POINCIANA
It was half-packed at The Gutters bowling alley, Kino's favorite place to hang out after work. For most nights, he was alone at the bowling alley. Except for last Friday, he bowled with Malik, his shop manager. Malik had to buy last-minute groceries for his mother-in-law, so he tapped out.
It was indeed busier than usual here tonight. Kino asked for the left corner lane, number ten, where he'd be furthest from the arcade, especially any other bowling groups.
Unfortunately, the cashier said that one was taken, as she pointed at the occupied lit-up lane. Kino turned to gaze politely and agreed to take the one next to it.
“Are you sure you'd like lane nine but not eight? I know you tend to like being separate from people” - She was aware of his usual private manner, at least whenever she could accommodate. “You know I couldn't sort these things out for you if it were the weekends, right?”
“Oh, I know. Thank you so much, as always.”
Kino picked up his shoes in size eleven and headed to his spot. He got a tall beer and some tater tots, as usual. He made a double strike and scored lower in the later frames. Kino got through about four frames before the food order arrived. Then, he sat down to eat and looked over at his neighbors.
Two people were over at lane ten. Kino thought they might have been an older father and his early teenage daughter. It seemed they were just them and weren't waiting for anyone else to join. But based on how little they conversed, Kino wasn't sure they were closely related. They could have been an uncle babysitting his niece while her parents were out of town. It could have been that he and his wife divorced, and this was his time slot for visiting his otherwise estranged daughter, who was in his divorced wife's custody. Any of these scenarios could be true, Kino thought. He drew all kinds of possibilities as he munched his unhealthy dinner away.
The duo took turns in silence to come up and bowl, round after round. Kino heard them talk in complete sentences only once, and it was to order a large fries, two cheeseburgers, and a small Sprite from the same waiter that took Kino’s order. Occasionally, the girl would cheer “Yes!” sincerely when she or the older man scored well. They'd high-five each other, but it wasn't much conversation or small talk.
Usually, Kino differed from the type to know who or how many people played at the lane closest to him. He would be kindly lost in his world, and his intention was not to bother anyone. But this time, he put so much effort into noticing what happened around him. He even saw the faces of the next lane's neighbors. It was also the first time Kino paid attention to the various chimes and cheap sound effects from the arcade machines from the furthest opposite side of the venue. He even heard the crappy bell ringing when someone (who didn't have a clear look in his memory) smacked the highest score at the King of Hammer game over there.
The distant bell sound effect brought him right to the middle school bell back in the day when he was still with his wife, Hoa. They taught at the same middle school for roughly fourteen years, where they fell in love and got married in the earlier days. Kino and Hoa were both Vietnamese Americans and first-generation immigrants. They bonded over having the same roots and growing up eating the same cuisines. Among the natural flows of talking in both languages, which helped them get along well with their in-laws, Kino and Hoa enjoyed finding a soulmate who understood the feeling of being in-between cultures without truly belonging to any.
His real name was Kien, but Hoa had called her husband Kino, short for Kieno, for the longest time. It became the only name people called him. The pair were good teachers - dedicated and genuine to the kids' well-being at school. Their lives were surrounded by families, classes, field trips, various school events, and open houses.
They both used to call the school kids their children because they didn’t have any of their own. Kino wanted two kids. Hoa also wanted two kids, although she could never bring herself to be ready for children, yet. She was careful about that, and it was always the wrong time. She just needed more time. Other than that, it was a stormless marriage. Hoa often talked about taking a break from their town, the school, and the kids.
“Kino ơi, I just want to fly away from this cage. We can just give up a semester! Or a whole school year to just… go! I want to be somewhere where no one knows who we are and what we do. I’d tell people that we just fell in love and weren’t even thinking about marriage yet. It’d be exciting, wouldn't it?”
“Where would you want to go, honestly? Also, can we just tell people we're on our honeymoon instead?” - he used to chuckle at how passionate she looked, imagining the possibilities. He'd stared at her bright eyes behind the glasses.
He remembered on so many spring field trips with the school, Hoa mentioned a specific location she wanted to explore. She was adamant about making it happen, at least on the long bus routes home when the kids finally fell asleep, and they had a moment to talk about their possible field trips.
Much to Kino's surprise now that the more he thought of it, the more he couldn't remember the name of his wife's old dreamland. Many conversations they had outside of schoolwork were about traveling. Whenever they'd talk about flying to an exotic place long enough, Kino would accommodate Hoa with short day trips within their regions. It wasn't anything near traveling overseas, but they usually managed to have a good time on the roads.
Recently, Kino somehow couldn’t picture any of his wife’s dreams that she shared with him. It seemed like a lifetime ago. He thought he needed to jot things down to help with memories, but he never did. Perhaps he forgot about that thought too.
