For Emily on Her Birthday

Yesterday, a vague and distant
memory of a moment in
time when the possibilities
burgeoned beyond vivacious dreams,
resides in the past where it belongs.

Today, a day to smooch beloved
companions wetly as if spit
were for sharing, and squeeze breath
away with wide-armed hugs as if
tomorrow were some abstraction.

It may well be; we cannot know
until it comes, or it does not.
For now, focus on what exists:
a sharp mind, a promising smile.
Live again, older and more loved.

Live again, and again, and again.

Still Life

Above Crenshaw smog hangs heavy

while hectic buses putter by

wheezing out thick clouds, similar

to weed smoke from the swisher tip,

opposite the end where we press

lips to suck down serenity,

streets where colors make enemies,

where power is represented

by crack sales, shell toes, and cell phones,

by jail time, tattoos, spitting rhymes,

blocks where vatos sip Agave

tequilana, with heads shaved bald,

voices that roll R's and speak of

the grimy smog of poverty.

Ode to Physical Books and Digressions

I peel back the dog-eared outer layer.
A musty whiff drifts languidly up

off the dull pages, yellowed like cracking
paint, yellowed like the ghastly wall-
-paper of Charlotte Perkins Gilman's mind.

Spatters of ebon ink mottle jaundiced
skin, daubs through sheaves like black melanoma,
black as was the night in Robert Browning's
heart as spiteful winds brought elm tops tumbling
near to vexed lakes when glided in Porphyria.

Imperfections limn the pages, rips and tears
which turn, spider, wind and disappear below
words as waters often rush underground,
like Coleridge's churning, sacred river
running through caverns measureless to man.

They power on vibrant, illumined screens.
Thoughts appear in mutable forms, shifting
pixels boxed together with the brightness
and uniformity of a Warhol
which girls love, neither of which I understand.

To A Nunnery

 “...Love is not love / Which alters when it alteration finds /

Or bends with the remover to remove: / O no! It is an ever-

fixed mark / That looks on tempests and is never shaken; /

It is the star to every wandering bark...”

~William Shakespeare, Sonnet #116

“Get thee to a nunnery. Why, wouldst though be a breeder

of sinners?...I am proud, revengeful, ambitious, with more

offences at my beck...”

~William Shakespeare, Hamlet

“Je te déteste,” she said.

I rubbed at the wrinkles

marring my strained and

weary countenance and said,

“Headache today. No French, 'kay?”

She roared with heat like some

balmy squall over the Indies,

kicking up waves of white

sheets, hailing down expensive

pens and pencils, tossing

eyeglasses violently like some

wandering bark in turbulent seas

until it crashed upon jagged land;

then down came the books, frail

walls toppling under duress.

I hunkered down, tried as a grizzled

sea captain; lowered the main sail

and battened down the hatches,

for I'd seen these devil winds

before. No brubru nor bull's eye

surprised and they would end

just as quickly as they'd blown in,

dissipating back into a warm

breeze, swift heading, and calm seas.

Soon enough she, with hair a wild mane

telling of wind and eyes dewy from rain,

spoke again, “We need a break. I

need a break, Anthony. I—”

I cut her off, “You should have one.

Go out. You should chill.” She

started to speak, her right

hand diddling with fingers on the left.

I cut in, rote, “I've got some work

to finish, some stuff to edit.

We will talk more later, honey.”

I turned back to the desk,

began to clean the mess and

pulled out spare glasses from

the drawer's recesses.

Rain and wind ceased to exist,

up went the rigging and sails—

But I could not have heard as

She wandered darkly down

the hall, halting pensive

at the door and choking

back tears as she tore

the ring from a slender

digit of the left hand

and breathily whispered

in the tongue I fondly loved,

“Que sera sera, que sera sera.

Je ne t'aime plus, mon amour,”

as the ring fell to the floor—

And I puzzled at the helm,

for then down dropped the breeze.

And we did speak only to break

the silence of the sea.

Fa'a Samoa

I stepped off the plane into the palpable heat of Pago Pago, American Samoa. Uncut, black, wild, and wooly, my afro seemed a poor hairdo choice and my heavy jeans and black tee plied to me in the tropical balm. I fidgeted, waiting at the bottom of the roll-away stairs. Other people shuffled around me, mostly tourists like myself. I tried vainly to shield myself from the stifling sun with my one free hand while the other gripped my single carry-on, a bag stocked with a few odds and ends.

“Should have got that water last time the attendants went by,” I mumbled, licking my dry lips. “What did I even come here for?”

I know what I thought I'd come for. Here I was, my first time setting foot on my Fatherland, and yet I hadn't been struck with any sudden epiphany about myself, about my heritage. I'd really thought it would flow over me—a wave of realization—when I'd planned the trip three months back. I'd told my fiancee that this trip would be my muse, really give me some cultural distinction. I'm half-African American, half-Samoan and she's a French African. Our child, the one she's been carrying for the last seven months, really made me consider heritage and what aspects of my culture I'd want to pass on to him or her, if I truly had any culture to begin with.

