Hotel Honolulu

60 Dog Lovers

Visiting journalists, brazenly demanding a week of freebies in exchange for a few paragraphs in a colorful puff piece, were unknown to me until I began managing the Hotel Honolulu. Stephen Paifrey had asked for a free week, comp room (nonsmoking), meals included, and did we have an in-house masseuse, and could I get him a deal on a rental car? These potential guests always asked to see me, and they'd announce, "I'm a travel writer." I associated this term with the people who recounted their experiences in knowing articles in the glossy in-flight magazines found in the seat pocket next to the barf bag. They always enjoyed themselves hugely, and product placement was their specialty. Palfrey's promise, one that I had heard from others, was that he would write a glowing review of the hotel.

"Why do I find that prospect so difficult to imagine?"

He missed my irony and said that travelers would flock to us. Even "a mention" mattered, so he patronizingly indicated. Subtlety was never a strong point with these travel people, either in person or in print. And although they had the frowny faces and short attention spans of toddlers, and complained when they weren't being cosseted, the travel pieces they wrote about having a marvelous time seemed absurd as well as dishonest.

"Travel at its best," one of them wrote about the Hotel Honolulu.

Travel at its best, in my experience, was often a horror and always a nuisance, but that was not the writer's point.

I would have slung Palfrey out, except that Buddy insisted we needed the publicity — we never bought ads and we had no public relations. And Buddy, claiming to be ill, seemed needy, and believed he was colorful. He wanted to be known to the wider world.

For this one week, Palfrey said bluntly that he was willing to feature us in his column and would write about our food. "I've done lots on food and beverage. I could cover your brunches." We had miserable brunches. Peewee's loco mocos, Spam musubis, and Serious Flu Symptoms Chili. There was hardly a sandwich served in our coffee shop that did not have the imprints of the server's thumbs.

Palfrey also added, in an enigmatic aside, as a further inducement, that if anyone in the hotel had a dog that needed attention — "And the key to a dog's nature is that they require constant attention" — he would provide it: would walk the dog, feed it, primp it, deflea it, whatever. "I'm kind of lonely," he said. He badly missed his own dog, a Labrador retriever, which he had had to leave at home on the mainland because of Hawaii's strict quarantine laws.

"And I know Queenie's miserable, too."

Left-at-home pets were a frequent topic among the guests: I miss my pet, my pet misses me, want to see a picture? People at the hotel

moaned in soppy self-pity, and I just wanted to howl at them for their pathetic fatuity. Filipinos here eat dogs, I wanted to say. On Buddy's advice, I agreed to Palfrey's staying for a week, though I said we had no dogs. When I suggested he could busy himself with Puamana's Popoki, he winced, as dog lovers do at any mention of cats. I requested his credit card imprint as a deposit.

"What would that be for?"

"Breakage, pilferage, minibar, and miscellaneous charges, let's say."

He sighed in a defeated way and handed over his credit card as well as his business card, on which he was listed as Stephen Palfrey, B.A., and under his name, Adventure Travel, Society of American Travel Writers, American Society of Media Photo graphers, and American Kennel Association.

"Not just Queenie. I also breed Labs," he explained. "Can I have your business card?" He winked at me. There was something unnatural in the way he did it, contorting his face. "I might want to mention you in my piece."

I wondered what he would make of my card.

"Your name rings a bell," Palfrey said.

"I can't imagine why," I said, defying him to produce more evidence.

My certainty made him waver. "I think there's a fairly wellknown writer by that name."

"But you see I'm the manager of this hotel," I said. "What did this namesake of mine write?"

Palfrey admitted he had read nothing. Mine was just a hard- topronounce name on the cover of a book he had once seen somewhere. Unfortified, he caved in and smiled wanly, sorry he had raised the matter.

That was the beginning, but days before his free week was out, Palfrey had packed his bags and signaled to me that he was leaving.

"I don't have enough to write about."

He was booked on a midnight flight to the mainland, and so between his checking out and the arrival of his taxi I heard his story.

A woman in Paradise Lost had sat on a stool next to him and said, "Boxers or briefs?" Then another one, at a bar on Kalakaua, had sidled up to him and asked if he wanted a date. He said no. She repeated it, seeming to corner him, but he finally got away.

That had been his first night. I wondered whether I should tell him this was nothing unusual. The next day, at Irma's Diner, having eaten a plate lunch, and killing time over his coffee, Paifrey looked up and a woman said, "Hi." When he smiled and returned her greeting, she sat down across from him and began talking about herself. A radiologist, she

had come here from a suburb of Pittsburgh. The money was good, but housing and food were expensive and it was really hard to meet new people, and she said, "What are you doing tonight?"

"I'm pretty busy," Palfrey said, startled into a transparent lie by the sudden question. He was not busy at all. ("The funny thing was that I was lonely," he told me. "Ever had a crying jag?") But the woman radiologist was panting, sucking lemonade through a straw, wearing green scrubs.

