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in America. Objective correlative everywhere—

lonely Sierras, lonely turkey buzzards, lonely

railroad tracks, ghost towns, lone

pines. You can stay on Highway 50

all the way across the U.S.

of A., but they turn off in Reno.

Husband and wife walk its streets hand-in-

hand; they keep ahold of each other;

they could divorce in an instant. They arrive

in the middle of Mario Ah Sing the Real’s

Magic Show. (The father a mere monkey,

a trickster; the son a magician of the actual.)

There he is—our dear, only son.

Father and mother feel shock, thrill

at sight of him—grown, a man, a strange-

looking man. It’s the Hapa eyes;

he’s got the epicanthic fold and

the double lid. The better to see you with,

my dear. Mario spots his parents

heading in the dark for the last empty table.

And his patter changes. He is strange-

sounding too, his voice deep even as a

hairy baby. “… Raised in Hawai‘i, no

picnic. Too much da kine. Da

bad kine. You dink it’s all

aloha, you got another dink

coming, Haole. Take dees, Haole.

Take dat, Ho’ohaole.” He socks,

he punches, takes socks, takes punches that

clobber him against invisible walls. The audience

laughs “But. Yet. On the other hand—”

shaking out each sleeve of China Man gown.

Nada up his sleeves. “—the wahine are beautiful.

I love the wahine, and some of them have loved me.

They swam out to meet my ship.” He

chants spooky-voice mele, calls

upon his ‘aumākua—and a hula girl

appears out of nowhere / somewhere. She

hula hula up to him, her hands

making the “ ‘ama‘ama-come-swimming-to-me”

moves. Mario the Real snags a rope

of flowers in air, raises them above her head,

places them around her neck and shoulders. See?

No strings, no mirrors, no

hologram. Upon being circled, the Little

Brown Gal (in the little grass skirt)

says, “Aloha-a-a, Mario,” and on the long

out-breath becomes air. The flower

lei falls to the floor. The audience applauds.

“Aloha to you too,” says Mario. “A fine how

do you do. Hello goodbye.” He confides

to one and all, strangers and family alike:

“I’ve just been dumped. My wahine alohaed me.

Auwe! It hurts. Aiya!

My chi is broken. Aiya!” He lifts

his elbows; his arms dangle—broken wings.

The poor parents just about cry.

Oh, our son, our only child hurts

so bad, he presents his pain

for all to see. Oh, the guilt—to’ve raised

him among Hawai‘i’s violent people and heart-

breaking girls of every race. “Auwe-e-

e-e. Ai-ya-a-a.” And pidgin-speakers

teaching him to howl and yowl and keen. Our fault.

We should’ve stayed in California, mainland,

home after all. Having a kid

gets you running the hamster wheel.

But the audience is aiya-ing and auwe-ing.

He has an audience, and they’re with him, mourning along.

“My penultimate gal, Lori, girlfriend-

before-last, had the ring I gave her assayed.

Assayed?! I’d give her a fake?!

‘No, no,’ she said, ‘not fake.

It’s good—twenty-five hundred

dollars. Oh, Mālei. Oh,

Mai’a mālei, I love you.’

No, you don’t, Lori. You don’t

love me. You had me assayed.” The poor

parents should’ve broken him out of magic.

But he keeps truck with the Little People

(who live in the rocks at the edges of old gardens).

The sharma thrush was his ‘aumākua. The pair

that lived in the Surinam cherry hopped in the grass

behind his feet, sang on branches above

his head. All day they sang him night-

ingale songs. All year they flashed him

Hallowe’en colors. Now he plays

clubs and lounges—like night all the time.

Mario the Real uncoils a length of rope.

“This cowboy rope belonged to a paniolo

I rode with on the Big Island. Most likely

any old rope will do.

I throw it into the air like so—and something

or someone catches it. I can feel him or her

or it grab ahold. I better go

exploring, and see … ” He shinnies up the tense

rope, lifts one foot, sets it down,

then the other, sets it solidly down,

and pulls himself into the invisible.

Mario does not reappear for a curtain call.

The audience waits a stretch of dead time, then

disbands, wanders, examines the rope,