After six slow bowling rounds alone, Kino ended the night fairly early. He stood up and nodded goodbye to the two people nearby. Much to his surprise, they nodded back, and the older man said, “Goodbye!” to Kino as he walked up the aisle to return the bowling shoes.
—
After the sudden split from his wife, Kino moved to this town. Since his arrival, he had always known that this was a temporary place. It was his resting period before making the next permanent move. It felt like Kino was using this place as an intermission, a long pitstop for the tired. He was drained being on the road alone for so long, Kino decided to take that exit on the road like a school play’s script written for him to do precisely so.
He rang the desk bell of the small motel at 8:23 pm, according to the single large clock on the check-in counter wall. A thump from the back office. A chair creaked. Then a sleepy front desk man opened the wooden door and said hello. He was a heavy man with exceptionally oily hair. It must have been half a cheap fragrant hair gel bottle on that shiny combed head. Kino could smell that hair gel from over the counter.
“Hi, how can I help you?”
“Hello, Ethan!” It was Kino’s effort to read the name tag, “May I get a single bedroom for the month? Non-smoking would be ideal, please.”
“For a month, you said?”
“Yes, for a month and some odd days. I’m not sure yet, but I’ll go ahead and book a full month for now.”
“Sure, I’ll give you the room closest to the ice machine. I’m the manager here, so you’ll see me more often than others. We’ll make your bed three times a week for longer stays here at the Last Inn unless you request extra. Wifi and continental breakfast are included, and here’s the menu of the nearby diner. They can deliver to your room.”
Kino handed the deposited cash and his ID, which showed a different full name. “But please call me Kino. I’ll be dropping off a letter or two soon at the front desk if it’s possible for you to pass them to the mailman when he comes along.”
“Of course, happy to do that for you. The mailman comes here every day except the weekend anyway. Nice to meet you, Mr. Kino, and have a good night!”
Kino’s room wasn't what many people would consider lovely, but it was decent enough for his month-or-so stay. The walls were covered by faux wood paneling. There was a big window with black-out green floral curtains, a flat-screen TV, and a mini-fridge opposite his queen-sized bed. Nothing stood out except the outdated bathroom. While it looked like the bedroom was renovated within the decade, the bathroom was way behind its time. A jade-green bathtub and sink seemed like a time capsule. The old tiles used to be in a much deeper and more vibrant green many years ago. But by then, a lot of them had become discolored or faded. The exposed lone light fixture stuck out of the wall and fit one glaring bulb. The socket had a black burn mark, so Kino knew better than to touch any of it.
The tired soul plunged himself onto his hard bed. As he stretched and yawned, Kino wanted to let go of every one of his muscles so badly that it gave him a vivid deja vu. The occasional headlights from the parking lot that cast on his blinds got more sparse as it got closer to 11 pm. Kino was half asleep when his phone chimed once, loudly. He ignored it.
The phone chimed again, and Kino wondered who would text him at this hour. No notifications on the lock screen. He unlocked his phone to look again. But, again, there was no text message or call.
Odd. But Kino was far more sleepy than curious. He dropped the phone and snored almost right away.
—
Kino spent the entire morning at that nearby diner for the first few days in town instead of joining the continental breakfast at the motel – He saw that it was a pretty sad continental breakfast. Something about the family-run diner’s coziness calmed his nerves after what happened. Kino would grab a butter croissant, two pieces of French toast, and coffee every time. He looked through the paper and spent his quiet time doing crosswords. Exiting the diner on the fourth morning, he glanced at one of the job listings on the poster boards next to the diner’s double door and paused to read. The job needed a temporary replacement for this month. It mentioned full-time help to do administrative tasks and “anything to run a small copy & mailing store.” The timing seemed too perfect to be true. That was why Kino called immediately.
It was Malik on the other end of the phone. “Sure, come in and talk to me. A guy quit on me two weeks ago because his time in the town was up, and he had to move on. My nephew usually works here too, but he wanted to visit Florida for some time and see his sister there. I couldn't say no, and now I'm drowning here working the load of three people. All the other kids I know have got jobs elsewhere since the beginning of the summer or outta town. Come in. Are you available first thing after lunch?”
“I'm available now!” - Kino was ready.
Malik was non-stop, but he was right. The place looked like it was about to go to war. Packages were piling high in the storage room. With a chronic bad back, although he was just approaching forty-two, Malik didn't even try lifting and sorting half of them. Instead, he took Kino in almost immediately to lift things for him. He just needed an extra hand badly, and Kino needed some money for the inn and his future settlement. His saving, after all, was alright but not too handsome.
“So, where are you from? Kino, right? I don't seem to know you from this town, and it's a tiny place. We all know each other.”
“I'm a traveler. I was driving and got so delirious. I stopped by this exit and decided to stay in town for a while to figure out my next step.”
“Driving, from where?”
Kino didn't answer.
“Well, you don't have to if you don't want to, man. I'm just glad you showed up. I'm swarmed.”