My fiancee had been livid, saying something like, “You're going on a vacation? In my third fucking trimester?” I couldn't blame her either. My whole delusional mecca was seeming less and less empowering as our tram—no more than a ramshackle bus painted yellow at the top and green at the bottom—puttered up the tarmac towards us. I pulled my arm from above me and squinted at my watch. It was 1:45 PM. Tuilaga, a friend of my family's, was supposed to gather me up at the airport and show me the way to the land my family owned at 1:30 PM. As per usual, I was late.

The bus screeched to a stop before us and the air-controlled, folding door hissed open to reveal a beaming, rotund Samoan man with gray whiskers and a bald head. “Talofa,” he greeted. “C'mon bruddas, hop on and take whatever seat you like!” I was the last one onto the bus and as I climbed on the driver looked me over.

“Hey, how are you,” I asked.

“Good, brudda, good,” he replied coolly, his round face cracking a bright grin. “Welcome home.”

“Huh,” I said, but I was only answered by the hum of the bus' engine as it lurched forward and left me scrambling toward the rear seats. We pulled away from the plane finally and as I took my seat I checked the time: 1:58. I was late and I'd probably miss my guide.

The airport was a smaller one but it still housed various ATM's, a modest food court that consisted of a burger place and a Samoan fast food booth serving bowls of some ethnic foods, and even a very small coffee shop like you might find in a grocery store stateside. Parched and drenched all at once, I decided on refreshments and so crossed over toward the Samoan foods stand. There was no line, so I went over to give it a try, desperate for a drink. A tall girl with tan skin and a glossy braid of hair running down one shoulder smiled at me with twinkling brown eyes as I approached. “Malo,” she greeted. “You like to try our tuna bowl with yams and rice?”

“Sure, sounds good. Give me something to drink, too.”

“Oh, our specialty dessert add-on is fried banana and our specialty drink, koko Samoa,” she said.

I took the add-on as well and eventually got my meal. Everything smelled delicious, mixtures of syrupy sweetness contrasted against very grainy, hearty fare and topped with a briny, pink-centered tuna steak. They didn't bother with excessive over-packaging as they might on the mainland, instead putting everything together in one overlarge bowl. I asked for a fork and then went to find a seat around the crowded dining tables. Entire Samoan families were seated at tables, speaking eagerly to one another in their native tongue, which to me seemed to have a slight drawl to the syllables as they flowed into the next. Many tables had been annexed by some other travelers.

I came across an islander with long black hair who was munching blithely on a bowl from the same food booth as me. Two other seats at his table were empty, so I approached him and cleared my throat, “Hey, man. Are these seats taken? Can't find anywhere to eat.”

He stopped, his attention turning to me, his hand holding a piece of torn meat and a small ball of rice. Still chewing from a previous bite, he resolved to nod and throw on a stretched, brown-lipped smile over his stuffed mouth, “Mmmmfffmmmff-brudda.” He pointed at the seat across from him.

“Thanks,” I said, taking the seat and arranging my meal on the table. “My name's Joseph. Nice meeting you.”

His eyes brightened and he began to speak incoherently through the food. Seeing my confused face, he took the time to chew and swallow then, unexpectedly, rose from his seat, standing closer to seven than six feet and sporting a gaudy red and orange Hawaiian button-up. He moved toward me and engulfed me in a tight bear-hug, lifting me up and out of my chair with relative ease, “Malo, Iosef! Ua ou fiafia ua ta teiloai! It's nice ta see ya, brudda!”

He set me down, allowing me to take a breath and put a couple feet between us, “I'm sorry, I don't speak Samoan. You're prolly mistaking me for someone else.”

“Nope, I ain't, Iosef! Malie lou loto, sorry, sorry, I'm Tuilaga but folks call me Tui, mostly. You Mana's son, right? He told me you'd be coming today. You early, brudda,” Tui said.

I looked down at my watch: 2:21 pm. “Early?” His sense of urgency, or lack thereof, left me somewhat confused, acquainted as I was to the hustle bustle scheduling of article deadlines, prenatal checkups, editor meetings, lamaze classes, wedding rehearsals, tuxedo fittings, etc.

Tuilaga slapped me hard on one shoulder and went back to his seat, smiling broadly so that I could see his full set of teeth, excepting the ones that were missing. “We'll head out after we eat,” he said even while digging his fingers back into the bowl. I used a plastic knife and fork.

