Islands

Islands

a short story by Jordan Kasko

It was 15 years ago, before I knew how to write a story. It was when the story took hold of my life and wrote me.

I was 44, and my second and final son had just departed our home of ten years for Navy boot camp. Granted, the base was only one island from our home in Honolulu, but he and I had never been particularly close, and I had barely talked to him in the months since he’d left. It had been longer since I had engaged in meaningful conversation with my eldest son, who had left for boot camp two years prior, and even longer since I had really talked to Todd, my husband. Perhaps we had talked during the first two years we dated, before he left for boot camp in ’73, but the Navy erected a barrier between us. It kept us apart and everything but happy for years, and after leaving the service he started metal-work, regularly working 15-hour days with little compensation. We struggled financially, he worked, and my life, all that it was, consisted mostly of housework.

One suffocatingly humid Tuesday in April 1993, I ventured onto the city bus with two lumpy white bags stuffed full of laundry, and stepped off 20 minutes later only to find that the Waikiki Street Laundromat was boarded up. Head to foot, with dilapidated plyboard and no explanation. Being that cleaning our clothes was my major task for the day, I spent at least 15 minutes contemplating my choices before sacrificing a distant but safer neighborhood for a cheaper bus fare to North King Street. Thinking back, every choice that I had made in my life I had always played it safe. This was the first time that I didn’t.

I glanced to my left and to my right as I stepped off the bus half a block from the Laundromat, or “Laundrymat”, as the sign read. I remember hesitating for a moment for I entered, staring at the rotund, slumped figure in the window and wondering about the likelihood of a mugger targeting me. Taking a deep breath, I opened the door to a scene identical to my usual Laundromat – white washers and dryers arranged in rows, peas in a pod, and one or two other women emptying and filling the machines like zombies, except possibly quieter. It also smelled the same. Soap mixed with baked cotton. What I would smell like after two hours. In the back the room turned a corner, and I continued moving to that area so as to gain a little privacy. I’d brought a book to read. A cookbook, actually. I’d always enjoyed cooking.

As I rounded the corner, I saw exactly what I had expected to see: a small area surrounded by white machines, with a white table in the center. Two of the machines against the back wall seemed to be missing; electrical cords sprouted from the wall, their ends splaying wires like spaghetti. In this nook sat a boy, perhaps in his early 20s, his long brown hair pulled back into a ponytail. He was unshaven and his clothes hung off his body the way they do on those who have high metabolisms or those who haven’t had two children. If he hadn’t been white, or if he’d looked at me, I probably would’ve turned around. He was, however, holding a coverless book open in one hand, staring at it intently. His other arm was resting on his bent knee. His head was dangerously close to the electrical spaghetti.

I slipped coins into two of the washers, glancing over at the boy every few seconds. His eyes stayed on his book, though I was sure he must’ve heard me by then. I opened the doors and loaded the machines full, closed the doors with a softer touch than normal, and pushed the “Warm Wash” buttons. I looked back up. The boy was still reading. Part of me wanted to make my way into safer waters around the corner, but I was curious about this intriguing boy. I sat awkwardly on the plastic table in the center, pulled my cookbook out of my purse, and flipped a page or two, eyeing the boy every few seconds. He was sitting on what I believed to be a knapsack. A crumpled and dirty blanket was crushed between his left knee and the washer. It was a scene reminiscent of my one volunteer experience, a summer at a soup kitchen in Seattle. I had stared at the homeless that wandered in, pitying them, but I felt unable to make conversation. I don’t believe I talked to one the entire summer.

The clock counted away the minutes, and Tomato Tortellini stole my attention away from the boy, who had barely even moved since I entered. Enveloped in my pasta, I missed the boy’s comment.

“Excuse me?” I said, timidly.

He smiled a quirky sideways grin. “You’re Rio.”

“Rio? What’s that?”

“Duran Duran. It’s their new hit. The station never stops spinning it in here. I must’ve heard it a thousand and one times by now.”

I opened my mouth, but still had no idea what to say. I closed it, like a fish, and then blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “Why don’t you change the station?” I blushed.

He laughed, a hearty full laugh that made me blush harder but smile all the same. “I can’t. It’s a mystery. I looked everywhere, and there’s no dial. There’s not even a radio. It just comes out of those two speakers, from nowhere.”

“I’m sorry.”

He laughed again. “Rio, I like you.”

“I – I’m Debbie.”

Nodding, he stood up, smoothly. “And I’m…well, names aren’t important, are they?” There was a pause, and we kept each other’s eye contact. I’d always thought names were very important; I couldn’t remember faces. Simon & Garfunkel’s “I Am a Rock” played softly through the mystery speakers. He smiled and took a step closer, extending his hand. “I’m Island. Nature, see? You’re a river, I’m an island. Like this island, the whole fuckin’ thing.”