“Are you usually this busy, or is this the season everyone wants to send letters and packages?”- Kino wondered.
“You should have seen holiday seasons. This is not normal. It's summer. The majority of them are going to some island. But it's not our job to sort them out per destination, thankfully.”
“Just by pick-up times and space organization, right?”
“My man!”
“I learn quick.”
“And I teach!” - Malik's voiced cracked, maybe because he was out of breath mid-sentence.
—
Precisely three weeks had passed since Kino started at the Leap Street Copy and Mailing Center, an authorized DHL store with a photocopy service. It was a busy day at work. Kino used all his organizing skills from being a teacher before for this job, and he still struggled to deal with the volume of work this week. Since tomorrow would be the weekend, he decided tonight he’d drive to the next town for a nice bar he heard about. That was the most exciting plan ever since he got the job.
He heard from the radio last week that The Midnight Dust, a local bar two towns over, was celebrating its fifty years in business. Ethan, the motel clerk, mentioned it too.
“My friend was the original owner of The Midnight Dust. I love that place, even when the friend moved onto the auto shop business after. We still hang out there often, $5 Pabst Blue Ribbon and a house shot for happy hour. Now, friend, nothing can't beat that.”
“They should pay you for how well you advertise!”
“Hah. Tell them Ethan sent you.”
“Oh, you betcha."
—
Turned out Kino didn’t mind the two-hour drive one bit. It was hot in June, and he had his window down most of the way. The heat woke Kino up, and he didn’t feel as tired as usual. He felt energized as if it was the second morning of his holiday, not a Friday after work. The hot wind, a radio on medium, and the golden sun became his catalyst for getting out of town. He wished the bar were even further, so the car ride could last a bit longer.
Kino got to the Midnight Dust and still had some time left for the widely advertised happy hour. And by widely, it was the radio and Ethan. Three people were at a booth when he stepped in while the bartender polished the glasses with his eyes glued to the small mute TV screen.
Kino realized he was early, and the bar was just slowly getting ready for the night. A sad palm tree with a dead brown leaf dangling on the side of its pot sat in the corner of the bar under the yellow overhead spotlight. It got so dry it was skeletal. A small empty stage was on one side of the bar, and a small dimmed spotlight shone on an empty chair in the middle of the stage.
After reconsideration, Kino ended up with an Old Fashioned and not the happy hour good stuff. He also got a small bottle of San Pellegrino after recalling that his wife used not to like drinking. Instead, Hoa would get a glass of sparkling water- her version of a standard “prosecco” at any gathering or event. Kino wasn’t sure why, but tonight he knew he needed to order that, just to feel closer to her, because he feared the worst.
—
Since he arrived in the new town, Kino had lost a lot of memories about what had happened. He felt out of breath between hanging onto the old recollection of his old life and adapting to the new lonely days. He used to handle a lot of work at the school, extra-curriculum, and family errands. He made Hoa happy, at least to the best of his ability. Never once did Kino feel out of speed. He was an active teacher and rarely had downtime, even for himself.
But this was different. The town must have cast a slow spell on Kino so much that a few tasks overwhelmed him incredibly. He spent his days simply working at the copy center, bowling on some nights, and gathering up the courage to write his ex-wife a letter at night. Kino wondered if he had gotten older or if his diet had just worsened. It was partially true. He used to eat better, and Hoa was a decent cook. She’d cook all kinds of simple Vietnamese dinners and make extra for them to bring to lunch the next day. They’d go to a restaurant once every two or three weeks and occasionally went to the cinema.
Kino felt content with the food overall. He bought a portable gas stove and pan to cook right outside his motel room during his short time there. But most nights, Kino’d just boil some water and make a quick bowl of instant noodles. He’d crack an egg in if he felt fancy. It was not like the comfort food Hoa used to make for him, like a Japanese fried rice dish coated with a soft omelet called omurice. There was a time back then when Hoa watched many videos online around the year when she wanted to go to Japan. So she learned to cook this dish to match her spirit. It remained an exciting dish in Kino’s memory.
But even when he made instant noodles, cooking seemed like a drag. His body was sore after work, bowling, and making food for himself. He sensed a heavy rock in his heart for forgetting little things about Hoa daily. A rock that grew into a menacing rope tied around his intestines like an anaconda hungry for prey. The rope around his chest so daunting and alive, it stabbed through his flesh just to slide around his body, glided on his skin, ready for a fatal knot.
Things that could have taken thousands of years for him to forget (at least to his old romantic past it was), he tended to draw a blank already. At first, it started with a black hole in the reel of conversations he remembered having with his wife. He forgot about her favorite dream places to visit or her project for the school’s library. Then it was her birthday, her favorite food and movie that went blank in his mind. Yesterday was the worst when reminiscing her face even took him a good minute. He could not even recall what happened on the fateful day they split. Were we fighting at home or school? Did one of us discover a nasty affair? Or was it just a simple letter left on the dining table, and I went on my way? What was the end of us?
