Hotel Honolulu

32 Ms. Furman's Honeymoon

Ever since getting off the plane, they had joked about the fact that, because they had been so busy, this was the first chance they'd had to take their honeymoon. They had been married one Sunday three months before, in Carmel-by-the-Sea, which they had chosen for its doll-town charm and also for its nearness to Dave's client in Monterey and to the high-tech company in Sunnyvale that Allison would be pitching the day after the wedding. The preparations for the wedding had been so strenuous — she had never come closer to calling it off — that it seemed more sensible to take the honeymoon when it was practical. This was perfect, a week in the Hotel Honolulu. I upgraded them to a junior suite and sent up a fruit basket. In thanking me, they gloated over their other success, how they had paid for the airfare. "We used miles."

"This is a funky place," Allison said of my hotel. Dave added that he hated the pretentious hotels on the beach. And, "This area has so much character."

All these backhanded compliments I took to mean that we were cheap. And wasn't "character" another word for nasty, or at least in need of fresh paint?

Instead of telling them how the owner of the Kodama, right next door, had jumped out the window at Christmas, in full view of the previous

month's talkative guests in this hard-to-rent suite, I said, "People appreciate value these days."

"Luxury places are way overpriced," Dave said.

He was a handsome young man, about thirty-one or — two. I guessed Allison to be older by a few years, something in the way she took charge and knew her own mind, a certain rigidity, the way she hated wasting time. And her facial downiness said something too. She had kept her own name, Furman; surely that was a sign she was single-minded and had prevailed. Dave's family name was Womack. The two different names created confusion in the hotel. They wanted to split the bill, using two credit cards, and had put two names on the register so they wouldn't miss any calls or faxes. "Just because it's a honeymoon doesn't mean we can't do a little business." My back was turned — either of them could have said this. Dave was with a large firm of San Francisco accountants. Allison was in computers, militantly so. She jeered at me for not having my own Web site.

Yet our low-tech approach appealed to her budget-mindedness.

When Buddy Hamstra saw her hat, he said loudly, "Those are going to come back someday." Since she heard him, out of embarrassment I complimented her on it. "Catalogue," she said. Usually she wore the hat when sitting with Dave in Paradise Lost. "Friendly!" they said. They never missed our Happy Hour, some of the best pupus in Waikiki, and our barmen — the surfer, Trey, and the refugee, Tran — "poured heavy." They

even played with Rose. She said, "Daddy, I made words on Allison's computer."

"I can't believe this kid's not online," Allison said.

"She's six," I said. "She reads."

"Computerwise, she's illiterate. Plus, schools get great deals on software."

After three days of honeymooning, Dave began receiving faxes, many of the documents too thick to stuff under the door. Something had come up. He was called to Seattle. He hurriedly left. Allison understood: "I knew I married someone who had a demanding job. If I had been called away, Dave would have said, Go for it."

Her habits did not change with Dave gone. Breakfast in the coffee shop, lunch at the beach, Happy Hour at Paradise Lost, and we didn't see much of her later on. Predictably, the night after Dave left, she was approached in the bar several times by single men, one of them the fascinated barman Trey, who was roughly Dave Womack's age. It was not my habit to issue warnings, but only to observe. Trey's band, Sub-Dude, was playing in the lounge. His girlfriend was on a neighbor island, visiting relatives. When Allison told him that her husband had been called away on urgent business, Trey said, "So I guess we're in the same boat."

"Not really. You could have gone with your wife."

"And you could have gone with your husband."

Allison laughed. "This whole week was prepaid. We'd have lost upwards of a grand!"

Seeing that Allison's reading matter was a mail-order catalogue, Trey said, "Those things drive me nuts," and explained that they were a waste of trees. Allison said that the only real retail bargains were in the catalogues. She listed the best catalogues for kitchen equipment and computers and home furnishings. She knew about camping catalogues: Dave and she had met in a campground, had driven cross-country in his old Lumina, kayaks on top, looking for white water.

"I do some paddling. Outrigger."

"We were in Class Five rapids."