I winced at the curse word and he laughed again. Most people don’t laugh as much, I thought. “Well, it’s nice to meet you,” I said.

“And you as well. Have you ever read this?” He held up his book, but being that there was no cover, I remained mute and ventured a small smile. The laugh came again, this time more of a giggle. “It’s Ulysses, by Joyce. It’s the best book ever written.”

“What it’s about?”

“I don’t know!” He smiled boyishly at me, a smile that was hard not to return. “I’ve read it sixteen times, and I don’t know! But listen, listen: ‘History, Stephen said, is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake. The ways of the Creator are not our ways, Mr. Deasy said. All human history moves towards one great goal, the manifestation of God. Stephen jerked his thumb towards the window, saying: — that is God.’ Isn’t it amazing?”

His gestures, his voice, his excitement, they all entranced me. I found I could do nothing but stare back into his aura, my face locked into a shy smile. But he had already decided he would speak on my behalf. “It is amazing. It’s perfect. That,” he jerked his thumb towards a nonexistent window, “is God.” I looked up into the fluorescent lights, and all but saw His angels standing in the clouds. “Rio, are you a writer?”

“I’ve never – well, I used to write, a long time ago. No, no, I’m not a writer.”

“You are a writer. I can see it in your eyes. What else are you?”

“I’m…” I stopped, helpless. “I’m…a woman?”

“Are you asking me? Cause if you are, I’d have to say the breasts give it away. Sorry to say, looks like you’re a woman.”

I stuttered replying again. Though I didn’t feel the need to protest with him, I gave way to habit and said, “I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t look there.”

He nodded, without the slightest color going to his cheeks. “I apologize. I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable.” A buzzer cut off his final word, and before I could register it, he had bounded over the washer and was pulling out my delicates in large handfuls. I took the basket from him, quite awkwardly, and began to put the clothes into a dryer across the room. He leaned against the off-center folding table and watched me. I’d never liked being looked at, but I didn’t feel like I could say anything to him.

“Where are you from?” he asked.

“Seattle. I’ve lived here for about 24 years. So I’m mostly from here.” I finished and straightened up. He folded his arms, that smile placed like a garnish on his face. “You?”

“That’s an awful long time to be stuck on an island,” he said. “I’d hate to be stuck here that long. I’ve only been here four months, and I already want to swim away. This place drives you bonking mad, I swear. They should put signs up, ‘Warning: Only for Vacations’. That’s why I came, you know. For a vacation.”

“Why are you still here?” I asked, attempting to elicit interesting conversation like he seemed to be able to.

“Lots of shit. She left me here. So I’m here.” His voice trailed off, and he stood inspecting the tiled ceiling carefully. Suddenly, without any noticeable cue, he snatched his knapsack and was around the corner in a few quick strides. I followed him tentatively, but he had vanished out the door.

That night, Todd and I fought. He often criticized my apparent laziness since the boys had left, but I couldn’t for the life of me decide on something to do. Housework and cooking monopolized many of my days, and when I’d run out of chores, I’d sit and think. He came home, and started yelling at me for doing nothing. He went on and on, and when I couldn’t think of an excuse, he struck me across the right cheek with the back of his hand. I didn’t protest – I never did. Yes, I’d cooked the food. Yes, I’d set the table. Yes, I’d folded the laundry. But the boy from the Laundromat had watched me the whole time, calling me Rio and reminding me of just how long I’d been on this island.

* * *

The week passed, and the laundry basket filled again. This time, I didn’t even consider making my way to a different Laundromat. I stepped off the bus at King Street, one week to the day after my first encounter with my Island, hoping secretly that it would be his choice day for laundry too. He was indeed sitting in the same spot, head leaned to the right against a washer, eyes closed and mouth opened slightly. A small bit of spittle had found its way into his facial hair, which seemed unshaven since I’d last seen him. His knapsack was on the ground at his feet, and I saw what appeared to be the back of a photograph partially protruding from a pocket. Female handwriting on the back read simply “to dylan”. So that was his name! Satisfied with my sleuthing, I loaded two washers and, being slightly impatient, closed the doors harder than was necessary. I glanced at him. He hadn’t moved. But as I bent down to retrieve my bags from the linoleum floor, he said, “hello, Rio.”


“Hi, Dylan,” I said, setting my bags down.

It took him only a second to locate the source of my knowledge, and he looked almost proud of me. “I prefer Island.”

“Yeah, it’s just that Dylan is more…normal.”