I later found myself at a fairly rural roadside bench on a ridge near the outskirts of Pago Pago sitting beside Tuilaga as we awaited a bus into the wilder country. Sunlight shined through an overhead canopy and splashed a yellow-green glow all around. Tuilaga, well-fed and content, was still picking at his teeth and singing a mellow song in a deep tenor voice.

“That sounds nice, Tuilaga,” I said. “What does it mean though?”

“Oh, that's an old song my tina a lo'u tina—my grandmother--taught me when I was a pepe kama--a little boy,” he said. “It's a story about Samoa and our ancestors. Yah, yah, the first people to live fa'a Samoa.”

“What's that, to live here on the island?”

“Nah, brudda, it's more than just living on the island. Nah, Iosef, fa'a Samoa is harder to explain than that,” Tuilaga said. He pointed back down the road, back toward Pago Pago proper, “You see the sea out in Pago Pago bay?”

I nodded and gazed out beyond the small city, over the endless verdant haze of lofty palms and tropical brush, over the happy, bustling fisheries and villages, and finally to the azure sea where it lapped against white beaches. For a moment, lost in the beauty which had suddenly unveiled itself, I nearly missed what Tuilaga was saying.

“Yah, fa'a Samoa is like the ebb and flow of that ocean. And we, you and I and everyone on the islands, we are like the fish,” he finished in the fashion of a sage, nodding quietly and peering out in the very same direction.

Sitting there, the tropic air breathing around me, I started to recognize what he might have been hinting at. Still, something was unexplained, untold and I could not entirely internalize his metaphors. I started, as if to respond, but Tui stopped me short and rose from the bench.

“Here comes the bus,” he said as it approached, screeching to a stop before us.

I almost laughed, noting the similar color scheme to the passenger bus from the airport—yellow and green—but when the air-pressure door whooshed open I was more than a little confused to see that same rotund Samoan man behind the wheel, lavalava wrapped loose around the waist.

“C'mon on in,” he offered.

Tui hefted his significant weight up the steps of the bus, slapping the driver playfully on the shoulder. I followed, moving along the center aisle of the bus, nodding stupidly at the sheepish grins of sable-haired, sun-kissed girls in the seats, hearing their whispered language as they passed behind. I took a seat beside Tui near the back and the bus groaned into motion.

“You sit back and we'll be at the village in no time, Iosef,” he said.

I sunk into my seat and tried to relax, but the heat inside the bus was overbearing. Tui spoke frequently with people around us, mostly in their dialect. They all laughed together and things were peaceful. At times I tried hard to listen to their conversation, working hard to absorb the vowels, rolling like soft waves. At times Tui would nudge me and translate a colorful joke or yarn. Once, I thought to check the time: 3:46 pm. But as the bus rolled along, its calming gyrations lulling my senses, my mind began to swim and I fell into a tranquil sleep.

I awoke sometime later amidst the burnt-orange gild of sunset with Tui there beside me. Many people were gone from the bus now and I could see a young man and woman asleep against one another. I wiped the sleep away from my eyes and stretched.

“What time is it?” I yawned, forgetting my watch.

“Just about dinner time,” Tui said. “It's better if you come home with me tonight. There's gonna be a big meal for you there.”

“You don't have to go through all the trouble. I'm still good from before, plus I plan to go back into town tomorrow for groceries.”

He laughed.

“Tomorrow's Sunday, brudda.” Tui called to the bus driver, “Fasi, what are you doing tomorrow?”

“Church, Tui, then we gonna have a barbeque. You two, feel free to come, ya,” he said.

“So, the bus isn't running tomorrow?” I asked.

“Nah, but it's okay, you'll stay with me tonight. Tomorrow I'll show you the trail to your house after breakfast and we'll go to Fasi's for lunch,” he said. “Fa'a Samoa, Iosef.”

Soon enough we came to a stop, parked in a black tar parking lot with no lights, no other cars around, and thick foliage all around. We exited the bus, saying goodbye to Fasi on the way, and followed a footpath into the jungles. Along the way, Tui told me about how he knew my family, the Mailaos, and about how excited other families were that one of us was visiting. He informed me that most of our tribe had emigrated to the United States over the last 40 years. To them, he told me, we were all aiga, family.

Tui's home appeared as we turned a bend and suddenly exited the trees onto an open expanse. The sun had drooped way low and darkness was settling in but a chorus of insects and accompanying lights from the house brought the night to life. Tui led the way inside via a short set of stairs, given that the house itself was built about a meter off the ground.

“Alofa, where are you?” he said.

From another room in the house a light voice called back, “Tui, is that you?”

She appeared from a doorway, her brown shoulders bared. She wore what seemed to be a lavalava wrapped just above the breasts and under the arms, so that is seemed more a colorful purple dress than a kilt. It draped over a swollen belly and dropped midway down her slender thighs. She jumped slightly, seeing me but didn't even fuss about her appearance.