She was bigger than he was, and distinctly mustached and chubby. When she finished her drink, she sat with her mouth open, looking hungry, as though he were a piece of meat. Palfrey left Irma's in a hurry.

"You felt like a piece of meat?" I asked.

"Just listen," he said.

He had wanted to use Irma's men's room, but the radiologist was so intrusive he hurried out. On his way into the one at the International Marketplace, he felt a hard, hot pinch on his bottom, a sharp pain that made him squawk. He turned to see a woman laughing at him, holding her mouth wide open, showing the shiny gray fillings in her teeth, like metallic dentures. She had big beefy arms and broken nails. She mocked him with the fingers she had used to pinch him, holding them like a pair of pliers.

He was fearful inside the men's room. He was fearful leaving it. But even when he was free of the place, he noticed that nearly all the women prowling the Waikiki sidewalks were staring at him.

Nestled behind its signature monkeypod tree just two blocks from the beach, Palfrey wrote in his room at the Hotel Honolulu, one of the last family-owned hotels, where brunch is a Honolulu tradition, the Hotel Honolulu is one of Waikiki's best kept secrets.

A secret kept from Palfrey himself, perhaps, for he could go no further. Oppressed by his hotel room, he walked to Ala Moana Beach and felt calm again. His folding chair seemed jammed — sand in the joints of the legs — and as he jerked at it, a woman came over, snatched it, and said, "Let me do that," and popped it open.

"Mahalo," Palfrey said.

The woman said, "Now, how about you do something for me." She touched herself on a lower panel of her bathing suit and licked her lips.

This was down near the orange lifeguard chair at the Magic Island end of the beach. The woman was lined and leathery, purplish from the sun, with salt-stiff hair and salt rime on her too loose bathing suit. Patches of coarse sand clung to her calves and elbows.

When Palfrey said no, the woman swore at him ("It was gross") and swaggered away. At this point, out of desperation, but also thinking it might be a good story idea, Palfrey went to the Hawaii Humane Society at the south end of King Street and announced himself as a member of the American Kennel Association. The lobby reeked of the burning hum of cat shit and the eye- stinging tang of cat piss. Taking a shallow breath, Palfrey asked whether any of their dogs needed walking.

"You know about our Canine Caregivers Outreach Program?" the woman at the counter asked. She had the patient, long-suffering look of a foster mother, and Palfrey was encouraged.

Shortly afterward, a man in overalls brought out a large jittery dog that began barking pointlessly and stumbling with excitement.

"This is Soldier," the man said.

"He's definitely got some Lab in him!" Palfrey cried. He made faces at the excited dog and was thankful for the dog's attention. Palfrey was happy, he felt purposeful. This was something real he could write about: the Canine Outreach Program and also the theme that when he was with a dog, he felt content. He left the building with Soldier, a big black creature with the snout and some of the contours of a Lab's solid head, the big soft nose, the grateful eyes and busy tail. Soldier had a slack tongue and thirstylooking jaws. The dog shook himself on the sidewalk and strained at his leash, glad to be outside and wanting more. Paifrey talked to the dog in the sort of continual flow of affectionate banter that other people might use on a mildly backward and muchloved child who had not yet learned to talk.

Comforted by Soldier, feeling protected, Palfrey returned to Ala Moana. After the dog had had a good run near the tennis courts, Paifrey sat on the sea wall, the dog's snout resting against his knee. He took out his notebook and looked at his opening: Nestled behind its signature monkeypod tree just two blocks from the beach, one of the last family- owned hotels, where brunch is a Honolulu tradition, the Hotel Honolulu is

one of Waikiki's best kept secrets. He doodled and tried to resume, attempting to marry factuality with gaiety. Hearing a burst of human squawking, he looked down the beach and saw some local youths, two boys and a girl, spitting water and yelling "Fuck you, Buddha-head!" at a Japanese man and his small daughter — tourists, probably. Palfrey scratched the dog's belly, watching its eyes grow contented. He was safe with this animal.

Four women passed by that morning, each asking Palfrey the name of the dog and had he taken it through quarantine here? Three of them he ignored. The fourth was prettier than the rest, very pretty in fact. She, too, had a dog in tow, a yellow Lab. Soldier raised his head, and his tongue, which was thick and purple, tumbled out, trailing a string of elongated drool. The woman's dog gave a low growl and got to its feet.

"Miranda," the woman said, cautioning the yellow Lab.

Palfrey smiled at Miranda. The woman reached down to stroke Soldier, though Soldier, too, had his eye on Miranda. His muscly tongue lifted and curled, as though a sign he was taking an interest in the woman.

"Doing some writing?" the woman said.

Palfrey saw the line Nestled behind its signature monkey pod tree just two blocks from the beach and covered the page. "I'm a travel writer," he said, and casually mentioned his name and the title of his monthly column, "A Little Latitude."

