The trash goes out every hour...on the hour...

I was sitting at the Hula Bar in Kaanapali on the outskirts of Lahaina drinking a Primo and taking refuge from the storm that was lashing the shore. The man sitting next to me was drinking a Mai Tai and was obviously in the throes of an island tourist overdose. He was wearing a Hawaiian shirt, his exposed skin was singed to a bright red hue and the skin was peeling off of his face. The fronts of his legs were burnt but the backs were still pasty white making a perfect line down the sides of them. He had shopping bags surrounding his bar stool from stores like Billabong, Volcom, and Quicksilver. Full to the brim with hats and shirts made in China, Indonesia, and Vietnam all emblazoned with Hawaiian imagery and phrases from the surf culture. He swayed back and forth on his seat as he signaled to the bartender for another Mai Tai. He looked over at me and smiled. When the bartender set his drink down in front of him, he said,
“Bring one for my friend here too.” He patted me on the back and looked at me with blank eyes.
“Thanks man.” I said.
He pulled out his wallet. There was no cash. He began to leaf through his many credit cards, shaking his head at each of them until he found the one he wanted, or probably the one that wasn’t maxed out. When the bartender brought my drink the man handed the card to him. The bartender look puzzled.
“Sir we already have your card. You have a tab running. Do you want to start a separate tab for your friend here?”
He just stared at the bartender and then shoved his card back into his wallet. The bartender walked away with the look of a man that had seen this guy too many times. Not him personally, but millions of bastards just like him. They are the big spenders with no real money at all who are well known in the restaurant business to be exceptionally bad tippers. These are the guys who will order all night and even buy drinks for strangers just to be shocked when the final tab comes. Their only instinct at that point is to either argue with the bar manager about the tab or not leave a tip. In most cases they do both.
“Where are you from?” He said reaching his glass out to cheers with me. I hit his glass with mine.
“Salute, I’m from San Francisco originally, but I live here. “
“Oh really, nice. I’m, uh, uh, well I am from San Diego. I leave in the morning.”
“Did you check out the rest of the island?"
“I went on the road to Hana a few days ago.”
“Oh, nice. How did you like that? It’s beautiful out there.”
“I hated it. That winding road, and all those turns. It just made me sick. There’s nothing out there. You get to Hana and there’s nothing to do. No shops, just rainforest and empty beaches. Then you have to turn around and drive back. What a waste of time.”
“Listen buddy, you look terrible.” I said. “You better go back to your room and rest. You’ll be lucky if they don’t quarantine you at the airport and force you on to the next plane to Molokai to join the leper colony.”
I laughed and waited to judge his response. He paused and just looked at me. Then he broke into laughter and downed his whole drink while signaling with his free hand to the bartender for another. The rain and wind were becoming heavier and people on the beach were gathering their things and scattering to find cover. The bar started filling with people.
“There’s no reason to go anywhere else on this island. This is the place to be.” He said.
I just looked forward and stared at the beer taps in front of me. I couldn’t help but think about what a local once told me, “I avoid Lahaina like the plague”. Indeed.
“Have you gone to any of the upcountry towns? I asked him.
“No.”
“How many times have you been here?”
“Three times.” He said.
“And you’ve never even been to the other towns on the island?”
“Hell no.”
At that moment I felt sorry for him. Not only because he couldn’t handle his drink, but because he didn’t know how to travel. Even as a young man I knew how to travel. I would escape whatever resort or hotel I was at and wander the streets. I still do this. I did it every night in San Francisco for ten years. I still do it everywhere I travel today, and I do it here on this island. It is the only way to really figure a place out. Wander around and meet the locals. Eat and drink where they do. I Soak it all in, and I end up feeling at home everywhere I go. When someone tells me they can travel somewhere three times over the years and only leave the resorts once, it doesn’t make sense to me. There must be something wrong with their brains. The way they think must be wrong. I’ve seen it. I feel bad for them, but only for a moment.
“What time is your flight?” I asked him.
“1 PM."
“Oh, that's the time they take the trash out."

3/9/14