“Alofa, this is Iosef. Iosef, this is Alofa, my to'alua.”

“Talofa!” she approached and hugged me without hesitation. “Afio mai, welcome, Iosef. Are you thirsty? You two wait. I'm making dinner now, but let me get some drinks.”

She disappeared back through the doorway, leaving behind the faint smell of jasmine, but was back, soon after Tui and I had taken a seat on the couch, with two tall glasses. I thanked her and sipped on the chill drink, a murky, sweet chocolatey concoction that smelled as rich as it looked. She told us dinner would be ready soon and we spoke while waiting.

“Tui, are you having a baby soon?”

“Ya, any week now,” he said. “What about you? Have any little ones?”

“Well, sort of.” I considered my fiancee, picturing her garbed in the same flattering outfit as Alofa, seeing the darkened skin of her legs and for a moment feeling increasingly homesick, and said, “My fiancee is pregnant back home.”

Tui grinned widely, “You gonna be a good dad, Iosef, I know.”

Meanwhile, Alofa peeked her seamless face in from the kitchen, her eyes fixed squarely on me, “You left your woman and unborn baby?”

I shrunk under her gaze, feeling the same sort of heat I'd received when I had first informed my fiancee that I was going to Samoa. I tried to stammer some sort of response, but before I could she was gone back into the kitchen, but she yelled a few things back out in Samoan.

Tui began to laugh and patted my back comfortingly, “Don't worry, she just says your woman must love you more than she loves me to let you do somethin' like that.”

I frowned and tried rerouting the conversation, “Is this going to be your first child?”

He shook his head, “No, we have a pepe kama, Kavika. He's a quiet boy. He's probably in the kitchen watching his momma cook or out playing by the stream catching minnows.”

He yelled something in his dialect to Alofa and she responded back in Samoan. Tui nodded and turned to me, “Ya, he went to pick pineapples and catch crabs with the other boys down by the jetty for tomorrow's barbeque at Fasi's.”

“Can you really do that here?” I asked skeptically.

“Lots of us on this island don't make much money, especially since the tuna canning plants closed but believe in living humbly and helping family and neighbors, so we all do our part,” Tui explained. “Many families grow crops like taro or bananas and we share with others without work.”

He didn't seem depressed by the prospects, as dissimilar as they seemed to me from mainland life. I felt a growing respect for the Samoan people, living so carefree on their island, surrounded by nothing but open ocean and bounteous nature. I had begun to form a better understanding of these people—my people—and the lifestyle they lived.

Alofa returned from the kitchen carrying an oval-shaped wooden platter with smaller plates on it that each held different fare, “Tui, don't burden him with that talk.” She placed the platter on a bamboo coffee table in front of us and flitted out of the room again, returning with fresh plates, cups, and a pitcher of cold water. She arranged four dishes around the table and began to dole out the various foods.

She first plated thick tranches of sauteed corned beef that released a salty and savory smell. Alongside this she scooped clear, amber noodles with morsels of beef and onions, which she called supasui. This smelled strong of garlic and of soy sauce. There were also fried bananas coated in natural brown cane-sugar and some boiled leafy greens (possibly kale).

From outside I heard the shouts of a small voice from some distance and it grew louder within a few moments. The light patter of feet sounded from the front stoop and suddenly a shirtless boy with close-cropped black hair burst into the room, crying out something heavy with vowels. He stopped short, dropping a wet sack onto the floor and eying me curiously.

“Tina, ua ou fia ai! O ai i ai o lua?” the boy said as he ran behind his mother.

“Boy, you come here and say hello to Iosef,” said Tui. “And speak English, he doesn't speak Samoan.”

With a fidgety disposition the boy came near me, curious but hesitant like some young cub. Somewhat emboldened by his mother and father's approving nods, he came to sit beside me on the coach and squeaked, “Malo, Iosef. I'm Kavika. You want to play with me?”

All us adults laughed and I patted the little boy's head roughly, “Tomorrow I'll play with you, little guy.”

“In the afternoon, after church,” Tui added in a stern tone. The boy looked suddenly sad, but Alofa knelt beside him, kissed his forehead and pulled a full plate toward him.

“Have some food, my little coconut,” she said.

She offered the little boy and myself a fork but I watched as Tui dug into the meal with his hands, just as he had at the airport concourse earlier that day and decided to turn it down. Kavika, whose young hands would likely be sullied by the day to day life of boys, was made to use the utensil anyway.

After we'd all settled some, Alofa began to ask me questions about the mainland and my home life.

“What do you do in America for work and where do you live?” she asked.

“I live outside of Los Angeles and I write a weekly column for a local paper.” Here she grew excited, but I assured her I wasn't considered famous by any means.

