The gorilla was famous. He sat near the
front of his cage mugging at tourists, carrying on, drawing them closer
as they took pictures. Locals grinned from the sides. When enough
people had gathered, the gorilla would sneak one hand behind and below
him and without warning blast the tourists with a shit ball that hit
the bars and scattered for maximum effect. He would leap to his feet
mightily pleased, as the crowd screamed and the locals bent over
laughing.

The elephants were patient and knowing. Joe trusted elephants. And
dolphins. Sometimes he walked all the way to the Kahala to watch the
dolphins zoom around their salt water pool. They came right to him at
the edge of the pool, wiggling, excited as puppies.

He walked up Kapahulu Avenue and stopped at Zippy's where he had a bowl
of saimin and worked on the description of the two girls. At home, in
the mail, there was a card from Mo announcing a show of her
photographs. The print on the card was deeply silvered. It showed the
base of a banyan tree by a bus stop: high roots radiated out and sank
below the sidewalk; a man was asleep, cradled between two roots, a
lunch box by his waist, one arm stretched out along the top of a root,
fingers dangling, the angles of his knees and elbows blending with the
bends in the roots.

"Not bad, Batman," Joe said. "Next Friday."

The days before Mo's opening passed quickly. On Friday, Joe walked down
Ward Avenue to a gallery and camera shop, and, for once, he wasn't
early. Empty wine bottles, a few pupus on bare trays, a glass punch
bowl, paper cups and napkins were scattered across white tables.
Conversation hummed and collided around the room. A blues guitar kept
time in the background. Mo was smiling down at a bearded professorial
type.

"How do you do?" A young Japanese man shook Joe's hand.

"Thanks for the invitation," Joe said, flashing the card.

"Are you a friend of Winifred's?"

"Yes. Joe Burke."

"Wendell Sasaki."

"Nice place you have here," Joe said. A well-dressed couple entered,
and Wendell excused himself. Joe drifted along a wall of Mo's
photographs. There were several of old sugar mill buildings and one
taken of the sky through the branches of a koa tree. There was a large
one of the city at night, lights running high up the ridges. His
favorite showed two young women walking toward the camera on Kalakaua
Avenue. The light was gray, pre-dawn. One had her arm around the
other's shoulders. They were ben