southern part of Koloa sugar mill and cultivating the sugarcane stocks from sapling to harvest time. I followed along behind him, carrying the tools he needed to care for the vegetable plants he cultivated among the sugarcane. He would hack off a six- or seven-inch stalk of sugarcane for me to chew on while he checked his crops; I loved biting down on the rough, fibrous cane to extract the sweet juice inside.
The sun beat down on us as we walked, and the white of my dad’s t-shirt caught the sunlight and made him seem larger than life, almost a glowing entity in my young eyes. Much of his life was a mystery to me, but I was determined to learn what I could.
“Mama, waya Daddy go in da car nighttime?” I once asked my mother.
“He go visit friends,” my mom said.
It was not enough of an explanation to satisfy my curiosity, so I went to my father instead. “Papa, next time, I like go wit’ you when you visit yo friends.” I could practically feel the wind in my hair.
“No can. Is only fo’ men, Mael.”
I went back to my mom. “Mama, you ask him if I can go. I no make humbug.”
“Okay. I go try and ask him, Mael,” she agreed, as she seemed to want to make sure I was always occupied. When she was done washing dishes, she went in the other room to talk to my father.
I could not hear their conversation, but their muffled voices carried through the door. When she came back into the kitchen, I had to duck to avoid getting smacked with the door.
My mother didn’t even turn to see me; she knew I’d been listening. “He say no, Mael.”
A few nights later, I came up with a plan. I knew from our dinner conversation that my father was going out that night. From my room, I heard him getting ready, so instead of going to bed as I’d been told, I opened the window and jumped down into the garden. Ducking under the kitchen window, I rounded the corner of the house and sneaked into the garage. The front of the Chevy was furnished with a bench seat that inclined back at a slight angle. I climbed over the three-speed gear shift mounted to the floor and crouched down behind the driver’s seat. Due to my stature, I was quite comfortable, even in such tight quarters.
Eventually, I heard my father approaching. I tried to make myself even smaller as he climbed into the driver’s seat and started the engine. Before long, I felt the car lurch backward, and then we were bouncing along on the bumpy Spanish Camp road before hitting the smoother pavement of the road that led to Koloa town.
I felt victorious, but I was also a little afraid, even though I hadn’t yet been discovered. I began to worry about what my father would say when he did find me. I knew he would stop immediately if he noticed me in the car, so my main objective was to make it to our destination undetected. Once we got there, I was sure he would not take me immediately all the way home if he found me on arrival.
I managed to stay out of sight until the car was parked and my father climbed out and slammed the heavy door behind him. I breathed a sigh of relief, letting out a breath I didn’t even realize I’d been holding. I heard men’s voices for a moment, and when they faded away, I mustered up enough courage to look out the window. I slowly popped my head up and looked out the back passenger window at my dad and his two friends, who were about twenty feet away, sitting comfortably on the front porch of a plantation house in Korean Camp, talking. I watched them until one of the friends glanced my way and began to laugh and point.
My father turned to look where his buddy was pointing and saw me. I could see surprise and annoyance on his face, but his friend’s laughter relaxed his expression. I knew then that I was safe, that my agitated father wasn’t going to get in the car and drive me back home right away. Dad simply looked away and continued his conversation. Suddenly, I was comfortable and had the whole interior of the car to myself.
That first time, the two-hour visit flew by. I found ways to occupy myself, toying with the dashboard knobs, turning on switches, jumping, diving, and sliding over the seat. I rolled the windows up and down—slow, fast, then faster. I simulated driving the car, making tire-squealing noises as I pretended to take fast corners, chasing after an imaginary car in front of me, like I’d seen in the movies. I dared not leave the car that night, though, as I didn’t want to risk upsetting my dad.
The best part of my adventure that night was the trip home. My father silently entered the car, and I climbed onto the front seat and took my planned position. I knelt and sat on my feet to prop myself up high enough to see out the window. I placed my right arm on the windowsill and my left on the top of the bench seat and watched the night slip by outside. It was the highlight of a long, exciting night.
When my mother heard what I’d done, she gave me a disapproving look, but she later said, “I know you had figa sumting out sooner or layta.”