For the remainder of the evening we sat together eating and joking, literally digging into our meals. The night waned on and I became lost in the intoxicating smells, the warm company, and the mild island climate. Alofa brought out other drinks once she'd put Kavika down for bed and we three grew rowdy, wassailing the hours away, intoxicated on more than just the lingering odors. Sometime later I settled down on that very same couch, blanketed only by the warm night, and drifted into a quiet repose.

The next morning I awoke and took a much needed shower. Alofa gave me a lavalava to wear so that I would be more comfortable in the tropic heat and look more fitting at church. We spent the early hours in a small chapel—which I noticed doubled as a schoolhouse from the alphabet banners limning the tops of the walls—filled to capacity with happy, devout Samoans. They came in their native Sunday best: starched, white dress shirt; lavalavas; and sandals. Aside from my plain gray tee and my tell-tale afro, I was almost one of them. While there I said hello to Fasi, the bus driver, and he introduced me to his various family members. While the congregation nodded to the sermon and belted out songs of prayer in their language, I either bowed my head or swayed in time with the music.

Afterwards, Tui, Kavika, and I followed a tree-lined path some ways into the forest, again until it opened into a large, flat clearing. I could hear the kree of seabirds and the gentle crash of the waves on some nearby beach as it splashed a salty mist into the island air. Near the center of the open field was a very small hut, complete with a grass-thatched room and pane-less windows. Tui, who had been a veritable caretaker for my family's land and who used the open space for crops, showed me inside.

It was a one room hut, sparsely decorated only by handcrafted chairs and a table. An indentation in the center was encircled by a ring of stones and above it was a trapdoor that sported a rope with which to move it, allowing smoke from a fire to escape. It was a quaint home, perfect for my needs over the next two weeks. Kavika and Tui hustled around, shooing away overlarge bugs and dropping mosquito-net curtains over the windows and threshold. I took one moment to stow my light luggage and we were back off on the forested trails, headed toward Fasi's beachside home for the festivities.

We arrived when the sun was directly overhead, beating down from on high with no clouds to soften the blow. Kavika, his sack of crabs in hand, rushed ahead, mingling amongst other kids and pointing fervently back in my direction. In no time at all, I was mobbed by curious little faces and poked at by the children who intoned the word meuli repeatedly. Parents shouted at the inquisitive bunch but I smiled at them reassuringly, not bothered in the least by the attention.

I followed the youngsters, learning some of their games. They would have one boy lob a ball out into the sea while three others stood by the water's edge, watching intently until it hit the water. Then they'd rush off at top speed, swimming frantically to try to reach the ball first. Another game they played involved racing up two contiguous coconut trees and seeing who could toss one down to their partner first. In this game we all won, using jagged rocks to crack the fruit open and drink down the delicious contents before devouring the meaty insides.

As we romped together I watched them keenly, comparing them to myself as a boy, inevitably considering my unborn child. I recalled times growing up when I would often spend entire days under the beating sun, little need for sunscreen, and ultimately more concerned with testing the limits of my bravery by testing the depths of the sea. I recalled, too, a penchant for scaling anything with handholds. In so many ways we were not unlike one another, myself and the Samoan youths, and my own progeny to come.

Once the children's curiousity had been satisfied, I wandered back to where no less than 30 adults had gathered. They spoke loudly and were in good spirits. I greeted some folks as I passed over toward Tui and Fasi who stood beside a fire-pit which was blanketed by banana fronds.

“Malo,” I said while approaching. I pointed at the pit, “What's there?”

Fasi pulled me in close, wafting the fumes from beneath toward my nose, “It's an umu. We put taro, breadfruit, bananas, fish and crabs under and cook 'em through the day.”

“Oh, it's almost like a clam-bake.”

“Umu,” he repeated.

“It's an old tradition 'round here, brudda,” Tui explained. “Old as the day Tagaloa first made us.”

“Who is Tagaloa,” I asked. Fasi muttered something unintelligible in Samoan and lifted up the banana leaves, checking the food.

“Tagaloa is God,” Tui said simply. Fasi sucked his teeth sarcastically and Tui continued, “Come with me, Iosef, we gonna walk, ya?”

He led me away from the umu, leaving Fasi and the party behind as we traipsed nearer to the jetty, a stretching arm of black rocks which extended some hundred yards out into the Pacific. As we walked, Tui began to speak, gesturing with one hand toward the calm waters, “Many Samoans today have forgotten Tagaloa. When the white man came here he brought religion with him and so folks, like Fasi, think Tagaloa is just a fairytale.”

I stopped, peering down the length of the jetty, the blue yonder painted in the background and asked, “Tui, do you believe in Tagaloa? I know it's myth, or whatever, but do you?”

