Hotel Honolulu

25 Hopecraft

From the jerky, hesitant steps the man took, the way he sized up my hotel, leaning forward to glance through the lobby, his head twisted sideways, the way birds peer at a speck to see whether it is edible — from all this it was clear to me that he was looking for someone who had not yet shown up. His dithering made me think it might be a person he did not know very well.

He wore a look of distinct anticipation, which did not alter, for he was taking shallow breaths, cautiously sipping the Waikiki air. He also blinked a lot. I could not improve on his real name, which was Charlie Hopecraft. He was pink, portly, friendless, a middleaged man in the sort of lumpy clean sneakers that seemed to give him white hind paws. Putting him on the third floor across from Puamana turned out to be an inspired idea.

Normally in assigning rooms I separated the short-term guests, who were mostly on the upper floors, with a sea view, from the long-term residents, who were down below, no view but within easy reach of the lobby. This Golden Week we were so full that the only room I had for Charlie Hopecraft was on three. He said he liked being there. He had a nervous habit of giving me irrelevant information.

"My uncle was here during the war."

"This hotel?"

"No, Whyee. He was on Maui. Some air base."

Hopecraft was from Utah and was possibly a Mormon, but if so not a devout one. He drank. He complained that Provo, near where he lived — his hometown was in the mountains — was too noisy for him.

"But it's a real nice town — no hookers," he said, and looked around, not in curiosity but wincing, dodging slightly, as though expecting me to say something. Was he trying to remind me that Waikiki was full of hookers?

"I've never been out of the States before," he said.

"This is the States."

Hopecraft was one of those shy people, inarticulate men mostly, who become animated by the sight of someone's pet. They see some damp animal in a collar and begin slobbering. In this case it was Puamana's big cat, Popoki. Oblique people, who avoid eye contact with others, seem responsive to strangers' animals, as if the pet stands for the person. Just seeing the hairy beast, Hopecraft got on his hands and knees and stroked it, talked frankly and foolishly to it. Popoki was a fat, suspicious, wickedfaced cat with beautifully brushed fur, black with a few white hairs, the true coloration of its owner. As for its name, popoki meant cat in Hawaiian, an old corruption of "poor pussy." For some reason — pet lovers probably broadcast benign signals — the cat took to Hopecraft. That was enough for Puamana.

"His name is Popoki," Puamana said. "He hate strangers."

The cat bared his teeth as though he knew his personality was being discussed. Hopecraft took up the challenge.

"You are a big, sassy pussycat who likes his belly scratched, yes you do," Hopecraft said, hunkering down in the corridor.

Puamana watched this with a calculating gaze. I introduced them, but I did not explain that Puamana was my mother-inlaw. The next question might concern grandchildren, and while Puamana loved Rose, she hated the notion that she was a granny. Who could blame her? She was in her late forties but looked younger. Puamana was blond this month. She still entertained men in her room. But she was choosy. She worked only when she needed money for clothes. She was small-boned and girl-sized, but healthy, even somewhat muscular. She exercised — jogged, lifted hand weights, did step aerobics on the hotel roof. One of the first things Sweetie had told me about her was "My mom has five vibrators. Different sizes!" She believed she was revealing a dark secret about her mother, but it was a secret that explained nothing. Puamana seemed to me like someone on vacation, her whole life a holiday, with the same painless ups and downs. Someone had always looked after her — first Buddy, then Sweetie, and now me.

Without appearing to take any notice of Puamana, Hopecraft obviously liked her — I could see that from the way he lavished attention on her cat. He also had a deeply preoccupied air, somewhat troubled and urgent, always seeming on the verge of asking a question and then thinking better of it and shutting his mouth so hard he squashed his lips.

From the first day, Hopecraft followed the usual breakfastbeach- lunch-snooze routine of the mainland tourist. He walked around with a rolled-up beach mat and a hotel towel. From his posture and concentration, I could see he was looking for something more. I kept thinking that he had an assignation that had not yet taken place.

Or was it the effect of Puamana? His attachment to Popoki made him an instant hit with the woman. He bought some cat treats and a ball for the creature to gnaw. In return, Puamana asked him about his job and family, and they stood on the roof and looked at the crags on the crater rim of Diamond Head or the lights of Waikiki or the sunset beyond Waianae, all the while taking turns scratching Popoki. Unmarried,

Hopecraft was in haulage.

