Exile in Hawai'i

By David Schrader

Horatio Benedict is a confused young man navigating his way through a seemingly aimless life in 1990's America. We explore childhood memories of angry teachers, brutal games of kickball, and a cast of colorful characters who set the young man on a rocky path of uncertain steps and moral turpitude. On an ill-fated canoe ride to attend a booze-fueled family reunion, “Hor” discovers a few things about himself, including how unprepared he is to deal with the rapid advancement of young adulthood.

Surrounded by family and friends who exert little positive influence, he makes his way from the East Coast to the West Coast, settling into a quirky existence on the fringes of Hollywood. A dodger of responsibility, Horatio takes odd and odder jobs as he leans on his cousin, Jasper, to get him out of several sticky situations.

Working for Brick & Brack Productions, the company behind such landmark television series as Ichabod’s Atoll, Horatio finds himself on a plane to the Hawaiian islands, where a sad history is the backdrop to a frenzied present involving him in drugs, prostitution, and cheesy charter boat rides for chubby tourists. Ultimately, he is taken in and mentored by a notorious figure in the islands, the bizarre and bellicose Colonel I. M. Annoyian. As Hawaiian separatists prepare for a war, Horatio finds himself caught in a massive gray area – the one that lies between right and wrong.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Schrader
• Release date: Aug 19, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311050731

David Schrader

David Schrader is a Los Angeles-based writer, director, and producer. With a background in stand-up, sketch, and improv, his projects include NoHo, Being Ozzy Osbourne, Bloodline, and Mercy No Mercy, he is also the co-creator of the comic, Baby Badass and co-founder of Vine Theater. Written as a young man, Exile in Hawai’i is his first and only Not-So-Great American Novel.

Book preview

PART ONE

Chapter 1

East

Desperation is the ultimate motivator. At least it was for me; see I come from a long line of desperate people. I won't go into great detail, but suffice it to say my family history is something if not nothing. We had crazies from as far back as the Mayflower, and from what I heard they were rotten to the core, as rotten as people could be -- why, I didn't know people could be so bad, that is until I met Him. But I don't wanna talk about that now; I want to go back to how I got here. I am lying on a beach and the waves are lapping at my toes. My sticky heels are sinking into the soft mushy sand and it feels as if the sun is setting directly in front of me. Of all the sensations I've had in my life, and I've had some that would abash even Eros, this is the absolute best feeling I've ever had, and I wish it didn't have to end.

I should say right from the outset, that I will be speaking with divine hindsight throughout. My current epiphany has enabled me to not only explain my actions in detail, but also the ability to offer synchronous, seemingly astute critiques of it as well. It’s funny, because the last thing I am is astute. Only the grace of God could allow someone so dimwitted to review his predicament so thoroughly. Part of me was reveled in the moment; happy to embrace the unknown, the other part was just glad the goddamned 1980’s were finally over.

I suppose I should start at the beginning, since it's usually the best place to do it. My parents did the best job they could with me, and that's saying a lot. I was the most rambunctious little moron you ever did see. I would take toys and fling them against the walls like a monkey flings poop. Come to think of it, after my first visit to the zoo and the monkey cage, I abandoned the toys and went straight for the diaper fill. My mother always said that she regretted smoking when she was pregnant. She'd say, Thank the Lord Horatio was born undefected. And my father would always say, Thank the Lord?! You better ask for your money back on this one. Not all defects are visible. That kid's not right in the head. My mother smoked seven packs a day -- unfiltered Camels. Even as an infant, I remember being captivated by the rustic rendering of the impassive, possibly phlegmatic Camel on the cigarette pack. It all looked so Turkish. She pointed out the image of the man holding his Johnson drawn into the Camel's front leg. I never understood what, if any, subliminal message that was supposed to convey -- I mean, people are already smoking, did they want em' to buy actual camels now? I was so confused, at so early an age.