“What happens after time has run out? After we expire?”
Kino intended to write a long letter to his wife, hoping for closure, but he had done everything to delay that. The fact that he was devastated about his memory loss didn’t help. Every time Kino sat down at the small table in his room, he was taken over by the shame of leaving her, for whatever reason it might have been. Soon, he forgot just enough things from his old life that he couldn’t write anymore, even if he tried to. There was nothing to write about. Somehow the town got him. He was overpowered by the thoughts that he belonged in the past, a definition of time that could never catch up to the present by default. Even this tiny town somehow succeeded in moving faster than him. He’d be, at best, the Turtle running till exhaustion, trying to beat a fully awake and pumped-up Hare in the race that he'd definitely lose if there were such a race like that.
A song on the Midnight Dust’s bar speakers brought him back from his thoughts. It was “Poinciana,” a beautiful rendition by Ahmad Jamal. At the slow start of this song, Kino was already hooked. Ahmad Jamal was cruising in this jazz version. It brought such a different thrill from when Frank Sinatra sang this song. By the first verse, it finally sank in with Kino. It was the royal poinciana all this time. Hoa always wanted to go somewhere to see the vibrant fire-red flowers bloom on the tall, shady branches of a majestic poinciana tree. The tree would delicately bring you to an endless summer on the hill, asking yourself what your dream was and where you'd like to go.
Kino sipped his Old Fashioned, relieved to remember something he had tried so hard to do for the past couple of weeks. On the quiet ride home that night, the open windows' calm winds messed with his hair and cooled his lips. There was a phone call from an unknown caller. But by the time Kino wanted to pick it up, it was already missed. He soon got lost again in the tunes of “Poinciana” playing in his head like radio. Sometimes he could feel as if Hoa still sat on the seat right next to him like it used to be on the bus, talking about how bright the poinciana flowers were, whispering her hope to find a fateful summer that would be redolent of the sun, with winds so kind they could easily fly. A summer of jazz and breezy camomile scent, they could feel at ease with freedom.
—
Kino woke up to the hottest day of the year. Malik's nephew returned to work yesterday, so this was the first morning Kino was officially jobless. But he was glad it was over. The lone man brushed his teeth, wore a white souvenir T-shirt and brown khaki pants, drove to the diner, sipped his coffee, and did the crosswords. He ordered French toast and two strips of bacon extra. By ten AM, he drove back to his motel room, wondering what to do in the afternoon. He approached his room next to the ice machine with a newspaper tucked in his arm.
Kino saw a small paper bag and two long white envelopes neatly put in front of his motel room doors. Some simple clothes were in the bag, a pair of black sneakers and a cap. Kino was confused. Ethan would never put the guests' packages and mail in front of the rooms. They'd always be handed in person. These envelopes were addressed to Kino's name, but there was no address. Were they hand-delivered here? Were they from another person who stayed at the same hotel? He opened one of them.
Inside was a thick pile of cash. Kino was startled, so he opened his motel room door and slammed it shut. He threw the car and room keys onto the bed and ripped open the envelope. The cash was thick, and he started counting. It was pretty handsome. So handsome, in fact, that he can live comfortably for another year without working. He looked for other notes or writing in the same envelope, which only contained cash. What else is in here?
It was a neat letter folded in three. Recognizing the only handwriting Kino came to love so dear to home, he started tearing.
Kino folded the letter. Everything was deafening. He closed his eyes for so long that it felt like days could have passed before he could open them again. It was not just a realization but a death of an existence. “Poinciana” started playing in his head like a distant dream. Kino could hear it so well, the drumming hypnotic and the wind amiable. But his eyes maintained shut while the song got louder by the second until it was only the jazz piano left in his head, repeatedly, easily, for half an eternity.
The day got silent. Nobody knew how long it had been. Kino was finally back in his motel room, sitting in the same pose. He stood up fast with his head spinning and put his humble belongings into a bag, including the new clothes and the white envelopes. He closed his motel room door, dropped the room key in the mailbox, and drove away. He knew where he had to go, finally.
It was indeed busier than usual here tonight. Kino asked for the left corner lane, number ten, where he'd be furthest from the arcade, especially any other bowling groups.
Unfortunately, the cashier said that one was taken, as she pointed at the occupied lit-up lane. Kino turned to gaze politely and agreed to take the one next to it.
“Are you sure you'd like lane nine but not eight? I know you tend to like being separate from people” - She was aware of his usual private manner, at least whenever she could accommodate. “You know I couldn't sort these things out for you if it were the weekends, right?”
“Oh, I know. Thank you so much, as always.”
Kino picked up his shoes in size eleven and headed to his spot. He got a tall beer and some tater tots, as usual. He made a double strike and scored lower in the later frames. Kino got through about four frames before the food order arrived. Then, he sat down to eat and looked over at his neighbors.