I continued randomly sneaking into the car and was caught a couple of times, until my dad gave in and allowed me to go with him. I was even allowed to get out of the car, as long as I stayed far enough away that I wouldn’t interfere with my father and his two or three friends but close enough that he didn’t have to worry about me. For a small boy in a seemingly small world, it was a thrill to linger in someone else’s yard and to observe my father interacting with his friends. Sometimes I crept close enough to sit among the bushes and flowers, so I could listen and watch them “talk story,” as my father liked to call it. I watched them train roosters for cock-fighting and shared delicious pineapples and traditional food snacks with them. The ripe, sweet scents of that delicious fruit, mingling with the balmy night air and the sounds of their animated stories filled my mind and my imagination. Sometimes, after such a grand adventure, even the thrill of the car ride was not enough to keep me from dozing off on the way home, but the next morning, I would wake with a new memory sweeter than any dream.
Garden of Sugar and Pineapples
The Tomato Salesman
I carefully inspected the baseball-sized, blemish-free tomatoes before placing them in shoeboxes. The cultivated garden of fresh, red tomatoes in which I stood, picking and inspecting, belonged to my sister Salina and her husband, a farmer. My brother-in-law had shown me how to choose the best tomatoes: the smaller the spot on the bottom of the tomato, opposite the stem side, the better the grade of the fruit. It wasn’t long before I had four shoeboxes full of juicy tomatoes of varying ripeness.
My sister asked me on several occasions to help her sell tomatoes and other vegetables around the neighborhood. “Menal, you come wit’ me today and help me deliver sum vegetables,” more of a statement than a question.
“Okay. I can help you.”
“You betta change yo puka shirt first.” She pointed at the once-white t-shirt that was now nearly brown and full of random holes from playing with my dog, Willy. I was wearing a pair of rubber slippers, though I preferred going barefoot, and shorts and a t-shirt were my typical attire. I changed my shirt and scraped some of the garden mud off my slippers before jumping onto the front seat of Salina’s four-door Chevy sedan, since the rear seat and trunk were loaded with various types of fresh vegetables.
“Okay, brudda, when I stop, you go to da door and ask da people what fresh vegetables they wanna buy today. Say, ‘Tata or nana, my sista and me picked fresh vegetables dis morning and bring to you.’ Den ask them what they like to buy. If they ask if we get certain kine we don’t have, you say, ‘We get and come back,’ then tell me. Okay? Say dis way, okay?”
“Okay, manang, I try,” I said. I wasn’t as convincing as my sister, but I did what she asked, because I knew she was watching every move I made. Out of all my siblings, Salina was the most assertive personality, and I knew that if I failed in my sales pitch, she would follow up and push for the sale.
“Salina, your baby brudda said you had some squash, but I need only half da size you get,” said one of the customers, pointing at the football-sized squash.
“No problem,” said my sister, holding the squash in one hand. “I normally sell da whole ting fo’ forty cents, but I cut it, you pay only
thirty cents.”
“But da price is mo’ den half,” the man said, a bit skeptical of her idea.
“I know, manong, but if I no sell da other half, they become rotten, den I lose money. If I lose money, I no can sell fresh vegetables to my customers. Den my customers like you have to go buy at da Sueoka stowa, where you pay almost double the price.” Salina spoke calmly and quickly, always ready with a witty answer for any question or concern our customers might have.
“Okay, I pay—”
Salina was already cutting the squash in half.
“I pay twenty-five cents.”
“Oh, manong, I cut already. Okay, give me twenty-seven cents.” She sighed and handed the customer his half-squash, wrapped in newspaper.
Salina alternated the beginning and the end of her sales route regularly. At the end, when most of the vegetables were gone, she reminded the customers of the regular price and offered discount prices for the remaining produce. Her strategy worked every time, and we returned home happy, with empty boxes and money in hand.
I was a quick learner, and after the first few trips, my sister did not have to step out of the vehicle often, other than to collect the money. I learned an effective sales pitch and how to negotiate, and before long, I was selling a variety of pre-bundled