They put me in a school, as parents often do to kids. I ran the grammar school cigarette syndicate. It was a highly profitable operation, and being somewhat addicted at birth, I was the perfect child for the job. My inborn affinity for the leaf was a given. My mother said when the doctor slapped my little baby butt, I didn't let out a piercing cry as much as a dry hacking cough. I sold the contraband through an elaborate network of schoolyard bullies, strung-out third graders, and teachers just happy to be getting kickbacks and dirt-cheap nicotine noodles. My poor oblivious mother, not one for arithmetic, never noticed her missing cartons. She just assumed she'd smoked that many and would buy more. She did however, notice that her paychecks didn't stretch as far, but was happy that I no longer requested an allowance. Who needed an allowance? At that school, I made the allowances. I had them hooked. I was God. Then one day, God's mother quit smoking. It was a cold, cold turkey. I got beat up relentlessly and mercilessly by detoxing student and faculty alike. They pounded me for what seemed like a month but were probably only three and a half weeks. That playground became my own personal Vietnam. I had Charlie chirping at my ass with every guarded step I took towards the jungle gym. There were threats that were perceived, conceived, and received. I, who was once their hero, had fallen from grace for doing something, albeit unbeknownst to me, good for them. Instead of pelting me with crud, they should have been thanking me! But at that time, I wasn't thinking of their welfare -- no, all I could think of was, Why the hell did Mom quit smoking?

One day in particular stands out. I refer to it as The Day of Withdrawal & Recrimination. It had been two days since the cheap cigs stopped flowing and I alone had to face the consequences. Kickball Day; a six hour marathon of grueling grade school athletics in lieu of actual learning. Everything at that school was in lieu of actual learning, with every class and every teacher more concerned with just moving the kids through. Forget about comprehension -- that was for the next guy. The students were just as much at fault, I mean, who wouldn't want to play kickball all day long when the alternative is another fucking filmstrip about photosynthesis. Okay, plants are green because of sunlight -- we get it.

So the tournament began, it was round robin play to determine the best class at Sherwood Elementary. I was unlucky enough to be on the best team, and we just kept winning. On the surface, this would seem to be ideal, but the simple truth is that I was being tortured. Mr. Zappato had volunteered to be the all-time pitcher/roller/what-have you. He was tall and lean, with dark hair and a dusky complexion topped off with a bushy, Stalin-esque mustache. His admirers called him The Italian Zorro, and he banged every female teacher that sashayed through the halls of Sherwood Elm. Actually, his sexual prowess knew no gender boundaries, as stories circulated that even our Principal, Fatty Slater got a piece of the old Zappato magic. Mr. Zappato was also my best customer, and he was none too pleased when the well dried up. He seemed to blame me personally for his increase in nicotine intake. I recall him saying something to the effect of, Hell, at prices this cheap, why not smoke ten packs a day! And he did, although I'm not sure if he actually thought I'd be in grammar school forever, supplying his habit indefinitely, or if his mind was clouded by too much cheap sex and smoke. At any rate, he had it in for me.

Every time I came to the plate, Zappato would halt the game and bark instructions to both the in and outfields. All right, if he kicks it to you, throw the ball to me, Goddammit! And then he'd roll it towards home, slowly, gently. I couldn't think of how to strike out in kickball. I gave up the idea of fouling out after Zappato initiated the Three fouls and I throw the ball at you really hard rule. So I kicked and ran like hell. It was a glorious fly ball that landed between center and left. I was rounding second when I saw the relay to Zappato out of the corner of my eye. Foaming at the mouth, he lifted the ball, stepped into his throw, and hurled the red rubber sphere with all his might. Now, I understand that some people get hit with things; bird doo, a wad of paper, a bus. But this violent impact actually lifted me off the ground and flung me sideways into the chain link fence. Arms and legs akimbo, I was literally twisted into the fence. The searing pain shot through my body as I thought of how many games were still left to play in The Tournament That Wouldn't End. Little Bobby Billingsley waddled over with his chubby face and his buck-toothed grin; You're out! You're out! The Hor's out!

I always hated that Bobby. Every day he wore those too-tight, striped, short-sleeved shirts. All the kids called him Fruitstripe, after the fleetingly flavorful gum. He talked mostly in gibberish and always had little action figures in his desk, constantly playing with them even during class. He didn't pay attention, and all he ever cared about is whether or not I stole Chewbacca's laser gun or some stupid thing. I couldn't stand him, and then one day, when I just couldn't take it anymore, I walked right over to his desk, pulled out his Darth Vader and bit its head off. Furious, he lunged at me and tried to get it back but I chewed up the head, helmet and all, and swallowed. Kids couldn't believe their eyes, they were cheering and yelling as Bobby hit me with his pudgy little fists. The teacher finally broke us up, but man I tell you, black plastic never tasted so sweet.