Two people were over at lane ten. Kino thought they might have been an older father and his early teenage daughter. It seemed they were just them and weren't waiting for anyone else to join. But based on how little they conversed, Kino wasn't sure they were closely related. They could have been an uncle babysitting his niece while her parents were out of town. It could have been that he and his wife divorced, and this was his time slot for visiting his otherwise estranged daughter, who was in his divorced wife's custody. Any of these scenarios could be true, Kino thought. He drew all kinds of possibilities as he munched his unhealthy dinner away.
The duo took turns in silence to come up and bowl, round after round. Kino heard them talk in complete sentences only once, and it was to order a large fries, two cheeseburgers, and a small Sprite from the same waiter that took Kino’s order. Occasionally, the girl would cheer “Yes!” sincerely when she or the older man scored well. They'd high-five each other, but it wasn't much conversation or small talk.
Usually, Kino differed from the type to know who or how many people played at the lane closest to him. He would be kindly lost in his world, and his intention was not to bother anyone. But this time, he put so much effort into noticing what happened around him. He even saw the faces of the next lane's neighbors. It was also the first time Kino paid attention to the various chimes and cheap sound effects from the arcade machines from the furthest opposite side of the venue. He even heard the crappy bell ringing when someone (who didn't have a clear look in his memory) smacked the highest score at the King of Hammer game over there.
The distant bell sound effect brought him right to the middle school bell back in the day when he was still with his wife, Hoa. They taught at the same middle school for roughly fourteen years, where they fell in love and got married in the earlier days. Kino and Hoa were both Vietnamese Americans and first-generation immigrants. They bonded over having the same roots and growing up eating the same cuisines. Among the natural flows of talking in both languages, which helped them get along well with their in-laws, Kino and Hoa enjoyed finding a soulmate who understood the feeling of being in-between cultures without truly belonging to any.
His real name was Kien, but Hoa had called her husband Kino, short for Kieno, for the longest time. It became the only name people called him. The pair were good teachers - dedicated and genuine to the kids' well-being at school. Their lives were surrounded by families, classes, field trips, various school events, and open houses.
They both used to call the school kids their children because they didn’t have any of their own. Kino wanted two kids. Hoa also wanted two kids, although she could never bring herself to be ready for children, yet. She was careful about that, and it was always the wrong time. She just needed more time. Other than that, it was a stormless marriage. Hoa often talked about taking a break from their town, the school, and the kids.
“Kino ơi, I just want to fly away from this cage. We can just give up a semester! Or a whole school year to just… go! I want to be somewhere where no one knows who we are and what we do. I’d tell people that we just fell in love and weren’t even thinking about marriage yet. It’d be exciting, wouldn't it?”
“Where would you want to go, honestly? Also, can we just tell people we're on our honeymoon instead?” - he used to chuckle at how passionate she looked, imagining the possibilities. He'd stared at her bright eyes behind the glasses.
He remembered on so many spring field trips with the school, Hoa mentioned a specific location she wanted to explore. She was adamant about making it happen, at least on the long bus routes home when the kids finally fell asleep, and they had a moment to talk about their possible field trips.
Much to Kino's surprise now that the more he thought of it, the more he couldn't remember the name of his wife's old dreamland. Many conversations they had outside of schoolwork were about traveling. Whenever they'd talk about flying to an exotic place long enough, Kino would accommodate Hoa with short day trips within their regions. It wasn't anything near traveling overseas, but they usually managed to have a good time on the roads.
Recently, Kino somehow couldn’t picture any of his wife’s dreams that she shared with him. It seemed like a lifetime ago. He thought he needed to jot things down to help with memories, but he never did. Perhaps he forgot about that thought too.
After six slow bowling rounds alone, Kino ended the night fairly early. He stood up and nodded goodbye to the two people nearby. Much to his surprise, they nodded back, and the older man said, “Goodbye!” to Kino as he walked up the aisle to return the bowling shoes.
—
After the sudden split from his wife, Kino moved to this town. Since his arrival, he had always known that this was a temporary place. It was his resting period before making the next permanent move. It felt like Kino was using this place as an intermission, a long pitstop for the tired. He was drained being on the road alone for so long, Kino decided to take that exit on the road like a school play’s script written for him to do precisely so.
He rang the desk bell of the small motel at 8:23 pm, according to the single large clock on the check-in counter wall. A thump from the back office. A chair creaked. Then a sleepy front desk man opened the wooden door and said hello. He was a heavy man with exceptionally oily hair. It must have been half a cheap fragrant hair gel bottle on that shiny combed head. Kino could smell that hair gel from over the counter.
“Hi, how can I help you?”
“Hello, Ethan!” It was Kino’s effort to read the name tag, “May I get a single bedroom for the month? Non-smoking would be ideal, please.”
“For a month, you said?”