His face turned serious and his brown eyes glazed for a moment, staring through me as though I were immaterial, “I have told you, Iosef, about fa'a Samoa, the Samoan way. To me our myths are just as real as might be the Christian myths. Real or not, it's something to be proud of. Tagaloa, the maker, made us after he crafted the mighty sea. Some of the older folks even say that we were made from the sea and from the rocks of Samoa herself. I am a son of the sea, so to me it is real.”

Tui took hold of me in his powerful arms, applying another great bear hug as he had the day before. He released me and placed a hand on my shoulder, that constant smile of the isles splaying across his cherubic face and said, before strolling back toward the gathering, “Ya, you can believe or not, Iosef, but from what I see, you are a true child of Samoa.”

I considered his words, staring out dazedly across the open seas when it came to me, that sudden clarity I'd come to the island in search of. I pulled off my shirt and dropped my multi-colored lavalava onto the sand, revealing shorts beneath. I pulled off the sandals I had worn and looked down at my watch simply to unbuckle the strap. From a pocket, I pulled out my unused mp3 player and my phone. All these things I left sitting there upon the beach and with a calm gait I approached the bottom rocks of the jetty, jagged, black, and slick with water. My footing slipped at first as I picked my way along the outcropping, moving from stone to stone, but as the island fell away behind me and the sounds of the crashing ocean were all around me, the saltwater mist breathing new life into my lungs, my pace quickened.

I fancied myself some ancient Samoan, racing, as the kids had shown me, over the rocks—now with such grace as might be afforded by a mountain goat—and toward the deep waters of the Pacific. I came to the end, speeding without hesitation or care, and leapt high and far, soaring out over the water, then down into the life-bearing sea where it embraced me. It was there, amidst the muted roil of the womb of the ocean, where I was reborn, where I was washed over by the glorious realization that I was Iosef Mailao, a true child of Tagaloa, regardless of my mixed heritage. And I knew that my unborn child was also of that same beautiful lineage.

Many kids met me on the beach, screaming gleefully as I swam in to shore, my afro weighted by the seawater. I played with them there, splashing with them under the hot sun. As the afternoon went on we returned to the feast, everyone seated around the umu. Fasi and others passed out the foods, beginning with me, for I was considered a guest of honor that evening in accordance with tradition. So, we feasted on the bounty there long into the night. There was song, there was dance and that night my initiation was complete.

When I eventually left the island, pulling away from Pago Pago, American Samoa on a late-night jetliner, I knew, all at once, I was leaving Samoa, taking it with me, and going home to find it in my child.

With as little pretentiousness as possible

Herein is born attempt at classic literature with a 21st century ambiance. One young writer's haphazard attempt at identifying his own shortcomings and missteps through the lens of human emotion, or even a lack thereof. It is a caustic, spiteful commentary on a generation 100 years in the making and a diatribe on the near inescapable and overwhelming onset of technology, a mollifying of the rabble, and the conglomeration of power even further into the hands of elite and unseen players. And we delve into all of this blinded by naïveté and utterly without an inkling.

The Thief pt. 1

Reeeehhh, reeeehhh, reeeh-- Shay's hand dropped down clumsily atop the bedside table, succinctly quieting the grating peal spat out by an alarm clock and toppling various bric-a-brac. They thudded dully on the dingy blue-brown carpet. Shay shuffled off the blanket and sheet cocoon, exposing a healthy, naked torso even as he drew two feet down to the floor. He rose, pulling back the curtains, ignoring the fallen knickknacks, and veritably cringed against the impaling sunbeams. He would adjust, though, as he did morning to morning.

Casually, the sun warming his caramel skin, the young man stretched. A gaping yawn accompanied the muscular accommodations, preserving an everyday ritual, one just before breakfast, which, in turn, preceded the morning hygiene before his commute to work. But Shay had not yet come to that point, and so he shuffled lethargically out from his room and into the hallway, feeling the chilly bite of linoleum tiles under his dragging soles.

First was breakfast.

And so it came, down from atop the refrigerator, packaged up in a tale-tell yellow box with its red trim and a glib cartoon bee, grain circles that tumbled over one another and pattered into an off-white ceramic bowl. Milk—whole--followed to top off the relatively plain meal. Of course, eggs, potatoes, and sausage were out of the question for someone like Shay, living as he was, on the brink of poverty. Regardless, he sat down with his food and swallowed it down in silence, changing pace every so often when he'd run the lengths of his fingers through the thickening, black curls on his head.

He coughed, reacting to swallowing too suddenly, and sprayed a mesh of oats and milk onto the table, “Shi-it.”

He walked to the sink, snagging the last two paper towels from the roll, and returned to clean the small mess. It didn't take long and Shay was soon in the bathroom, measuring the temperature of the shower's flow and stripping down to skivvies. He reached for the shower-head, feeling the stinging heat of the water and deemed it ready by simply climbing in, immediately starting to build a lather with a plain bar of soap. Steam rose from the porcelain tub and thickened throughout the small bathroom, fogging the mirrors, adding a slick sheen to the peeling, off-white paint and the unclean tiles and grout.