You see, to Zappato, it didn't even matter if I was on the kicking team or not. He would field the ball, calmly turn around, and fire it at me as I stood in the infield. Sure, he'd make it look a little like he was aiming for the base runner, but I caught on once I started getting beaned while playing in the outfield. Pretty soon, the tournament just broke down and degenerated into Zappato hitting me with the ball and encouraging everyone else to do the same.

Eventually, the jonesing for nicotine subsided and the school returned to normal. I'd never be the same though, for the first time in my short life I saw people for the unpredictable assholes that they were. A typical day at Sherwood consisted of teachers calling you worthless, lunch ladies calling you monsters, and finally old Miss Cherubsky wheeling in the piano for music class. I hated music class. I wouldn't have minded listening to music, but we had to sing for Christ’s sake! No one except stupid, cheery girls and effeminate boys could get excited about singing Summer Love one more freaking time. Then they pulled the old switcheroo on us, gave us the lyrics from M*A*S*H. How the hell were we supposed to sing that? Eight-year-olds warbling how Suicide is painless, it brings on many changes. What in God's name were they thinking? Apparently the same thing as when they tried to run that Gifted class thing by us. Oh, we're going to take a few of you students and put you in the Gifted class because you're better than everyone else. And the unfortunate ones who need extra help, well you're special! You get to go in the Special class. The rest of you losers are average, you stay right where you are. Don't go anywhere.

I remember raising my hand to protest this classification, Um, aren't most of us average?

Ms. Barton, my teacher at the time shot back, Yes, and most of you won't go anywhere. It was rumored that the special class just watched television all day while the teachers smoked. We weren't sure if it was true or not, but a lot of us tried like hell to get in there. Mike Podowski would stare off into space and drool, but for some reason the teachers could always tell who was and was not truly special. Oh and how we hated the Gifted class. They were so smug, so young I thought, to be learning about pride, pity, and the intrinsic value of status. I remember one time I had to deliver a note from Ms. Barton to one of the girls in the Gifted Class. I walked in the door and wouldn't you know it, they're sitting there watching television! Hey! I lashed out, What gives?! You mean to tell me you jerks just sit in here and watch TV all day?! What's the difference between this and the special class?

The Gifted Teacher stood up and defended his Gifted brood, The difference, you idiot, is that the retards merely watch TV, we appreciate it.

Oh, I said, shutting the door and slinking away, but not before muttering under my breath, Goddamn fucking Gifted class.

I should apologize for my dirty mouth. I've used bad language all my life, and to tell the truth I'm not very smart. It isn't a very appealing combination I know, and I put the blame squarely on my father. He was a master of both foul words and foul thinking. There are good reasons for this, but it took me a long time to figure out why Arnold Benedict, my father, was such a miserable schmuck. First of all, it's gotta start with that name. All through his life, every roll call, every formal introduction with last name first, he had to hear that awful rearrangement; Benedict, Arnold. The snickers finally subsided after the first sixty-thousand times or so, eventually it muted itself enough to become only, Oh, that's just old Benedict Arnold... traitor to his nation! And they'd pelt him with crud or whatever was available, something of a family tradition as it turned out.

But it wasn't Benedict Arnold we were spawned from, no, we weren't lucky enough to have an actual celebrity in the family lineage. My mother always told me that we descended from a storied chain of quitters, desperate ones of course. I'm not sure what's worse, being a traitor or a quitter, or just merely desperate. The tale was passed down through generations that one of our forefathers really was a British spy, but quit when he found out that he'd have to do actual work. He always regretted that he had but one life to live for his idleness.

My name, Horatio Benedict, wasn't much better than Dad's. I can only assume that I was named after Horatio Alger, but to be honest I don't really know anything about him. All I know is that everyone called me Hor for short, pronounced whore, which is how I always saw myself anyhow. At age nine I desperately wanted to add a capital T in front of it and make myself a Thor. I never found the time or the energy to legally change it, how did one go about how did one go about that anyway? In any case, I don't think I ever had the ability to pull off the old God of Thunder & Lightning routine; I didn't even emanate static electricity.