“Oh beautiful Rio, do I look normal to you?” he asked. I felt myself turning red, and quickly reminded myself that I hadn’t been called that in decades, since I was – well, his age. He started singing Bob Dylan’s “Just Like a Woman” under his breath.

“No,” I said. The laugh sprouted from his throat, and he sat up straight to allow it clearer passage. My curiosity overcame me. “Who’s the picture?”

He swept it up deftly while ascending to my height, perhaps an inch or two taller, and stepped beside me. Together we cast our eyes upon a teenage girl with wavy black hair, a half-smile, and a rather strong chin. She was pretty, but mostly because of the rebellious look in her eyes. “Is that the girl you came here with?” I asked.

He snorted. “Yeah. She’s my Siren.”

“Why – what happened?” He was silent. “Sorry.”

“No, Rio, it’s all right. The thing is, we were too different, she and I. She loved me, she loved me very much, but she didn’t understand. She didn’t get me. I thought she did, and I loved her too. She convinced me to come here. And she wanted sex. Well, Rio, I didn’t want to have sex with her. She’s a woman. I told her that, and I told her I cared for her more than I’ve ever cared for another person. But that wasn’t enough for her, and she left. She left me here.”

I stared at Dylan, adding one more piece of information to my knowledge of him. It seemed that every time I figured out one piece of his puzzle, the enigma expanded. Part of me wanted to protest, to tell him that he couldn’t be that way, because I didn’t like it. Because my husband hated it. Because of that one time, two decades ago, when I’d been unfaithful to Todd. Thank God he’d never found out – I couldn’t imagine what he’d have done if he had. I couldn’t imagine giving him a reason to hit me, when he already did it so readily.

To my surprise, Dylan suddenly laughed, almost heartily. “You’re military, aren’t you? Well, not you, but your families. Both of them.” I nodded. “That’s a tough way to live. Don’t worry, I won’t tell. You’ve got too much to write to be restrained by your history.”

“Dylan, I’m sorry, I don’t write. Why do you think I do? I don’t. I can’t, I’ve tried,” I said.

“You’ve tried?”

“Well, a little, but it was too long ago. And it was bad, really bad,” I said.

“You should try again,” he said. For a split second, I entertained a fantasy I’d had since I was young – writing a novel, being published and becoming famous – but I let it go. My husband would tear it up, barking that I was wasting my time. And I would be, because I couldn’t write anything worthwhile.

“Dylan, you’re a nice kid, but you seem like you don’t know God. Could I help with that at all?” I wasn’t usually evangelical, but I felt awkward, and I liked to bring up God when I felt awkward.

“Au contraire, I do know God. God is everything, and God is nothing. God is here, and God is everywhere. God is the good, God is the bad, God is me, God is you. God is a marshmallow and God is horn-rimmed glasses,” he said, gesturing meaningfully towards the elderly lady who’d just appeared from around the corner. She ignored him.

Perhaps the obvious blasphemy should’ve bothered me, but something about his tone took me aback. He may have been joking, but he wasn’t altogether sinful. Many of our conversations from then on were like that. He had plenty of opinions, and they were all wild. Sometimes his words would leave a bad taste in my mouth, but I would suck on them for awhile, and eventually dissolve them down to their sweet centers.

The next week, I found out that it wasn’t a coincidence that he was yet again lounging in the Laundromat when I arrived. After he had woken in the middle of the night, three months before, to find Racquel had vanished, Dylan had realized that his monetary assets consisted of three dollars and sixty-four cents. He had worked at McDonalds for a month, but had been fired when the manager found him spending the night behind the walk-in. Since then he had lived in the Laundromat. I did not ask him how he ate – in fact, I never saw him eat. But he looked strong and always had energy, so I attempted to ignore my motherly intuition.

* * *

I began to do laundry every other day, finding an excuse to wash everything in the house. The pillows, the napkins, the sheets, the windowshades – nothing was spared. And neither was Dylan. I dirtied him up with interrogations, then let him wash me in his thoughtful, odd answers. He loved to quote books and poems, particularly Ulysses, and I often wondered how he retained all that information so well. One of my favorites was: “a man of genius makes no mistakes. His errors are volitional and are the portals of discovery”. Dylan had wandered into a monologue about that particular quote, explaining vividly many of his life’s greatest errors, and what fruits those bore and how they changed him. I started to do what I had never done before – contemplate my own errors. It was terrifying and exhilarating, and with each baby step I made inside myself, I began to feel more creative. One evening I sat down and wrote a poem. It was called “Lost”. It did not have structure or rhythm, rhyme or tone, but it was my baby. I showed it to Dylan, and he praised it endlessly before helping me edit it.

