HONOLULU STORIES

The Worst Tap Dancer in Honolulu by Timothy Dyke   |   The Joy of Aging by Stephanie Han
Belonging by Deborah Harada    |   Live a Little by Thomas Ianucci   |   Pet Mama by Sujatha Raman

It’s 2 a.m. on a humid night in Honolulu, and I’m in a dive bar deep in the heart of Waikīkī. Music plays loudly through tiny speakers, and pleasantly drunken patrons chat amicably upstairs. Down below, the usual dart players have ceased their games, and a circle is forming around the table where I sit, locked in an arm wrestling match with a large, muscular man that I’ve only just met​​; among the spectators is one of Hawai‘i’s brightest young stars (hint: sounds like Stilo and Litch). They cheer us on as we do battle, neither of us willing to lose. Am I truly a man, my opponent asks me. When it comes down to it, when the cards are on the table and the moment of truth has arrived, do I have what it takes to dig deep and win it all?

​​​I ​ask​ myself that and several other questions as, jaw clenched and brow creased, my elbow sticking to the old wooden table, I grapple with my beefy foe. Those other questions include, but are not limited to: What the hell am I, a 30-something Kaua‘i boy who routinely goes to bed at 9 p.m., doing here? I can’t remember the last time I was out after midnight. How did I get myself into this high-stakes battle of brawn in the first place? And how do I emerge victorious, my honor intact? Also, most importantly, will the Jets ever make the playoffs?¹

To answer these questions, we’ll have to go back in time a bit. Five hours back, to be exact, when I’m standing, as I often am, at the buffet line of one of Honolulu’s most exclusive parties,² trying to gnaw my way through a piece of fried fish. Believe it or not, I’ve actually been invited to attend this event as a Special Guest™, a perk of being fairly successful in a fairly small niche. (If you need a Hawai‘i rapper for a thing, I’m probably your guy.) But, having done my set, I have now set upon my true life’s calling of stuffing my face with delicious free food. It is then that my patron for the evening, a dear friend who has recently become capital F Famous, approaches me. She is accompanied by her boyfriend and another man, both of whom will, by the end of the night, become two of my favorite people.

“Hey, so things are wrapping up here, but what are you doing after this?” she asks. “We were thinking about going out. Wanna come with?”

And yet, somehow, he’s convinced me to arm wrestle him, this veritable Apollo …

“Mffphf,” I reply. Then, swallowing the fried fish meat (and some bones, too), I add a few hacking coughs for good measure. The gaggle of famous influencers who are also attending the party give us a wide berth, presumably intimidated by my raw sex appeal. When I catch my breath, I manage to croak out, “But it’s already so late.” They do not seem moved by my shock. Clearly, she has forgotten her Kauaian roots, where a night on the town involves drinking Heinekens in the McDonald’s parking lot at 10 p.m. “I turn into a pumpkin after midnight,” I protest.

“Come on, dude,” she replies. “You’re only here for one night. Live a little!”

Live a little. I’ve gotten myself into all manner of trouble with that line of reasoning, so I tread said line with care. On the other hand, I concede, she does have a point—I am only here for one night …

What follows next is a blur of things that could never happen on Kaua‘i: karaoke in the hotel lobby with a bunch of TikTokers belting their hearts out until the accumulated avalanche of guest complaints forces security to shut us down; the best grilled cheese sandwich I’ve ever had in my life at a hole in the wall in Waikīkī proper at 1 a.m.; walking the (relatively) empty streets of Honolulu long after midnight with this crew of people I adore.

And then the bar. Getting approached by my now-opponent, who says, without preamble:

“You look like you got some heft to you.”

“Thank you?” I reply.

“You a gambling man?” he asks.

“Absolutely not,” I tell him.

And yet, somehow, he’s convinced me to arm wrestle him, this veritable Apollo, ​​in front of my friend, her equally buff boyfriend, and a growing number of onlookers. And so we grit our teeth, asking each other what we are truly made of, who really wants it more? I dig deep within my soul and find the answer: I want it more. And with a heroic roar, I slam his hand down onto the table and leap up, arms raised in triumph, as the bar erupts into cheers and my friends swarm and embrace me. ​​Obama is there. He gives me the key to the city. My ex calls. She wants me back.

OK, well, no. What happens next (​​my friend’s boyfriend challenges me and crushes me in five seconds flat) doesn’t matter, ​​just like it doesn’t matter that the first guy definitely let me win, probably because he saw the tears in my eyes. All that matters is that, for one night at least, the Kaua‘i boy lived a little—lived it up, even!—in Honolulu.

I plan to return the favor on Kaua‘i someday soon. I just hope McDonald’s parking lot will still be open after 10.

¹ No.

² I’m often found at the buffet line, not at Honolulu’s most exclusive parties.

Thomas Iannucci is a writer, poet and three-time Nā Hōkū Hanohano-award winning rapper from Kaua‘i. He is signed to Fischer-Harbage literary agency.