Get well. Wake up. I love you. Don’t leave me with Dad anymore.
There are postcards, too, and I look at scenes of Hawaii: lava shooting out of rocks on the Big Island, surfers shooting out of a wave at Pipeline, water shooting out of a whale surfacing near the coast of Maui, fire shooting out of the mouth of a dancer at the Polynesian Culture Center.
I turn the wire rack and there she is: Alexandra. It’s a picture I’ve seen before. I look around as if I’m doing something I shouldn’t. A man walks behind me, and I move so that I’m blocking the picture of my daughter. When Alexandra was fifteen, she did shots for Isle Cards, whose captions said things like Life’s a damn hot beach. One-pieces became string bikinis. String bikinis became even smaller, dental-floss bikinis. She and her mother told me about these shots only after they’d been published, and then I put an end to her little modeling career, but every so often I’ll see one of these cards in Longs. Mainly they’re in Waikiki shops where no one I know goes, so I forget the fact that my daughter’s body is still out there being sold and stamped and sent off to people in places like Oklahoma or Iowa— Wish you were here on one side, Alex on the other, blowing kisses or soaking up the sun in unlikely positions.
I look around for the shopkeeper, but I’m the only one here. I look for more cards with her on them, but there are just five copies of this one shot. She’s in a white bikini, straddling a surfboard and getting splashed by some unseen person, using her hands to block the water. Her mouth is wide open, laughing. Her head is tilted back. Her torso is lithe and glimmering with beads of water. It’s actually my favorite, if I had to pick one, because at least she’s laughing and smiling and doing something someone her age would be doing. In the others she looks old, sexy, and exasperated. She looks like she knows all there is to know about men, and it makes her seem pissed off but lustful at the same time. It’s a look that you don’t want to see on your daughter’s face.
When I asked Joanie why she let her do them, she said, “Because it’s what I do. I want her to respect what I do.”
“You model for catalogs and newspaper ads. What’s not to respect?” I found immediately that this wasn’t the best thing to have said.
A CHINESE WOMAN enters the shop and stands behind the register. “You ready?” she asks.
She is wearing a muumuu over navy blue polyester pants. She looks like she has escaped from an asylum.
“Why do you sell these?” I ask. “At a gift shop. For people to get well. These aren’t get-well cards.”
She takes the postcards from my hand, flips through them. “They all the same card. You like buy all the same card?”
“No,” I say. “I’m asking why you sell these at a gift store in a hospital.”
I can tell that nothing will come out of this conversation. It will be a confused and combative verbal, pidgin verbal, match.
“What, you no like girls or something?”
“No,” I say. “I like women. Not underage girls. Here.” I pick up a card that says, Get well, Grandpa. “This is the kind of card that’s appropriate.” I hold up my daughter. “This is not appropriate. It’s not even a card. It’s a postcard.”
“This my store. And people in hospital are haoles, too. They get hurt here, then they get better and want souvenir for mainland.”
“They want a souvenir of their trip to the hospital? Look. Never mind. Here.”
She takes the postcards and starts to walk back to the wire rack.
“No,” I say. “I’m buying them. I want all of them. And these two sodas.”
She pauses. She looks confused, as if she has imagined our entire exchange, but doesn’t say a word and won’t look at me as she rings me up. I give her money. She gives me change.
“I need a bag, please,” I say. She hands me a plastic bag, and I use it to cover my daughter. “Thank you.”
She moves
There are postcards, too, and I look at scenes of Hawaii: lava shooting out of rocks on the Big Island, surfers shooting out of a wave at Pipeline, water shooting out of a whale surfacing near the coast of Maui, fire shooting out of the mouth of a dancer at the Polynesian Culture Center.
I turn the wire rack and there she is: Alexandra. It’s a picture I’ve seen before. I look around as if I’m doing something I shouldn’t. A man walks behind me, and I move so that I’m blocking the picture of my daughter. When Alexandra was fifteen, she did shots for Isle Cards, whose captions said things like Life’s a damn hot beach. One-pieces became string bikinis. String bikinis became even smaller, dental-floss bikinis. She and her mother told me about these shots only after they’d been published, and then I put an end to her little modeling career, but every so often I’ll see one of these cards in Longs. Mainly they’re in Waikiki shops where no one I know goes, so I forget the fact that my daughter’s body is still out there being sold and stamped and sent off to people in places like Oklahoma or Iowa— Wish you were here on one side, Alex on the other, blowing kisses or soaking up the sun in unlikely positions.
I look around for the shopkeeper, but I’m the only one here. I look for more cards with her on them, but there are just five copies of this one shot. She’s in a white bikini, straddling a surfboard and getting splashed by some unseen person, using her hands to block the water. Her mouth is wide open, laughing. Her head is tilted back. Her torso is lithe and glimmering with beads of water. It’s actually my favorite, if I had to pick one, because at least she’s laughing and smiling and doing something someone her age would be doing. In the others she looks old, sexy, and exasperated. She looks like she knows all there is to know about men, and it makes her seem pissed off but lustful at the same time. It’s a look that you don’t want to see on your daughter’s face.
When I asked Joanie why she let her do them, she said, “Because it’s what I do. I want her to respect what I do.”
“You model for catalogs and newspaper ads. What’s not to respect?” I found immediately that this wasn’t the best thing to have said.
A CHINESE WOMAN enters the shop and stands behind the register. “You ready?” she asks.
She is wearing a muumuu over navy blue polyester pants. She looks like she has escaped from an asylum.
“Why do you sell these?” I ask. “At a gift shop. For people to get well. These aren’t get-well cards.”
She takes the postcards from my hand, flips through them. “They all the same card. You like buy all the same card?”
“No,” I say. “I’m asking why you sell these at a gift store in a hospital.”
I can tell that nothing will come out of this conversation. It will be a confused and combative verbal, pidgin verbal, match.
“What, you no like girls or something?”
“No,” I say. “I like women. Not underage girls. Here.” I pick up a card that says, Get well, Grandpa. “This is the kind of card that’s appropriate.” I hold up my daughter. “This is not appropriate. It’s not even a card. It’s a postcard.”
“This my store. And people in hospital are haoles, too. They get hurt here, then they get better and want souvenir for mainland.”
“They want a souvenir of their trip to the hospital? Look. Never mind. Here.”
She takes the postcards and starts to walk back to the wire rack.
“No,” I say. “I’m buying them. I want all of them. And these two sodas.”
She pauses. She looks confused, as if she has imagined our entire exchange, but doesn’t say a word and won’t look at me as she rings me up. I give her money. She gives me change.
“I need a bag, please,” I say. She hands me a plastic bag, and I use it to cover my daughter. “Thank you.”
She moves
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