“Manapua Man” by Kenneth Quilantang, Jr.

Author Questions:

• Da conflict of da story obvious or what? Understand? Or no?
• If I did write dis piece in Pidgin, would make um more impactful?
• (English) Does the protagonist “earn” the right to throw the manapua off the side of the building and feel guilt? How could I portray his idea of regret to make it more impactful?
• (Pidgin again) I always tell my students dey gotta “punch me in da face” when dey write. Leave da reader wit one sense of how important da subject stay to da writer. I did dat or what?

His dead leg reminds me of a robot.

I poke at the leg, and watch the skin where I touch turn the color of vanilla ice cream. I look up at him and he’s scanning the room.

“You seen my boots,” he asks. “What are you doing?”

“You feel dat?”

“What you think,” he says. I’m not sure whether or not to feel bad. I look under the bed and see the frayed ends of a bootlace.

“I get um,” I say. I slide under the bed and come up with it. It’s all covered in dust bunnies.

“Good, we gotta go, and put it on,” Dad says. I tug at the end of the boot to shimmy it onto the metal brace that covers his foot. Pull the toe. Now the heel. Toe. Heel. Shake the foot to see if the boot’s loose. Sometimes it takes me five minutes to do this. “Make sure it’s on right.”

I whack the sole of the boot and it leaves tire tread-like marks on my palm. On his side of the bed, under the lamp that turns off when you touch the base, is a thick book. “What book is dat,” I ask.

“What is what,” he looks around. “Oh that? It’s the Koran. Help me up.” He grunts when he shifts his weight around on the edge of the bed.

“Ko-Korean,” I ask. Dad hasn’t been in the Army since before I was born but he still wears camouflage pants. I pull a mottled green pant leg over the boot. The area I poked earlier is still the color of vanilla ice cream.

“No.”

“What is Ko-ran,” I say.

“I’ll tell you later,” dad says. “Go grab the fishing stuff. Mom’s already getting ready.”

I rush out of the room grab the fishing poles.

*

At the beach the manapua man parks his dirty white van under the kiawe tree. Kids have to wear slippers when they go buy stuff because the thorns can poke through even the thickest kamaboko kind.

Junior Boy is always in the manapua man line. “Eh Kennet,” he says. His money always looks wrinkled because he doesn’t have a wallet. “What you going get?”

“I dunno, I like big blow or now an laters, maybe rice cake,” I answer. Mom looks back at Junior Boy and smiles. “Why, what you going get Junior Boy,” I ask.

“Pork hash and fried noodles,” he says.

When the manapua man moves about in his van, it shakes and creaks. Potato chips hanging on the back peg board sway from their hooks. This guy and Dad are good friends. I remember hearing them once talking weird, and I thought it was Chinese or something but I’m not too sure. Junior Boy’s dad said he was Viet-Names or something like that. Dad is part robot anyway, and he probably has a computer brain so it’s not hard for him to learn, all he has to do is plug in the cassette and he can speak. I tell myself I have to try to find the eject button in the curls of his hair someday.

Junior Boy waits for me by the girl’s bathroom. He always hangs out here and I don’t know why. “Eh Kennet,” he says. “Getting rice cake again?”

“Shaddap,” I answer. I hear girls screaming in the showers.

Junior Boy perks up his ears and stuffs a forkful of noodles into his mouth. “Ho, you heard dat,” he says. I watch the slices of red tinged meat slide off the fork and spill back on the plate. “Haccome you no eat fried noodles, or manapua, or pork hash,” he says. He peeks at the entrance of the showers then goes back to the plate.

Another forkful.

“I dunno why,” I answer. I have rice cake in my hands. I dig little bugs out from it and chomp the corner. I like the brown kind too; it’s in layers and takes me a lot longer to eat because I eat it that way. “My faddah get mad if I ask for dat kine. Taste good or what,” I ask.

“Mhmm,” he answers. “Why, you like try? I not going squeal.”

“Shoots,” I say. Junior Boy hands the plate over. Look around for Dad. Make sure nobody’s looking. I pierce a slice of the red tinged meat and pop it into my mouth. It tastes just like meat.

“Good eh,” Junior Boy says. He cranes his neck to look into the showers. “I dunno why you no can eat dat. I neva die yet.”

“Yeah notting special,” I say. My lips feel greasy. That summer, we share fried noodles and pork hash. Sometimes we split a manapua.

*

Twenty years later. I’m in charge of a hotel’s security. I do payroll, I approve vacations. I recommend salary changes. In the office, I’m the man and I’m watching aircraft vanish into the sides of a building at 7:30 a.m. with my jaw half open.

One of my guys brings in a pink box with Chinese characters printed on top for breakfast. White mounds emit steam when it’s opened.

A little later, I’m at the top of the hotel, on the roof scanning the skyline for planes aimed at Waikiki when my cell rings.

Dad.

“Hey,” Dad says. “You doin’ okay?”

“Mhmm, all quiet today,” I say. I sound so goddamn military I try not to laugh. “All fuck up yeah? You okay or what?”

“Yeah,” he says. “You ready?”

“For what,” I ask. I kick a few pebbles off the side and watch them hit the street. My radio buzzes and squeals. “No need worry.”

“Shit’s gonna hit the fan real soon,” I hear him say. “Watch.”

“You too para’s, Dad,” I say. I peel the paper away from the bottom of my bun. Pink meat peeks out from a hole made by my peeling. “Relax.” I wad the square into a tight ball.

“Why they did it before,” he says. I hear him breathing into the phone hard. “World War Two. To Japanese people.”

“Yeah I know, but different now,” I say. I throw the paper over the side and watch it bounce off the building. “Hopefully we learn, right?”

Smith, the bell captain, slips his head out from the emergency stairway.

“Eh, Dad, I gotta go. Call you later.”

Smith leans over the concrete wall. “Fuckin’ ragheads.”

“What?”

“CNN. Dey said was Islamic guys,” he says. “Hijacking lidat. Nuke all da goddamn Muslims.” His green bell uniform has fraying sleeves. Strings blow.

I toss the bun over the side, watching the pink meat burst out when it hits the street. A man gets out of a taxi and looks up.

Smith laughs.

Manapua doesn’t taste the same anymore.

© 2011 by Kenneth Quilantang, Jr.