw me. Raising her head to see where the man was, she suddenly stood and turned, probably having that same idea of escaping to the restroom.
The bullet caught her in the back, and I watched it exit, in slow motion, from her stomach as she fell face-forward on the pavement.
He was near the end of the shops now. I couldn’t move.
And then I saw the woman who’d just been shot move. She stuck out one arm and was trying to drag herself toward me. I could see her terror, but there was also a pleading, as if she wanted me to come help her escape. But what could I do?
I think she sensed correctly that he was coming toward her. Suddenly, she closed her eyes and went limp. Playing dead. That was her only hope. She took a deep breath.
When he reached her, he stood looking down at her. I think he knew. He was waiting. And then she exhaled. He laughed, put the barrel to her head, and shot her point-blank. The splatter of blood, bone, and brain caused me to catch my breath.
He looked up in my direction. Squatting there, in the middle of the hallway, I must have appeared to be some kind of troll guarding the restrooms.
He gave a small nod of recognition. Stepping over her body, he walked slowly toward me, and as he raised the gun, he smiled a smile so broad I was stunned by how much pleasure he must have been feeling.
His eyes, it was as if they were right there in my face. They were deep black holes focused like a laser on me.
Now it was my turn to exhale. And as I did, knowing this was it, suddenly, his head exploded.
At first, I thought it was some kind of horrible dream effect. But then, with the rush of the men in riot gear, I knew the police had arrived to spare me.
A S.W.A.T. officer spotted me and ran over.
Stopping, while three others ran down the hallway toward the restrooms, he asked, “Are you okay?”
I could only stare up at his face. No words came.
“Have you been shot?” he asked.
I managed to shake my head.
“Let me help you up.”
He grabbed my hands with his in an attempt to boost me off the floor, but when he had me up and let go, I collapsed.
“I can’t,” I said. “I can’t stand up. My legs are asleep.”
“Oh, okay. Sit back,” he said.
I sort of slid backward. He helped me straighten my legs. The blood began to flow again.
The other three came back.
“Is he okay?” one asked.
“Yeah. Just can’t stand up yet.”
“I think I can now,” I said, so he helped boost me again. Then he surprised me by patting me down.
“Sorry,” he said, “I have to do that.”
I nodded, wincing at the idea of how much I might look like an accomplice.
“There are paramedics out front,” he said. “I’ll help you get out there.”
I remember how slippery the pavement felt as we moved slowly toward the courtyard exit. There were mangled bodies and body parts everywhere. My legs were still weak enough that I thought I might slip and fall.
“Got another one,” said another officer. He was helping a young woman out of the convenience store. Although alive, the expression on her face was like one of the walking dead.
As we moved on, it felt like we were wading through a blood-soaked obstacle course.
Finally out on Pacific Street, we were handed over to the paramedics.
I declined treatment. The young woman said nothing. They asked her again.
“Thank you,” she said in a monotone.
At that, they walked her over to the ambulance and helped her step up.
Now, after not enough time, I stood there and saw the whole, full-length feature again.
Two 30-something men were walking by. They saw me staring at the building and stopped.
Turning to look at it as well, one said, “Hard to believe that all happened, huh?”
“Yeah,” said the other one, “I can’t imagine it.”
Amazing how they looked just like him. Aloha shirt, slacks, dress shoes. Typical downtown business attire. The only difference was the rifle and the belts of clips that entwined his body like serpents ready to strike.
They glanced at me, apparently wanting me to add my voice. I thought about Stephanie, her tragedy heaped upon tragedy.
“Right,” I said, “that’s right. I guess you had to have been there to picture it.”
Lanning Lee 