I Went to Honolulu and Found Most of It Missing

I WENT TO HONOLULU and found most of it missing.

The lead vocalist at the Blue Note in Honolulu wore a strapless black mermaid dress. It was like skin on her, fitted everywhere except at the chest, where her boobs threatened to overcome the hem.

“This song is the closest to my heart, so if you have two hands, jive along. Of course, I realize not everyone has them.”

Out of the blue she said that. Such attunement to different ability. Or had she seen the man on the balcony?

The day before the concert at Honolulu's Blue Note, I'd seen a man with no arms on a balcony. At least I think I had.

He was standing on a balcony of an apartment building facing the highway, statuesque. Well built. No arms and two solid stumps jutting six inches or so out of his shoulders. Our tourist bus was stalled in traffic, unluckily; I was getting a good, long look at him. But the distance between us and that wavering, pulsing air and light of Hawaii made it hard to be sure.

The light in Hawai'i is like any other place. Around the beaches and parks where the rich live and hang out, it is molten vanilla. Near the airbase, off the highway, at this man's apartment building, it is the sighing ghost of million-year-old dead forests. At first I thought I was seeing things, or not seeing things like the man's two

perfectly present arms. The man, even in silhouette, was well muscled, sturdy, standing on a balcony. Why would he be armless?

Then our bus moved on.

Did everyone in Honolulu know about the man on the balcony? Did the lead vocalist mean him? Was he famous, even? A local phenomenon? A freak, showpiece? Or were there many people in Honolulu missing chunks of themselves?

The lead vocalist's black mermaid sheath kept threatening to give up the fight with her boobs, slink down her front, making her hitch it up surreptitiously at first and less subtly as the evening wore on. She couldn't possibly be comfortable in that dress. It seemed capable of great injury to her circulation, so