As a youngster, I led a life of profound mediocrity and unrequited dreams. I wallowed in the family business of lethargy, spending lazy afternoons in the small Pennsylvania town whose proudest achievement was that it was now referred to as a town, upgraded from a hamlet. The hamlet, I mean, town fathers were pleased that we had bypassed the classification of village and went straight to the big time. For years, this is what the local politicians argued about. Polls were taken, measures proposed, and countless melees ensued. Eventually, the leaders of our hamlet made their way to Harrisburg. After an impassioned plea to the Governor of Pennsylvania, our small but irritating delegation emerged from the Governor's mansion with an assurance that, yes, if it means that much to you backwater morons, you can legally call that garbage dump in the middle of the state that you live in a freaking town. Often the hardest fought victories are about nothing.

The years flew by and I swear to God I don't remember anything of interest that happened to me or my family from the time I was ten until the time I was seventeen. Well, our family was attacked by a bear once but I don't really want to get into that and it actually isn't as interesting as you'd think a family being attacked by a bear might be, it really isn't. So stop asking about it, okay? Oh, and we moved from that Pennsylvania town to a small New Jersey hamlet. I always wondered why we moved back to a hamlet but then I figured it must be because my parents liked to keep a low profile. Perhaps all the flashiness that came with living in a town had been too much for them. Also, we had a creek in our backyard and my dad liked to fish there. He never caught anything, and even if he did I'll bet it wouldn't have been any good. That creek had to be polluted. I mean the water looked like black paint, no fooling. I can't be sure about it being polluted because I never actually went in it, on account I had tubes put in my ears when I was a child.

I used to hear voices inside my head, not the kind that you might think, but the kind where it seemed as if there was a tiny man living in my ears. It wasn't like he was telling me to do evil things or anything, it was more like a ringing, an echo of sorts. The doctor put in these tubes and man, did he make a big deal about not going underwater. I thought that if I went underwater I would just die on the spot. If I ever went into a pool, I'd stay in the shallow end and avoid splashing of any kind. Sometimes kids who didn't know any better would try to dunk me. I'd flip out and give em' the old Dooey Hiycha, my patented karate chop. I stopped many an assailant with the Dooey Hiycha. I named the move myself and I'm pretty sure it's not a real Japanese word, but that's what I said when I performed it, Doo-ee High-cha!

And yes, there was that horrible stage we all go through called puberty. I've always hated that word, puberty, it just sounded so dirty. I was always embarrassed when my family and I were watching T.V. and some stupid show would try to deal with the subject, I'd just want to crawl under the house and die. I was gangly and ugly and skinny and short of living with wolves in a cave for nine years, there really wasn't much you could do about it. There were lots of things that embarrassed me while growing up, but mostly just growing up embarrassed me the most.

Chapter 2

Family reunions were always fun, except I can only remember having but one because my parents always lamented that, They're just too much trouble, and, Do we really want to get together with those people? But the one we did have, boy was that a party, or so I heard. I didn't quite make it there until the end. See, we lived way on the edge of town, down by Torquemada Creek, the one I told you about, and Aunt Lucy lived on the other side near the bay.

My cousin Jasper, a black sheep sort from California, had reluctantly made the journey from Los Angeles with his parents and was staying with us. The morning of the reunion, Jasper and I shared a breakfast of Pop Tarts and Cheetos. I looked out the window and started the conversation rolling.

Hey fuck-o, I said, turning my attention back to my cousin, you gonna eat all of those Cheetos?

He replied, Screw you dickhead, you had your hand in the stupid bag after you put your hand in your mouth. There's a bunch of wet ones in here.

Look, I don't even want them anymore. Let's just get out of here for awhile, before this reunion thing. I gave him the option of giving us an option.

Yeah, he mumbled, Okay, what do you want to do?

Hey man, why don't we go canoeing? I've never been, and we got that old canoe out back. Oh, we can row on over to the reunion. Aunt Lucy lives on the bay, we'll pull up to their dock like conquering heroes. We can get there from here, right?

Yeah, I guess so, he said, unsure.

Well, can we or can't we? I said, goading him, You've been here before and you're the one who says you can find your way around just with instinct.

All right, let's get going then, he said. The sun is scorching today and it's probably gonna take us maybe two hours to get there. He put his bowl in the sink without rinsing it out.

Two hours? I said. We're not trying to find the freaking East Indies.

No dumbass, but it is a canoe we're taking, we won't exactly streak there, okay? He looked over, half expecting me to back out. He sure was a presumptuous bastard for fifteen.

