the swinging bridge

 We stood in the middle of the night in the middle of the swinging bridge over the Hanapepe River arguing about guns. Having been raised a Quaker  in the suburbs, I was agin 'em. Having been raised  a cane field worker in Hawaii, John was for 'em.
   We met at the Sunrise Cafe, where I worked as a bar girl. When the Midnight Rambler had to go to the dump—it was unregistered, and the policeman very kindly followed me there and gave me a ride back to town—Laura and I got sick of being JonJon and Marty's moms and took the job from Dotty. Housing came with, and no men were allowed in the chicken coop. Dotty's modus operandi was to hire new bar girls often. She knew the men would come in and drink until the girls hooked up with someone. Then trade would fall off.

   So she discouraged my relationship with John. She said he was no good and neither was his family. Plenty trouble. She was right, of course. He scared me sometimes, like when we were alone on some dark beach, and he started playing with firearms. 

    Like now on the swinging bridge. 

    I was trying to break up with him. I can't  remember whether there was a moon or not.

    Finally he said, "Sweetheart, if this gun is coming between me and you—" 

    He grandly hurled the pistol off off the bridge, and we heard it splash.

    "Oh shit," he said. "That gun cost me a hundred fifty dollars."

That's the sunrise cafe, where I worked, behind all f those cars on the right. Club Morroco, on the left, was a tough bar that Dotty told us never to go in. Stabbings. We never did, of course. Dotty was our goddess.