“Yes, for a month and some odd days. I’m not sure yet, but I’ll go ahead and book a full month for now.”
“Sure, I’ll give you the room closest to the ice machine. I’m the manager here, so you’ll see me more often than others. We’ll make your bed three times a week for longer stays here at the Last Inn unless you request extra. Wifi and continental breakfast are included, and here’s the menu of the nearby diner. They can deliver to your room.”
Kino handed the deposited cash and his ID, which showed a different full name. “But please call me Kino. I’ll be dropping off a letter or two soon at the front desk if it’s possible for you to pass them to the mailman when he comes along.”
“Of course, happy to do that for you. The mailman comes here every day except the weekend anyway. Nice to meet you, Mr. Kino, and have a good night!”
Kino’s room wasn't what many people would consider lovely, but it was decent enough for his month-or-so stay. The walls were covered by faux wood paneling. There was a big window with black-out green floral curtains, a flat-screen TV, and a mini-fridge opposite his queen-sized bed. Nothing stood out except the outdated bathroom. While it looked like the bedroom was renovated within the decade, the bathroom was way behind its time. A jade-green bathtub and sink seemed like a time capsule. The old tiles used to be in a much deeper and more vibrant green many years ago. But by then, a lot of them had become discolored or faded. The exposed lone light fixture stuck out of the wall and fit one glaring bulb. The socket had a black burn mark, so Kino knew better than to touch any of it.
The tired soul plunged himself onto his hard bed. As he stretched and yawned, Kino wanted to let go of every one of his muscles so badly that it gave him a vivid deja vu. The occasional headlights from the parking lot that cast on his blinds got more sparse as it got closer to 11 pm. Kino was half asleep when his phone chimed once, loudly. He ignored it.
The phone chimed again, and Kino wondered who would text him at this hour. No notifications on the lock screen. He unlocked his phone to look again. But, again, there was no text message or call.
Odd. But Kino was far more sleepy than curious. He dropped the phone and snored almost right away.
—
Kino spent the entire morning at that nearby diner for the first few days in town instead of joining the continental breakfast at the motel – He saw that it was a pretty sad continental breakfast. Something about the family-run diner’s coziness calmed his nerves after what happened. Kino would grab a butter croissant, two pieces of French toast, and coffee every time. He looked through the paper and spent his quiet time doing crosswords. Exiting the diner on the fourth morning, he glanced at one of the job listings on the poster boards next to the diner’s double door and paused to read. The job needed a temporary replacement for this month. It mentioned full-time help to do administrative tasks and “anything to run a small copy & mailing store.” The timing seemed too perfect to be true. That was why Kino called immediately.
It was Malik on the other end of the phone. “Sure, come in and talk to me. A guy quit on me two weeks ago because his time in the town was up, and he had to move on. My nephew usually works here too, but he wanted to visit Florida for some time and see his sister there. I couldn't say no, and now I'm drowning here working the load of three people. All the other kids I know have got jobs elsewhere since the beginning of the summer or outta town. Come in. Are you available first thing after lunch?”
“I'm available now!” - Kino was ready.
Malik was non-stop, but he was right. The place looked like it was about to go to war. Packages were piling high in the storage room. With a chronic bad back, although he was just approaching forty-two, Malik didn't even try lifting and sorting half of them. Instead, he took Kino in almost immediately to lift things for him. He just needed an extra hand badly, and Kino needed some money for the inn and his future settlement. His saving, after all, was alright but not too handsome.
“So, where are you from? Kino, right? I don't seem to know you from this town, and it's a tiny place. We all know each other.”
“I'm a traveler. I was driving and got so delirious. I stopped by this exit and decided to stay in town for a while to figure out my next step.”
“Driving, from where?”
Kino didn't answer.
“Well, you don't have to if you don't want to, man. I'm just glad you showed up. I'm swarmed.”
“Are you usually this busy, or is this the season everyone wants to send letters and packages?”- Kino wondered.
“You should have seen holiday seasons. This is not normal. It's summer. The majority of them are going to some island. But it's not our job to sort them out per destination, thankfully.”
“Just by pick-up times and space organization, right?”
“My man!”
“I learn quick.”
“And I teach!” - Malik's voiced cracked, maybe because he was out of breath mid-sentence.
—
Precisely three weeks had passed since Kino started at the Leap Street Copy and Mailing Center, an authorized DHL store with a photocopy service. It was a busy day at work. Kino used all his organizing skills from being a teacher before for this job, and he still struggled to deal with the volume of work this week. Since tomorrow would be the weekend, he decided tonight he’d drive to the next town for a nice bar he heard about. That was the most exciting plan ever since he got the job.
He heard from the radio last week that The Midnight Dust, a local bar two towns over, was celebrating its fifty years in business. Ethan, the motel clerk, mentioned it too.