Fine then, maybe we should bring some bug spray though. My dad says the green head flies have been biting like a bitch. And they were too. Man, God was in a bad mood the day he created green head flies. They were as big as your big toe and much meaner, with the ability to bite a hunk out of your skin and leave you sore for a week. I threw some supplies in my gym bag and locked the door behind me. Jasper and I walked through the back yard and out to the dock. Things were quiet at home as Mom and Dad were at Aunt Lucy's helping her prepare for the big Benedict reunion. The canoe was face down and full of bugs, and I wasn’t sure if it'd ever been moved in the five years since we’d moved to the place. I stood there as Jasper turned the thing over and began cleaning it out. He was an odd sort, my cousin, always jumping right into things even if he didn't know what the hell he was doing. I really admired that about him, and I remember at the time wishing that I could be the same. Jasper was two years younger than me, but we were about the same height and build; tall, lanky, with arms that could just about reach the trees. Despite his ancestry, Jasper was something of a go-getter. He liked to learn about things, tinkering with stuff until he knew what made it tick, shit like that. He was pretty smart, I guess.

Hey dumbass, he said, are you gonna stand there with your thumb up your ass or are you gonna help me?

I don't have my thumb up my ass, I said. Why is it that every time someone bitches to me about not doing something, not helping, not participating, not doing anything but just standing there -- it always involves my thumb being up my ass? That always bugged me.

I threw my gym bag in the canoe and climbed aboard. We started down Torquemada Creek and headed up towards the Rhineland Marsh which Jasper said would take us right to Aunt Lucy's. The green head flies were indeed out in force, as I had barely started to paddle before I was bitten three times.

Goddammit, these things hurt! I said, swatting at another. Give me that spray. I began spraying the repellent when the can started sputtering and nothing was left but air. Oh, shit on me!

What? Did you bring an empty can, you moron? Jasper stopped rowing and looked at me, Is that what you did?

I didn't know.

How do you not know? he scolded, All you gotta do is feel the weight of it. Heavy, full, light, empty. Hor, you gotta use your brain.

All I got was one arm, I said, pointing to the only appendage covered in spray.

Well, rub some of it on me, I don't wanna get bit by these things. He put his arms out and told me to start rubbing.

Son of a bitch, he went on, Well, maybe it won't be that bad. It should only be a couple of hours.

That's the spirit. Anyhow, we're roughing it, you know? That's the problem I think we all have anyway. No one knows how to rough it anymore, like in the old days.

What are you talking about?

You think the pioneers had bug spray? You think the settlers had bug spray? You think the Indians had bug spray? I stopped before the point became belabored.

Who cares? Jasper whined, I don't even know why we're doing this.

Because it's fun. I said.

Fun? he said, giving me one of those looks.

Yeah, that's right. You'll see. I've always wanted to go canoeing before and never did. Now I'm finally doing it, I'm actually doing something. This is a big achievement for me, I feel like I'm finally starting to live, it's just...Aurrgh! Goddammit! I slapped at another fly but it was too late, he'd taken a huge chunk out of my leg and had flown off. His big green eyes, thousands of eyes actually is what they told us in school, glowed like emeralds as he clutched my bloody skin in his big hairy legs. High in the air, he looked like one of those damned ugly flying monkeys from The Wizard of Oz.

Jasper struck at another but missed, Shit! he screamed.

Auuggh! Goddammit! Two others had teamed up on my scalp. Blood trickled down the side of my head. This sucks! I said, scratching at my ankles. Huge welts were rising up all over our bodies as we tried to maintain our steady rowing motion. It wasn't easy. Two and a half hours later we reached the Rhineland Marsh.

We picked the first right turn and headed down through the marsh. Well, I said, that wasn't too bad, was it?

It ain't good, Jasper said, this is only the marsh. We should have been there by now. Maybe if we could have rowed more than two strokes at a time before swatting at flies, we coulda went a lot faster.

Those fuckin' flies. Look at my arms and legs, I look like a leper.

Whaddya talking about? Jasper shook his head, Have you ever seen a leper?

No, I said.

Well, they don't look like that, he laughed.

Have you ever seen a leper? I asked.

I saw some pictures in a book once. Pretty nasty stuff. He stopped rowing. He was right though, I didn't even really know what a leper was, I’d only heard people refer to them in movies and on TV as something really bad. And Jesus back in the day, he cured lepers, that much I knew.

We came to a stop. I turned around, checked out both sides and sure enough, we had drifted and snaked our way all the way down into a dead end.

Huh, I said, whaddya know about that?

Okay, Jasper said, clutching his calves, "where the fuck are