After a drink or two — budget-conscious Hopecraft mixed them on the roof with ingredients from his room — Puamana excused herself and took her cat downstairs. Hopecraft was relieved by her going away, because that was when he went out and looked for a prostitute. This nighttime quest in an oversize aloha shirt and thick white sneakers on the sidewalks adjacent to the hotel was Hopecraft's solitary reason for visiting Hawaii.

Hookers were almost everywhere in Waikiki. Though they used the alley next to us as a shortcut to Kalakaua Avenue, they seldom loitered near the Hotel Honolulu. The streetwalkers had gotten the message — we were at the edge, we got too few Japanese, and any hookers would have been conspicuous if they had lingered in this area. There wasn't enough traffic. Farther down Kuhio and Kalakaua, where there were big concealing crowds, the young women stalked in high heels, that unmistakable hooker walk, not going anywhere, just moving in place, big-haired women on a treadmill.

But — was it the time of day? was it the time of year? — Hopecraft had a bad eye for such women. A country boy from a small Utah town for whom Provo was a noisy city, he could not tell a hooker from a socialite; both were beautifully dressed and businesslike. I sympathized with him, for the fact was neither could I, not in Honolulu, where you could easily mistake one for the other because, in many cases, one had been the other.

We discussed this, Hopecraft and I. "It's just so frustrating," he said. Being in Hawaii made him feel amorous. The hula moon, the lisping sea, the fragrant flowers, all of it. So he prowled, trying to tomcat, but he made no headway.

"Whyce's got everything," he said to me early on. "If I had a woman it would be perfect."

"What sort of woman?"

Making a face as he struggled to think of a euphemism for "whore" — all the alternatives were vulgar — he finally settled on "working girl." It was true that hookers made the whole arrangement easy. They were adept at simplification — they knew it was a waste of time to wait for an approach, so they usually initiated contact. But for johns they preferred Japanese men, who were polite and fast and paid more, were quickly intimidated and easily robbed.

Hopecraft said, "Honolulu has a wild reputation. I wish I knew how the place got it."

Because it was not any part of my job to help him in his hopeful quest, I remained a sympathetic listener and keen observer, who had unwittingly given him an advantage by assigning him a room across the hall from Puamana.

By his fourth night, Hopecraft was on the point of giving up. After his usual prowling he returned to the hotel looking flatfooted and went up to his room. Passing Puamana's door he knocked, hoping to play with the cat. Just as his knuckles hit the door, he thought he heard a woman's voice saying, "No, please!" and that so alarmed him that instead of calling out "Puamana," he said, "Hey, Popoki!" There was silence. He went to his room. The subsequent commotion in the hall kept him in his room. The next day Puamana was furious.

"Why you go bang on my room door at almost midnight, you lolo!"

"It was only eleven." Hopecraft was looking down at his big, lumpy hind paws. "I wanted a little time to play with Popoki."

Puamana squinted at him and said, "Bad timing. Is why you one loser."

The blunder upset him — Puamana was annoyed. A few days before, he had considered asking her, as a friend from out of town, pretending to

joke, where the hookers were, and the famous red-light district, and what about those hula girls in grass skirts? He put that thought aside and shyly asked her if she would go out for a meal with him.

She said okay, if she could bring her cat. Hopecraft was secretly pleased she did so, and sat throughout the meal holding Popoki on his lap, feeding him fish scraps, scratching him behind the ears, listening to his bubbly purring. Puamana smiled; she had forgiven him. Hopecraft was happy. He had made a friend.

"How about coffee?"

"Sorry. Gotta run." Puamana lifted her hands and Hopecraft passed her the cat. Puamana said, "Don't ever bang on my door at night, okay? I hate disruption."

In his room later, consoling himself with the thought of the companionable meal but vowing that he would never come back to Honolulu, Hopecraft heard Puamana enter her room. He thought of going across the hall and thanking her for being a friend, but decided not to. And it was a good thing he did, because he would have disturbed Puamana, as before, turning a trick, pretending to be frightened, saying "No, please!" and submitting like a scared schoolgirl to the nervous Japanese man.