“My friend was the original owner of The Midnight Dust. I love that place, even when the friend moved onto the auto shop business after. We still hang out there often, $5 Pabst Blue Ribbon and a house shot for happy hour. Now, friend, nothing can't beat that.”
“They should pay you for how well you advertise!”
“Hah. Tell them Ethan sent you.”
“Oh, you betcha."
—
Turned out Kino didn’t mind the two-hour drive one bit. It was hot in June, and he had his window down most of the way. The heat woke Kino up, and he didn’t feel as tired as usual. He felt energized as if it was the second morning of his holiday, not a Friday after work. The hot wind, a radio on medium, and the golden sun became his catalyst for getting out of town. He wished the bar were even further, so the car ride could last a bit longer.
Kino got to the Midnight Dust and still had some time left for the widely advertised happy hour. And by widely, it was the radio and Ethan. Three people were at a booth when he stepped in while the bartender polished the glasses with his eyes glued to the small mute TV screen.
Kino realized he was early, and the bar was just slowly getting ready for the night. A sad palm tree with a dead brown leaf dangling on the side of its pot sat in the corner of the bar under the yellow overhead spotlight. It got so dry it was skeletal. A small empty stage was on one side of the bar, and a small dimmed spotlight shone on an empty chair in the middle of the stage.
After reconsideration, Kino ended up with an Old Fashioned and not the happy hour good stuff. He also got a small bottle of San Pellegrino after recalling that his wife used not to like drinking. Instead, Hoa would get a glass of sparkling water- her version of a standard “prosecco” at any gathering or event. Kino wasn’t sure why, but tonight he knew he needed to order that, just to feel closer to her, because he feared the worst.
—
Since he arrived in the new town, Kino had lost a lot of memories about what had happened. He felt out of breath between hanging onto the old recollection of his old life and adapting to the new lonely days. He used to handle a lot of work at the school, extra-curriculum, and family errands. He made Hoa happy, at least to the best of his ability. Never once did Kino feel out of speed. He was an active teacher and rarely had downtime, even for himself.
But this was different. The town must have cast a slow spell on Kino so much that a few tasks overwhelmed him incredibly. He spent his days simply working at the copy center, bowling on some nights, and gathering up the courage to write his ex-wife a letter at night. Kino wondered if he had gotten older or if his diet had just worsened. It was partially true. He used to eat better, and Hoa was a decent cook. She’d cook all kinds of simple Vietnamese dinners and make extra for them to bring to lunch the next day. They’d go to a restaurant once every two or three weeks and occasionally went to the cinema.
Kino felt content with the food overall. He bought a portable gas stove and pan to cook right outside his motel room during his short time there. But most nights, Kino’d just boil some water and make a quick bowl of instant noodles. He’d crack an egg in if he felt fancy. It was not like the comfort food Hoa used to make for him, like a Japanese fried rice dish coated with a soft omelet called omurice. There was a time back then when Hoa watched many videos online around the year when she wanted to go to Japan. So she learned to cook this dish to match her spirit. It remained an exciting dish in Kino’s memory.
But even when he made instant noodles, cooking seemed like a drag. His body was sore after work, bowling, and making food for himself. He sensed a heavy rock in his heart for forgetting little things about Hoa daily. A rock that grew into a menacing rope tied around his intestines like an anaconda hungry for prey. The rope around his chest so daunting and alive, it stabbed through his flesh just to slide around his body, glided on his skin, ready for a fatal knot.
Things that could have taken thousands of years for him to forget (at least to his old romantic past it was), he tended to draw a blank already. At first, it started with a black hole in the reel of conversations he remembered having with his wife. He forgot about her favorite dream places to visit or her project for the school’s library. Then it was her birthday, her favorite food and movie that went blank in his mind. Yesterday was the worst when reminiscing her face even took him a good minute. He could not even recall what happened on the fateful day they split. Were we fighting at home or school? Did one of us discover a nasty affair? Or was it just a simple letter left on the dining table, and I went on my way? What was the end of us?
“What happens after time has run out? After we expire?”
Kino intended to write a long letter to his wife, hoping for closure, but he had done everything to delay that. The fact that he was devastated about his memory loss didn’t help. Every time Kino sat down at the small table in his room, he was taken over by the shame of leaving her, for whatever reason it might have been. Soon, he forgot just enough things from his old life that he couldn’t write anymore, even if he tried to. There was nothing to write about. Somehow the town got him. He was overpowered by the thoughts that he belonged in the past, a definition of time that could never catch up to the present by default. Even this tiny town somehow succeeded in moving faster than him. He’d be, at best, the Turtle running till exhaustion, trying to beat a fully awake and pumped-up Hare in the race that he'd definitely lose if there were such a race like that.