So I wrote another. And another. I wrote during the day instead of cleaning the house, and I wrote at night before my husband returned from his job. I hid them from him at the back of my underwear drawer, and pretended to myself that he didn’t know me well enough to tell that something had changed. I saw him eyeing me at dinner, over his mouthful of mashed potatoes, quiet and wary. The few words we exchanged during a typical day shrunk to none, and on the weekends he barely came home from the bar. In church, we sat like decorations, six inches apart, watching the preacher.

And then I made my mistake. That Monday night, nearly six weeks to the day after I met Dylan, I meant to squeeze in a little writing time before Todd pushed down the door, expecting his dinner. Everything was prepared for his arrival, and a metaphor about silverware had entered my head. I don’t remember what it was, for it never came to fruition – the sofa was too comfortable and I fell fast asleep with only two lines written.

I woke to the sound of boots stomping in the kitchen, just around the door from our small living room. Crumpling the paper with one hand, I returned the pen to its home among the messy magazines on our coffee table and walked into the kitchen, prepared for chastisement. To my surprise, none came. My husband was silent as a morgue while I served him, ate my dinner, and took the dishes from his place. With the scalding water running over my hands, I heard the T.V. jump to life and a beer top snap open. I headed to the bedroom, changed, and stared into the darkness in my pajamas for well over an hour, creating rhymes in my mind.

The next morning Todd was already gone when I awoke. After a small breakfast, I collected assorted materials for the day’s laundry, and made my way over to King Street. Dylan wasn’t quite his usual self, and I found out why quickly: one of his many calls to Racquel from the Laundromat’s sole payphone had finally been returned. Evidently, she was flying into Kahului airport and vacationing on the nearby island of Molokai with her family. She missed him and wanted to see him. He didn’t have the money to afford even a ferry. He even tried to convince me that he could swim to Molokai; after all, it was only a few miles.

I was in the midst of telling my Island why he should remain an island when I saw a burly man walk around the corner, head slightly tilted, eyes splintered by red. My motherly statement to Dylan was enveloped by the black hole of his form. It was my husband. For an indefinite period of time, none of us said a thing. He raised a handful of papers.

“Did you write this fucking trash?” His voice echoed throughout the enclosed space. The veins in his neck bulged. “Did you write this fucking faggot shit? Or did that queer?”

“I wrote it,” I said. He took a large step forward, and my instincts kicked in – I stepped between him and Dylan. I smelled the stench of alcohol as one large arm shoved me into the washers. One more step carried him within two inches of Dylan, who was at least half a head smaller and significantly skinnier.

“This shit,” he yelled, “did you tell her to write this? Answer me, you fuck. Answer me or I’ll goddamn sure fuck you up good.”

“I assisted her in the process,” Dylan said. I saw a flash of fear in his eyes.

“You assis – what the fuck kinda talk is that? Why the fuck is my wife writing poetry about fucking faggots? Are you a fucking faggot?”

“I’m your wife’s friend,” Dylan replied, his voice steady.

“No. No, you aren’t,” Todd said, pushing Dylan back into a dryer. Dylan rebounded, and my husband grabbed him by the arms, lowering his face into Dylan’s. “You will never see my wife again. Get out of this fucking city. You faggots infest my city, my island. My country. My goddamn country. If I see you again, you’re dead, boy.”

I tried to meet Dylan’s eyes as I was pulled away, but he was staring directly at the back of my husband’s head, his face set in stone.

I told them I’d tripped. My two broken ribs kept me in the hospital for eleven days, and Todd never visited me. I was released onto the street, and begged a bus fare to King Street from an older man. There was no sign of Dylan, not one wool blanket or khaki knapsack. Next day was no better, nor was the following. I called every hospital in the area, and visited each Laundromat while my husband was at work. In between searching, I called my older sister, whom I’d spoken with perhaps once a year. A little reluctant at first, she finally agreed to buy me a plane ticket to Vancouver after my hospital explanation. I started packing to leave my island, a mere week from then. I was very careful not to let Todd know.

It was in Tuesday’s paper. The body of a young man, long-haired and bearded, had washed into Maunalua Bay from the direction of Molokai. He was wearing nothing but a swimsuit and a knapsack. A waterlogged California Driver’s License identified him as Dylan James Scheffer, 19, of San Francisco. Cause of death was asphyxia by water. Authorities did not suspect foul play.

I made Dylan a gravestone in my new backyard, a small patch of grass outside of a one-room apartment in Spokane. On it, I scratched the words Island and Rio, the dates 1974-1993, and a quote from Ulysses: “Think you're escaping and run into yourself. Longest way round is the shortest way home.”


~10/08