Before leaving for Hawaii, I read in the news that Maui is on fire. The wedding I’m attending there is still on—after all, Big Island is not affected as much. Half of me, that one which couldn’t be bothered to travel, sighs in disappointment. Is this really a good time to celebrate anything? The other half isn’t eager either. I know I will have to travel, and it’s been a long time since I’ve left Princeton for leisure for more than 3 days. Do I even remember what the airport looks like nowadays? What if something toward happens on the trip? Or worse, what if nothing happens?
Filled with dread, I drag my suitcase out of the basement of my apartment for a long-winded journey: five hours to LAX, five hours of layover, and another five hours to Kona. My day is cut piecemeal, I’ll have no time for real sleep, and all my meals will get messed up—I might snap at any moment today. Luckily, there’s only five hours until midnight (locally, at least), so maybe I can save my temper for tomorrow.
White dress, candlelight, tropical cocktails, and a roasted piglet. The wedding waltzes in and out of my day. I stay on Big Island with some friends for two more days to do what tourists do: watch a soul-destructing, watered-down luau performance, stroll at the bottom of a volcanic crater, and source some coffee beans native to Kona. The next minute, we’re in Honolulu, Oahu Island. The urban heat and maritime humidity strike me as home instantly, so I expect nothing more than a safe adventure before I head back to “nothing ever happens”-ton.
My fellow travelers and I visit a beach, and then we go to one of the colossal shopping malls downtown for a quick bite. There, a friend’s drawstring bag goes missing in the food court. Two people of the group return to search on the beach, but I’m sure it got lost here. I saw it hanging on the back of his seat when I joined them late. So the victim (let’s call him M) and I stay behind and inform the security.
I already had a suspect in mind: a seemingly homeless guy whom I noticed earlier was foraging from table to table for leftovers. At some point he stopped by the table behind M and held up his right arm to drink from a container. His forearm, uncovered, was full of disease-inflicted wounds and scars. Feeling a mixture of sympathy and repulsion, I was prepared only to react in case he spilled anything on M. He didn’t, and after he finished drinking, he swept whatever remaining food on the table into a huge Walmart shopping bag. My attention turned away, but, now to think of it, he also snatched M’s drawstring bag in those few seconds.
Our suspect has a pudgy build and wears a black t-shirt. Messy all over, curly hair, and “no, officer, I can’t tell what ethnicity he is!”–I would soon find myself muttering this to an inquiring security guard, our first point of contact with the local authorities. While waiting for the police, we chat with the guard, who’s from another lesser known island of Hawaii. He looks serious (given the circumstances) but friendly, reminding M to cancel all cards immediately. He educates us on what happens next per procedure and says he will try his best. I shrug in suspicion–out of a general skepticism of any authority– and keep scanning the food court.
“There! That’s him!” Suddenly I spot the homeless guy and shout quietly to our guard. The audacity to show up again so soon, with the same clothing and that Walmart bag! The security guard asks me if I’m sure and then tells us to stay put. So M and I wait, along with the two fellow travelers who are just now returning from their beach search. We all think it ironic that it was I, the only one not studying visual arts, who should notice and remember what the suspect looked like. Granted, it might also be that I was the only one not feasting on Raising Cane’s during the crime.
We see a cheerful police officer striding towards us to interrogate M and me. She throws a few follow-up questions at M–and him only, to my slight disappointment, for I’m thrilled to be a witness after many uneventful years in suburbia. She writes up a report. Then the security guard comes back to join us. “We lost him. I searched his bag and asked him about a blue beach towel. He started running away…” That towel is from our Airbnb. So it WAS him.
Up until this point, I’ve actually avoided saying that I witnessed his picking up that drawstring bag. All I’ve told the police, albeit repeatedly, is that I only saw him standing behind M and the next thing we knew, M’s belongings were gone. I’m not a stickler for logical rigor outside P-ton (I think or at least hope), but I will confess now I’ve probably watched way too many detective series.
The security guard shows me a photo from his phone, and the person in it resembles our suspect but wears a different shirt. “Is this him?”, the guard asks. I probably look confused, for he then swipes to another picture. “What about this? This is from today. That one’s from another time.” And there he is, exactly as I saw him earlier. He’s probably a regular to the food court, as I’ve guessed, and he doesn’t seem a specialist in pickpocketing. That drawstring bag was just too convenient a catch.
M decides to pursue the case and lists me as an eyewitness. Then everyone leaves for the rest of their day. One of our group jokes that if I get called to testify in the future, M should pay for my flight tickets. The prospect of returning to suburbia, my long-time comfort zone, grips me with a dull pain. I’m hungry again but can’t bring myself to care for anything from the food court. As we head towards the exit, we find our security guy standing there. With our remaining strength and enthusiasm we greet and thank him, feebly and lacking unison: “Tha-thank you…”
“Welcome,” he gives M and me each a fist bump, “enjoy Hawaii.”
