“What do you think?” she asked.
I looked down and saw a photograph at the top of the pile. The woman had given me a portrait of herself. In the photo, she had a sly, alluring smile. She wore a bright pink bathing suit that did nothing to hide her masculine shoulders.
“Looks like you found yourself some scrub,” Lee said, choking down a laugh.
I looked at the photograph again and understood. The hips, the shoulders, the makeup…this was a man.
I handed the shirts and the photograph back. “My friend…”
“Leave my store,” the woman said with a very male voice and an impressive air of dignity.
As we walked away from the cart, Lee laughed convulsively. I thought he might collapse on the ground. He clapped his hand on my shoulder and leaned his weight on my back.
“Go speck yourself, asshole,” I said in a quiet voice. Then I thought about it and laughed. “Bastard,” I said.
Lee started to respond, then gave up in another fit of laughter.
Despite Lee’s sense of humor, I bought six shirts, three pairs of pants, and a pair of sandals before leaving the Marketplace. My entire wardrobe cost forty dollars.
At night, the streets of Waikiki took on a Roman Circus air. Rows of glowing red lanterns lined the streets. Strings of white Christmas lights blinked from every tree. Tourists and party-loving locals filled the sidewalks. Bartenders and sober-looking businessmen came to take advantage of them.
Lee walked over to a small tiki hut to purchase a drink. I watched him carefully, purposefully memorizing the look of his clothes. Half the crowd seemed to be made up of vacationing clones, and I was not sure how I would find him if we got separated.
When he returned, Lee had a yellow-and-green fruit that looked like a squat bowling pin. Holding the fruit with both hands, he sipped from a straw that poked out of its stem.
“What is that?” I asked.
“Don’t know,” Lee said. “The fruit is papaya, but I have no idea what they’ve poured inside it.” He took a sip. “It makes you feel like your head is on fire.”
A gang of boys stopped to watch Lee drink from that odd fruit. “What’s their problem?” Lee slurred.
“Probably don’t like drunks,” I said.
“Oh,” said Lee. “Me neither. You wanna try this?”
I did not know what was in Lee’s drink, but I decided it would be safer if only one of us tried it. I led the way up the street, trying to keep Vince from bumping into people. It took a lot of work. A few more sips, and he could barely stand. Whatever else they put inside that drink, some of it must have come from Sagittarian potatoes.
A double-decker bus with a banner that said, “Free Historic Tour,” came rolling up the street. Vince did not look like he could walk much farther, and I thought the night might go easier if I kept him off his feet. I waved, and the bus stopped for us. Our ride took us away from the crowded streets of Waikiki and out toward the airport. We drove past a harbor filled with boats and large ships.
“This is historic Honolulu Harbor,” the bus driver said over an intercom.
“Oh, look at the ships,” Lee said, moments before vomiting. The woman sitting across the aisle from us focused all of her attention straight ahead, completely denying our existence. The young couple in the next seat acknowledged us. Lee’s vomit splashed their feet, and they turned back and glared.
When the bus stopped to let people walk around the harbor, I led Lee away from the tour group. No one seemed sorry to see us go.
We stopped on a bridge and watched swells roll across the top of the moonlit water. The salt air seemed to do Lee good. He took deep breaths and regained some strength, then threw up again over the top of the bridge.
“Pathetic bastard,” I said as I patted him on the back.
This part of town was not nearly as crowded as Waikiki, but a steady trickle of pedestrians moved along the streets. “Are you up for a walk?” I asked Lee.
He did not answer. I took that for a yes.
Most of the buildings along the streets were dark. We passed a bar, and I heard dance music and noisy chatter. The farther we walked from the water, the more people we saw, until we reached a building that looked like an auditorium or maybe a movie theater. The sign over the door said, “Sad Sam’s Palace” in foot-tall letters. Under the sign was a marquee that said, “Big-Time Professional Wrestling.”
Dozens of clones in civilian clothing milled around the entrance. Some sat on benches, others lounged along the walls. Many of them had been on leave for a while and had bronzed tans. A few also had women tucked under their arms.
“Want to watch wrestling?” I asked Lee as I led him toward the door.
“Do we get to sit?” he asked.
“As long as you don’t puke,” I said.
Lee leaned on the pedestal of a bronze statue as I went to buy the tickets. When I returned, he said, “Sad Sam Itchy-nose,” and laughed.
“What?” I asked.
“This is Sad Sam Itchy-nose,” he said pointing to the sign.
I looked at the plaque. It said, “Sad Sam Ichinose, 1908–1993.” “He must have been a famous wrestler,” I said. “Are you okay now?” I asked. “Are you going to puke?”
Lee shook his head, but he looked awfully pale.
On closer inspection, Sad Sam’s Palace reminded me of an oversized bar. The building was old, with chipped walls and no windows. We entered the lobby and found ourselves in a crowd waiting for the doors to open.
“What’s wrong with him?” a clone in a bright shirt asked as we came through the door.
“He bought a fruit drink that didn’t agree with him,” I said.
“Hey, I did that my first night. They fill that specker with Sagittarian Crash. I’ll never do that again,” he said cheerfully.
“Is this wrestling good?” I asked.
“Best show in town,” the clone said. “Just don’t come on Friday night.”
“What happens on Friday?” I asked.
“That’s open challenge night,” he said. I had no idea what that meant; but the doors swung open as he spoke, and the crowd pushed inside.
“We should get a beer,” Lee said, as we passed the concession stand. He swayed where he stood. His jaw was slack, and slobber rolled over his bottom lip.
“You’ve had enough,” I said. I wondered if I should take him home.
Thick red carpeting covered every inch of Sad Sam’s Palace. Inside the second door, we entered a large, square theater with bleachers along its walls and a balcony. I estimated that a thousand spectators had come for the show— and the building was half-empty.
There was a small boxing ring surrounded by tables. The only lights in the room hung over the ring, but the glare made the room bright enough for everybody.
An usher asked for my ticket at the door. When I showed her, she smiled and led us to bleachers about a hundred feet from the ring.
“Think we could be any farther from the action?” Lee asked.
“Lee,” I hissed, “these are good seats.”
He squinted at me. “My head hurts,” he said.
A man in an old-fashioned black-and-white tuxedo entered the ring carrying a microphone. “Laaaaaadies and gentlemeeeeen, Sad Sam’s Palace is proud to present, Big-Time Wrestling.”
The crowd roared. Lee covered his ears and moaned.
“For our first match, weighing in at two hundred sixty-five pounds…Crusher Kohler.” A fat man with bleached blond hair, yellow tights, and no shirt strode to the ring, growling at people who booed his arrival.
“Weighing in at two hundred thirty-seven pounds, Tommy Tugboat.” In came a man with balding black hair, dark eyes, and black swim trunks. The crowd cheered for this one.
Crusher? Tugboat? God, what kinds of names are those? I asked myself. I might have asked Lee, but he sat slumped forward with his head hanging.