A song on the Midnight Dust’s bar speakers brought him back from his thoughts. It was “Poinciana,” a beautiful rendition by Ahmad Jamal. At the slow start of this song, Kino was already hooked. Ahmad Jamal was cruising in this jazz version. It brought such a different thrill from when Frank Sinatra sang this song. By the first verse, it finally sank in with Kino. It was the royal poinciana all this time. Hoa always wanted to go somewhere to see the vibrant fire-red flowers bloom on the tall, shady branches of a majestic poinciana tree. The tree would delicately bring you to an endless summer on the hill, asking yourself what your dream was and where you'd like to go.
Kino sipped his Old Fashioned, relieved to remember something he had tried so hard to do for the past couple of weeks. On the quiet ride home that night, the open windows' calm winds messed with his hair and cooled his lips. There was a phone call from an unknown caller. But by the time Kino wanted to pick it up, it was already missed. He soon got lost again in the tunes of “Poinciana” playing in his head like radio. Sometimes he could feel as if Hoa still sat on the seat right next to him like it used to be on the bus, talking about how bright the poinciana flowers were, whispering her hope to find a fateful summer that would be redolent of the sun, with winds so kind they could easily fly. A summer of jazz and breezy camomile scent, they could feel at ease with freedom.
—
Kino woke up to the hottest day of the year. Malik's nephew returned to work yesterday, so this was the first morning Kino was officially jobless. But he was glad it was over. The lone man brushed his teeth, wore a white souvenir T-shirt and brown khaki pants, drove to the diner, sipped his coffee, and did the crosswords. He ordered French toast and two strips of bacon extra. By ten AM, he drove back to his motel room, wondering what to do in the afternoon. He approached his room next to the ice machine with a newspaper tucked in his arm.
Kino saw a small paper bag and two long white envelopes neatly put in front of his motel room doors. Some simple clothes were in the bag, a pair of black sneakers and a cap. Kino was confused. Ethan would never put the guests' packages and mail in front of the rooms. They'd always be handed in person. These envelopes were addressed to Kino's name, but there was no address. Were they hand-delivered here? Were they from another person who stayed at the same hotel? He opened one of them.
Inside was a thick pile of cash. Kino was startled, so he opened his motel room door and slammed it shut. He threw the car and room keys onto the bed and ripped open the envelope. The cash was thick, and he started counting. It was pretty handsome. So handsome, in fact, that he can live comfortably for another year without working. He looked for other notes or writing in the same envelope, which only contained cash. What else is in here?
It was a neat letter folded in three. Recognizing the only handwriting Kino came to love so dear to home, he started tearing.
Kino, my love,
How are you doing? Is it friendly, and is it summer where you are right now?
I wrote you this letter but wonder if it ever gets to your chaffy, hot hands. I wish there was a power to hear from you or touch your kind face again. Don't worry. I still do that in my sleep.
Before the day you left me, we once talked about moving on in life.
You said something that got stuck with me until today. You asked me what’d happen after time after we expire as people? I never could find the correct answer. In fact, my answers changed every few days. Our lives were always amiable. We had our good times, and we had rainy days. But I never thought of what’d happen after ‘time.’ I struggle to make sense of your departure and of your death too. I have always imagined us growing old, traveling faraway lands, and seeing as many strange flowers and birds as possible. I struggle to wake up and not pack us double lunch, to teach with a broken heart and a broken voice. I struggle to hold your pillow at night and to sing the first happy birthday without you since I was twenty-four. Sometimes I texted and even tried to call your old number. I had to dial in to hear your voicemail when the house was too quiet. I'm still paying for your phone bill just to listen to it.
I still go on our old comfort walk by the meadow near our place. Do you still remember it? We buried you at the cemetery just ten minutes from that meadow, a nice shady spot near a tall tree, much like the poinciana tree we used to talk about.
Since you left, the kids have decorated your desk in the teachers' room with heaps of drawings and cute letters. We grew a large patch of flowers in the school's gardens with your name on the sign. It is painted in red and white, our school’s spirit colors. It was such a cute project right before the school year ended.
It's your 49th death commemoration day today. As a good Vietnamese wife, you know I try to be, I burnt you some extra joss paper clothes and money, and I sneaked in this letter when everyone had left already. It'll be our last secret ever!
I miss you, and I'll see you again so soon.
Your wife,
Hoa
Kino folded the letter. Everything was deafening. He closed his eyes for so long that it felt like days could have passed before he could open them again. It was not just a realization but a death of an existence. “Poinciana” started playing in his head like a distant dream. Kino could hear it so well, the drumming hypnotic and the wind amiable. But his eyes maintained shut while the song got louder by the second until it was only the jazz piano left in his head, repeatedly, easily, for half an eternity.
The day got silent. Nobody knew how long it had been. Kino was finally back in his motel room, sitting in the same pose. He stood up fast with his head spinning and put his humble belongings into a bag, including the new clothes and the white envelopes. He closed his motel room door, dropped the room key in the mailbox, and drove away. He knew where he had to go, finally.