"There are great deals here on the new Luminas," he said.

Hearing her saying, "There are six good reasons not to buy a new car," Trey looked at her pretty face and thought, I want to nail this woman.

"Want to go for a walk?"

She said yes, and on the way to the beach asked Trey about the health insurance and tax implications for small businesses and independent contractors in Hawaii. "Like I say, I'm part time at the bar and I've got the band," he said, wanting to kiss her. It was a lovely night, of mild air and moonlight. People filled the promenade, traffic jammed the main street, but the beach was empty. Trey was anxious that just behind them a man pissed against a palm, and another, wearing an overcoat, pushed a supermarket cart piled high with plastic bags. Allison appeared not to notice and was looking instead at the sea. It was vast and black far off, and nearer shore the surface was scaly with liquefied moonglow and the surf phosphorescent from hotel spotlights.

"Romantic," Trey said. "That surf line you see is Queen's Break. There's the Wall. Canoes. Poplars. Threes. Fours. Rock piles."

"Those homeless guys." So she had seen them after all. "Ugly people scare me."

Not knowing how to respond, Trey said, "It's a good thing we got out of the hotel. I wanted to take you up to your room and make love to you."

"Right," Allison said, and smiled at the man's presumption. "But I could never do that. This is my honeymoon."

Trey closed his eyes. He was too embarrassed to look at her. Finally he said, "I'm really sorry. Please forget what I said."

It seemed grotesque to him that so soon after this woman's wedding he was trying so bluntly to seduce her. He saw her in her wedding gown. He heard music, wedding bells, laughter. He saw a proud groom, happy relatives. He quickly realized that it was not Allison's wedding that he imagined but a joyous one he craved for himself.

"I'm a dumb water rat," Trey said to excuse himself, because he felt like a hairy demon who was trying to insinuate himself in this new marriage. And what was he offering?

Allison just smiled. She explained that the actual wedding had been three months before. "How long have you been married?"

Trey said, "Not married. Going with. Coupla-three years."

Allison nodded but did not say anything, and Trey sensed her scrutiny. He was so ashamed he forgot his ardor. And, strangely, without feeling the need to win her over, he talked more naturally to her, as a friend; teased her; listened to a story she told about seeing cans in the street, how recycling could be incredibly profitable. Somehow this led to her talking about giving used computers to schools for the tax deduction.

"I've read something about that," Trey kept saying, and made no arrangement to see her again. He walked her back to the hotel and warned her to be careful, and he sensed he was warning her against himself.

The evening before her honeymoon week was over, Trey and I happened to be in the lobby, talking about Sub-Dude — I should keep them on as the hotel band, like Don Ho's at the Hilton, Trey said.

Allison passed us on her way out of Paradise Lost, the end of Happy Hour, and smiled. Trey did not hesitate. He cut me off in the middle of a sentence and approached her. I heard Allison saying, ". . drink" and". . in my room. Give me a few minutes."

Trey was transformed into a panting, tail-wagging dog with a wet twitching nose and slaver on his lips. His tongue was too thick for him to make any sense when he spoke to me. But the next day he told me that he had gone upstairs, that Allison had met him at the door wearing her

honeymoon peignoir, and that they had made love on the sofa and on the floor and against the wall, at her insistence. Afterward, in the bed, she challenged him to guess why she had changed her mind. She laughed at having stumped him, and she explained in her practical way that in the past few days it had dawned on her that Dave would eventually be unfaithful, months or years from now.

"It's sad, really," she said. "But since it always happens — doesn't it? — I wanted to be first."

After describing her mood change in the room, how she went from being all business to crouching and calling him "Daddy," Trey clawed his long hair and said to me, "Hey, boss, would this be the wrong time to ask for a raise?"

The following year, Allison Furman and Dave Womack returned to the hotel. I said I would upgrade them again, putting them in the same suite, "for the memories." But they said they were just dropping in to say hello. They were staying in another place, down the beach. It had a kitchenette with a microwave and a small refrigerator, and it was, as they put it, "competitively priced."