“Coming up,” he says even though his mouth pinches in disapproval.
All right, it’s a shithole, I get it.
Quinn and I spend the drive with our heads turned toward our respective windows like excited dogs. We point out every little thing of interest.
“Look at that mountain!”
“A sushi place!”
“Wasn’t Jurassic Park filmed here?”
“They have a Costco.”
“Hospital!” Quinn points out. “Good to know just in case.”
Our driver must think we sound like moron tourists, but surprise! We are moron tourists. He keeps quiet while we continue to blab in the back about whatever we see only shaking his head with a chuckle from time to time.
We catch a handful of glimpses of the ocean and my anticipation grows. Eventually a long stretch of beach comes into view and a squeal bubbles up my throat. A legit squeal. And I am not a squealer.
The peel of excitement dies as the car comes to a quick stop. Traffic. Not exactly what I expected in an island paradise. The sky-high buildings made of concrete and steel are built nearly one on top of the other and cast the streets in shadow. So many streetlights. Cars and people crammed into a metropolitan landscape.
Eventually we turn away from the traffic, but my heart sinks completely when the cab stops in front of a faded blue sign with chipped paint. The scrolled letters read Surf Supreme Motel.
“Here we are.” Our driver throws the transmission into Park and hops out to grab our bags.
Reluctantly we follow, our heads cranked back to see the squat building dwarfed between massive high-rise hotels on either side.
Quinn leans into my arm. “Did you say this place had an ocean view?”
I slowly take in the structure. Three stories high, cracked stucco, duct tape wrapped around the doorhandle into the lobby. “They advertised an ocean view.”
We split the cab fare, giving our driver a modest tip that has him frowning before he wishes us a nice vacation. We didn’t want to spend money on a rental car, didn’t think we’d need to, what with our proximity to the beach, but looking around, this is not at all what I expected.
“Wasup, wahinis!” A handsome man with shaggy dark hair that hangs over his eyes greets us with a lazy smile. “Checking in?” He doesn’t wait for our answer, and loads his tall, lean, muscular frame with our bags. “Right in here.” He’s wearing a t-shirt and board shorts, with beat-up brown flip-flops on his very tan feet. His nametag has the Surf Supreme logo on it and a name. Jesus.
We follow him into a lobby that smells like mildew. He sets down the bags, and circles around an empty front desk to a yellow legal pad. Amidst all the doodles of surfboards, waves, cartoon people smoking blunts, and…yep, that’s a dick, is written Check-Ins with the date and under it my name.
“You must be Elsie Parks and Co.” He sounds like a stereotypical stoner with his drawn-out vowels. His eyelids are nearly closed, and in the brief glimpses, I see the whites are bloodshot.
I share a concerned look with Quinn. “That’s us.”
“Sweet,” he answers in a Keanu Reeves ala Point Break style.
I hand him my credit card, something I got specifically for this trip. I never had one before because my grandparents told me if I had to buy something with a credit card it meant I couldn’t afford it. Cheapest motel in town, and yet, she’s probably right.
He grabs two keys dangling from bright yellow, floatation key rings. “This way.” We follow him to an elevator, but he bypasses it to a door with a sign above it that reads STAIRS. “Don’t take the elevator. It’s a death trap,” he says, laughing as if tickled by his own words.
Quinn glares over at me as if to say what have you gotten us into.
I widen my eyes and shrug, silently communicating that I have no clue what we’ve stepped into, but it is not what I was sold on the website.
Luckily, we only have to walk up one flight of stairs and we’re back outside following Jesus down a long walkway with doors on the left. The motel building is shaped like a U with a courtyard in the middle. No pool, or hot tub, just a concrete space with overgrown shrubs and a few folding beach chairs scattered about.
He stops at 247. He unlocks the door, then drags our things inside.
Quinn and I share a look before walking in behind him.
At first glance, the room is decent. Two full size beds with crisp, white, clean bedding. I don’t see any obvious stains that imply a murder took place. The space is stuffy and smells mildewy like the lobby, but maybe that’s how it goes when staying on an island.
“Vending machines are down there.” Jesus points in one direction then shakes his head and points in the opposite. “Oops. I mean vending is that way.” He crosses his arms to point in both directions simultaneously. “Ice is that way. And the office closes at six, but we have a rent-a-cop who watches the place at night.” He scratches his stubbled cheek. “I think that’s it…”
“The website mentioned an ocean view,” I say.
“Right, yeah.” He chuckles. “Sorry.” He cups his mouth to whisper. “I’m so high.”
“You don’t say,” Quinn mumbles with a grin.
“Ocean view is on the roof.” He points up, as if we needed directions on where a roof would be. “The stairs will take you there. If you head to the far corner facing east, lean over and look between the Outrigger and the bank building, you’ll see the ocean.”
Quinn snorts.
I’m rubbing the sore spot between my eyes. “Great. Thank you, Jesus.”
“Oh, it’s Jesus,” he says, pronouncing his name like the Jesus rather than the way I pronounced it, Hay-soos.
“You’re kidding,” Quinn says.
He chuckles. “Not at all, man.”
“Okay, then thank you…Jesus.” Is that his real name? This is quickly becoming the most interesting place I have ever been, although, not hard to be.
“Cool.” He claps his hands together. “Anything else?”
“Where can we get some dinner?” Quinn asks.
He opens his mouth to answer.
“Somewhere authentic,” I interrupt. “Where do the locals eat?” The last thing I want to do is go to some chain restaurant with a ten-page menu and screaming kids.
His lips purse. “Hm.”
“And preferably on the beach,” Quinn adds.
He scratches his head. “Not a lot of locals come to Waikiki to eat. Mostly tourists spots here.” He twists his mouth thinking hard with however many operational brain cells he hasn’t toasted.
I hold back my laughter. This guy is like a stoned cartoon character. I immediately like him.
“I don’t eat out a lot down here. When I do, I hit up The Noodle Place on Kapuni.” He rubs his stomach. “I could go for some grindz right now.”
“What’s the name of it?” Quinn asks.
He tilts his head, as if trying to translate her question. “The Noodle Place.”
“Of course it is,” she mumbles.
“Can we walk there?” I ask.
“Yeah, so go that way…” He’s back to pointing. “Turn right, then left—”
“We’ll find it. Thanks.” I plan to look it up on my phone.