It did not take long until the trickling of water silenced in the squeak of closing pipes and Shay emerged to grab a towel hanging on the back of the bathroom door. He moved with a purpose, crossing the threshold into the hallway and again into his bedroom where he rifled through a few dresser drawers and exposed the livery of a typical Southern Californian: jeans, a faded t-shirt, and a thin, gray hooded sweatshirt. All of these he donned in preparation for his journey outside and onward to work.

Heat rose, flushing the young man's skin, probably some residual rise in temperature from the steamy shower, and beads of sweat gathered on his brow ever so as stepped into the almost tropical outside air. To dry, he dragged the sleeve of his sweatshirt across his tan forehead and then he began to walk, stepping down the path from his front door and out onto the sidewalk that stretched far into the northern reaches of the city, passing from one undernourished neighborhood to the next before finally reaching the warehouses of uptown Long Beach; before reaching the particular yellow-stucco warehouse that Shay called work.

But first he walked down the avenue some ways and sauntered to a concrete and fiber-glass bench that sat a few feet from the curbside, adjacent to a tall sign that heralded that particular bench as one of the various citywide bus stops. Silent, still collecting his thoughts even through his typical early morning routine, the man dropped down on the bench to wait, flipping up the gray cotton cowl of his hood. Then he leaned back, taking in the cacophony of the city streets around him—from the incessant rising and falling of sound from nearby and far-off cars to the drone of a jetliner charging into the vast openness of the pacific skies. He had no other solace save to tap a foot and wait, a patient resolve settling across his face as the minutes crawled by, the mill of people around grew to reflect the necessity of cheap, inner-city travel, and eventually the correct bus pulled up beside the curb and it's doors peeled back with a hiss of air, open to all the gathering travelers.

Shay remained seated as six or seven other bus patrons crowded ahead, nearly pushing onto the bus, but he still had no trouble getting inside and even finding an empty seat. And with a slight jolt of hesitation the metal behemoth crept forward, merging seamlessly into the flow of traffic, surrounded as it was by miniatures of itself.

Inside, head pressed against the tagged and dingy glass, Shay stared into the passing city. Short, middle-aged women strolled along, trailing behind tails of mop-headed kids. Vagrant teens mobbed down the blocks in cliques, in search of no particular mischief, but, doubtless, to find it. The nomadic routes of actual vagrants and wayfarers wound to and fro amidst the rest. And all of this was set onto a backdrop of walls in a chipped paint coat, liquor markets, convenience stores, ramshackle churches, four-tiered apartments, and alleyways fraught with disrepair. Steadily, the overlarge tenements were phased out, replaced by strip malls of low-roofed, contiguous shops, salons, and bistros, and banks. In the foreground, where the great unwashed had churned, now a bourgeois hodgepodge emerged, interspersed by the chic-dressed bohemian and sunbathing yuppies.

Shay suddenly felt hot again and decided to peel off his hooded sweatshirt. He dropped it into the seat beside him and regarded the bus' interior. Most of the people inside were headed, just as he was, beyond that surreal world of brunches, champagne, and yoga. Their destination soon opened before them—North Long Beach, the uptown. In fact, the beginning was signaled by a railroad stretching overhead, literally putting them all on the other side of the tracks.

Here, the décor reverted to the same state Shay had traversed from and soon enough the bus rolled to a stop at the cross street from where he'd walk the remaining distance. He and a few other passengers exited there and they each went on about their daily business, lost in individual worlds. Shay turned east and walked along, the rising heat of the sun pressing down with near physical force. Shay stopped, furrowing his brow.

 

“Damn, it's hotter than the devil's drawers out here.” Shay exclaimed loudly, wiping the sweat away with a long, exaggerated draw of his arm. “Horrible. Just horrible.”

He continued walking. Work was near at hand.

Shay arrived without incident, approaching the tall, yellow-stucco building with its metal mesh fencing on the outside perimeter. Flood lights hung along the lip of the roof, off in the daytime, but aimed true for the truckers in the evening. Harry, a middle-aged, Hispanic security guard stood at the only entrance—a slight opening in the fence guarded by a shack with one pane-less window and a tall stool that lacked any seat cushion. Harry stood up from his seat, stepped outside, and pulled at the wrinkled blue suit he wore in an effort to assume authority as Shay approached.

“'Sup, Shay. How you doing, man?” Harry questioned.

“I'm alright. How've you been, Harry?” Shay responded ceremonially, never really stopping or expecting a real response as he brushed past the other man.

“Been good, man, damn good. My lady is pregnant. Gonna be a dad, I just found out yesterday.”