"That rings a bell," the woman said. She didn't specify whether she meant his name or the column title. "I'm Dahlia."

Her hand was hard and damp, and white streaks stood out on her forearm. She was fattish, with big soft cheeks and kindly eyes. Her shoulders were freckled from the sun, and her hair was sunstreaked. She wore a loose flower-print dress, open-toed sandals, rings on some of her toes, a tattoo on one knuckle. Free spirit, Palfrey thought.

As Soldier began to poke his snout at Miranda's tail, Miranda crouched slightly and glanced around at the seemingly single-minded animal.

"You're so lucky to be able to write for a living," the woman said.

They were now both looking at the dogs.

Palfrey said, "It's not a job. It's my life."

"I feel that way about my ceramics."

Now he understood her rough hands and the powdery streaks on her arms. Clay, obviously.

"You could write a Travels with Charley-type book."

"My favorite book." He took out his wallet and showed her a snapshot of Queenie.

Now Soldier and Miranda were romping in the grass, chasing each other around the banyan trees. Palfrey recognized the barks: not warnings or fear but yelps of pure excitement. He explained that he had taken Soldier for the day as part of the Canine Caregivers Outreach Program. He could see on her face that Dahlia was moved by his saying this. Perhaps it was her plumpness that caused her to exaggerate her facial expressions? She touched his hand, and he could not keep his own hand still, for her fingertips were coarse and heavy. She believed he was strong. Palfrey didn't say he had felt afraid and lonely and put upon, that he needed the dog for reassurance, that the dog's leash was preventing him, Palfrey, from straying.

Dahlia said that she never went anywhere in Honolulu without Miranda. She said, "I'm fearless when I'm with my dog, because my dog is fearless."

In gratitude, Palfrey extended his hand and touched Dahlia's arm, and when he did so, she reached over and snagged his fingers, saying nothing, for the gesture was unambiguous.

"Almost time for Miranda's supper."

"I wish I had something for Soldier."

The dogs were now rolling in the grass, gnawing at each other.

"I've got something for your dog," the woman said. When she smiled Paifrey could see that she took good care of her teeth, so he knew that health maintenance was a priority for her. "Well groomed" was an expression he did not care for, yet it described an essential habit of sanity and cleanliness. Something grubby in a person, a certain smell, ugly

clothes, even something as simple as a salt-crusted bathing suit, indicated to him an unsoundness of mind.

Now he was following Dahlia, and both of them were following their

dogs.

To get to her apartment, they detoured down a side street, past an optical shop, a Korean restaurant, a sushi bar, an adult video store, a pharmacy advertising beta carotene in both English and Japanese, a lingerie shop, and a strip club. Neither Palfrey nor Dahlia remarked on the storefronts, yet their silent acknowledgment of these wayward businesses was like a form of preparation, as if this detour had been signposted, This is the world.

At the apartment, Dahlia said, "These dogs are thirsty!" She put out a bowl for each dog.

Palfrey recognized a dog lover's household — comfortable but nothing fancy, nothing delicate to break, a certain hairy odor in the air. He walked to the window.

"I wonder if I can see my hotel?"

When he told her he was at the Hotel Honolulu, she laughed so hard he decided not to reveal the fact that he was staying for free, writing a travel piece about it. Nestled behind its signature monkey pod tree just two blocks from the beach, one of the last family-owned hotels, he was thinking, as Dahlia stepped behind him, her laughter still present in her body as motion rather than sound. Palfrey could feel the mirth on her flesh when she embraced him from behind and pressed her face against his neck.

Receiving her embrace, Palfrey was keenly aware of the contentment of the dogs, their tongues in their bowls, their jaws masticating their lumps of food, and finally — satiated — the compulsive grooming, licking food flecks from each other's splashed face, snuffling and nipping, playing still.

"Getting personal," Dahlia said.

Did she mean the dogs? He didn't ask. In any case, they closed the door to the bedroom to keep the dogs out. But even here Palfrey recognized a dog lover's bedroom: a dog bed, chewed pillows and chair legs, teeth marks on the rubber toys, dog pictures in frames, a thick aroma of dog sweat and dog hair.

Dahlia took off her clothes, but her size, her very flesh, so much of it, swags and bags, made her seem less naked.

Palfrey was obliquely remarking on this when he said to her, "You never think of dogs as naked. And yet they are."

Dahlia said, "There's a Chinese lovemaking position called Autumn Dogs."

"Next time," Palfrey said, grateful for an exit line.

In the elevator, a woman said to Soldier, "So where are you off to, darling?" and Palfrey began to cry.

I asked Palfrey the same question. He said, "Home," and looked a little tearful. He actually did write a piece in "A Little Latitude," which he sent to me, a box drawn around it. Using Hawaiian superlatives, he praised the rainbows and the sunsets, the convenient location of the Hotel Honolulu, and the great taste of Peewee's chili. Nothing about Dahlia, nothing about the dog.