Leonard Garment, �In Search of Deep Throat�
This is part five of an eleven-part story about Kaua�i, which begins here. Part six of the story is here. The rest, you�ll have to find on your own.
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We go to the Marriott Hotel in Kaua�i, the biggest, gaudiest, most opulent hotel on the island. It costs a minimum of $300 a night to stay here. This is the one populated area of Kaua�i, only because the businesses decided to all put their stores next door, building not one, but two shopping malls, because that�s where people go.
I wrote about this place last year, so it�s no surprise that we went back. To me, the Marriot is like Las Vegas. It�s a nice place to visit, but you sure as shit wouldn�t find me living there. To me, the Marriot is a vision of Hawaii that is lived only in lame romantic dramas. Everything is too perfect, too controlled, and over-the-top in its so-called Hawaiian feeling.
This is the only place, aside from the airline, that you will actually hear people say �Aloha� and �Mahalo.� (meaning Hello AND Goodbye, and Thank You, respectively, for those not in the know.)
But this is the problem with Kaua�i, and the problem with my Hawaii in general. This state is determined that I can�t have any fun. Smoking used to be legal for 16 year-olds, and they changed it two months before I got there on my 16th birthday. The drinking age used to be 18, and they switched it to 21 when I showed up after my 18th birthday.
Then my father moved from Oahu to Kaua�i after there was no more age restrictions they could pass, and now I�m stuck on an island that shuts down at 8 p.m., and the only people who visit are either retirees, families on vacation, or newlyweds.
I can�t tell you how many times this ran through my head: �Hey you�re really cute and I know you like me with my drink in a pineapple, and wow, that�s a big rock attached to the ring, and that must be your new husband who looks like he could snap my neck without even grimacing, and I�m going to sit over here now.�
But then again, sipping my Island Hurricane served in a pineapple I think of the fact that while I tore through the Daredevil novel so I wouldn�t be seen reading it, I�m now sitting on a beach chair reading a book called In Search of Deep Throat. And the title is written in BIG bold white letters against a black background.
Sometimes I can�t help but realize that I don�t think about the repercussions of my actions. I ma as well be wearing a shirt that says �Girls Gone Wild Camera Crew.� Aside from public masturbation, is there anything else I could do to promote a more negative version of myself? Sometimes I just totally fail to think about these things.
And if you believe that, you don�t know me very well, as I knew full well what the average person would think of from this title. Would any sane person really be reading about an expose on the Woodward and Bernstein source for Watergate at a beach?
No, but I�m reading it anyway, causing everybody around me to give me a very wide birth, even though they were all jealous of my drink in a pineapple, speaking of which, didn�t have enough nearly alcohol in it. Tropical fruity drinks are all well and good, but they�re kind of pointless. I brought my pineapple back to the bar and asked them to fill it with a Long Island Iced Tea.
It was 6:30 in the evening; sunset time, and the beach was deserted as was the ocean. Finishing my second Long Island Pineapple as well as the book, I walked into the water and floated on my back as the sun set over me to the west. I can�t say for sure, but all the different forms of alcohol seemed to keep me afloat, and I lay back, watching the sun go over the mountains in an ocean that stayed above bath water temperature.
The clouds turned from white to pink to nearly blood red as I lay on my back, floating in the ocean, and it was probably the first and only time I�ve ever had that much booze without picking up on anybody. For one, the view I had didn�t need any help in terms of beauty.
For two, as I�ve mentioned, every girl I saw had newlywed husbands that could have killed me with one punch.