Shay stopped and looked back. Harry beamed proudly and hooked his thumbs into the loops of his pants where a belt might have coiled

.

“Oh yeah? Uhm—that sounds pretty great...” Shay went quiet, feeling a bit out of place and not really knowing what else to say, but he found a voice as he peered into Harry's proud smile, “Congratulations.”

As if he had been waiting for that keyword, Harry shot forward with a gasping laugh and slapped Shay's shoulder heavily, “Thank you, man. I'm so damn happy.”

Shay smiled weakly and turned to leave, peering back as he crossed the courtyard and overhearing Harry greeting the next unsuspecting worker with a loud, “'Sup!” But soon enough he was safe inside the damp warehouse where he worked, his eyes acclimating to the low-light and his ears filling with the hum of active machinery.

He began to move among the high shelves, tiered boxes, and the metal poles barring pathways, all the way towards the back wall where the clock-in resided, a pallet jack and forklift rumbled past. Shay crossed the threshold into the small clock-in room, espying a balding, older gentleman with wide, gold-framed spectacles and a curly brown mustache, who wielded a thick, aluminum clipboard.

“Morning, Mr. Hanspepper.” Shay offered mechanically, squeezing into the cramped quarters, with most of the space greedily annexed by a table which Hanspepper sat behind. Shay scanned the metal slats suspended from the wall by rusty screws, shuffling his fingers up to near the top and unsheathing his particular punch-card.

As he started towards the clock-in to punch the correct chad, Hanspepper cleared his throat loudly, eliciting Shay's attention.

“Shay...” Hanspepper repeated, “Shay, Shay, Shay. How long've you been with us, Shay?” Here, Hanspepper pushed back in his seat and stood, reaching across the narrow table to pat Shay's nearest shoulder.

Shay inched, nearly imperceptibly so, away from his supervisor's unasked for advance, “Something like four years, I'm pretty sure.”

Hanspepper's face dried, shriveling into a distasteful and sorrowful facade, tinged slightly with humor by the irreversible curl of his mustache, “Shay, boy, I'm sorry but the company is going to be doing some layoffs. You know, with the recession and all, we just aren't selling the kind of stock we used to. Too many new homes out there or they're too damn expensive, so the demand for composite wood just isn't there right now, you know?”

“What? But, Mr. Hanspepper, I've been here for four years, man...Isn't there something you can do?” Shay asked, his face betraying his shock.

Hanspepper shrugged limply, “The higher-ups sent word down to me, 'Cut the people below five year seniority,'. If I had any control--”

“Mr. Hanspepper! C'mon, can't you talk to someone for me?” He lurched up to the table and pounded two fists down, “I'm never late, I do extra work and don't complain. I hardly even call in sick!”

The older man simply averted his eyes, adjusted those gold-rimmed glasses and coughed nervously, “They won't listen to me, Shay. It's already been decided.”

Shay, breath coming hard, his blood thudding painfully against the borders of his temples, pressed the palms of his hands to his face, and mumbled from behind them, “Jack, can't you help me? I need this job, please.”

“I really am sorry, Shay, but it's out of my hands.” He said, extending empty hands in striking symbolism.

Shay dropped his arms to either side, his body feeling weak, his stomach upset. The orchestra of the factory pressed in, drowning his mind in a flow of sounds. A far-off stinging shot through his heart and stabbed sharply with each palpitation, the undeniable feeling of betrayal. But, rather than break down, Shay controlled the emotional turmoil and hardened the lines of his brown face, “Fine. It's fine.”

Shay turned, shoulders slumped low as he trudged out into the expanse of the factory, and eventually to the courtyard, but Mr. Hanspepper called out one farewell, “Take care, Shay, and I'm sorry.”

But Shay hardly heard the condolence as he shuffled despairingly away, lost as he was in a mire of dark, harsh, and worried thoughts. He could feel the heat welling behind the eyes, the dryness of his mouth, the clammy sweat of the palms as he exited, dejected.

He crossed through the factory, unaware of the traffic bustling on his peripherals, his only focus on the exit into the glaring sun, past the press of incoming bodies, those later to work than he, and many unaware of the similar fate to his own which awaited them at that dreaded clock-in. But Shay said nothing, offered no inkling of consternation to his ex-coworkers, merely assumed a dwindling smirk and the commonplace head nod, until finally breaking out of the stifling factory and into the hot air outside.

As he moved dazedly along the blacktop he stared down, noting the variations of heat rising from the ground and he became conscious of the unbearable force overhead. Shay approached the guard shack, not really seeing Harry there, but the Hispanic fellow perused him with kind, intuitive brown eyes and got near to the problem, “Shay, are you okay? You don't look too good. Going home sick...Or did something else happen, hombre? Shay?”

Stricken from a dream, Shay's attention focused on the security guard on queue with his name being vocalized, “I got laid off.”