Getting Dirty in Hawaii - Part 2

This is the continuation of a story which can be found here: PART ONE!

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I went to the other side of the lookout, a little upset by what had happened.  I had just wanted to show that guy my neat experiments.  It wasn’t my intention to smack his wife in the face with a dirty weed.

I leaned over the balcony with my hands in my pockets, letting the wind blast me in the face for a bit.  For about 5 minutes I pouted, annoyed that guilt was keeping me from my playtime. 

Then I saw it.  The perfect weed.  All remorse from my previous transgression was wiped from my mind as the colossal stalk shimmered in the twilight.  It beckoned to me.  I quickly looked around but couldn’t find the couple I had florally assaulted earlier.  The coast was clear.

I yanked it out of the loamy soil.  A huge clod of dirt came up with the extensive root system.  This was my Mona Lisa, my Sistine Chapel, my masterpiece.

Wasting no time, I heaved the heavy weed over the edge of the balcony.  The wind was caught by surprise and buckled under this ambush of vegetation.  The weed dropped low down the cliff face.  Then the wind found its resolve and with a great rush pushed the several-pound weed high into the air.  I watched it as it soared like a bird of prey up onto the second tier balcony.

A female voice swore mightily.  I heard a man say “Did he hit you again?”  The woman from before leaned her head out over the balcony above me.  I ducked behind a plaque where I could see her but she couldn’t see me.

She scanned the lower tier like the Eye of Mordor atop her windy tower.  Her face was covered in a fresh layer of dirt and there were leaves in her hair.  “I’m gonna find you, you little shit!”  she spat. 

I stayed frozen behind the plaque until she retreated back over the edge of the balcony to pick the dirt out of her teeth.

I ducked low and scampered over to the path that would take me back to the car.  On the way, I found my parents and sister reading another one of the many plaques.

“Okay, time to go.  Let’s go.   Here we go.”  I said as I power-walked past them.

“You’re ready to go?”  My dad asked.

“Yup, yup, yup.  Let’s go to the car.  We should go.  I’m thirsty for some more papaya juice.  Let’s all get papaya juice!  To the car!”  I grabbed my mom’s hand and semi-dragged her down the path.

I led my family back to the rental, my head on a constant pivot, looking for any sign of the man or his agrophilic wife. 

When we arrived, I jerked on the handle of my door relentlessly.

“Open.  Open.  Open, open.  Openopenopenopenopenopenopenopenopenopen-“

Finally the door unlocked and I jumped inside.  I hastily buckled my seatbelt and slumped down as far as I could in my seat and still see through the window.

My family took their seats and my dad put his keys in the ignition.

Wrrrnrnnrnrnrnnrnrnr.  WrrnNNrrnrnrnrrrrr.  The car wouldn’t start.

Are you kidding me?  Of all the times to get car trouble it happens when I’m being pursued by a woman who I’ve inadvertently just committed a class 2 misdemeanor against with dirt and wind.

My dad was still fiddling with the car when I saw the woman and her husband coming up the path from the lookout.  She looked like she was playing to win in a Gollum lookalike contest.  Her hair was messy and matted to her head, there were still leaves on her clothes, and she was, for some reason, walking with an exaggerated hunch.  Her eyes darted back and forth as she seethed with anger.

I sunk even further into my seat.  I was sure to do this as slowly as possible because I’m pretty sure that, like large carnivorous dinosaurs, angry women’s vision is based on movement.

A moment later a knock came at the window.

“SHANANYONION!”*  I shrieked, rolling my body up into the fetal position.

I heard two male voices offer my father a jump for the car.  I peeked out from my womb-shaped defenses to see two Mormon-ly dressed young men.  I unfurled a bit further to look out of the window.  There was no sign of the couple anywhere.

The Mormons pulled their car over to ours and connected the jumper cables.  After a few minutes we were able to get the car started.

“Okay, so we can go now!  Let’s go.  We should go.  Remember the papaya juice you promised us?  Papaya!”  I rambled, my eyes never ceasing from their fervent scan of the parking lot.

“We’ve got to sit here and let the car run for a bit.  The battery needs to recharge.”

Mother of God, I’m going to die here. 

After 15 additional nerve shredding minutes my father finally decided that the car was safe to drive back to our hotel.  I spent the entire drive looking out of the back window trying to see if there were any vehicles following us.

The paranoia didn’t fully subside until the next morning when I finally got my glass of papaya juice.

The moral of the story?

Always carry papaya juice.  Seriously, it's delicious.

--Footnote-- 

(*this is a precise phonetic transcription of the sound that I made)