In college, I wrote about Mango Man, a homeless person who wanders around Kailua. I never found out his real name, where he came from, or anything about his life. But I imagined he used to be a big deal before deciding to check out of society. The following is my essay.
“— yeah, that’s right. As far as I know, everyone around here calls him that,” Lianne said. She was eating, or rather slurping, a rainbow shave ice, trying to lick up the sugary sweet juices dripping down her right arm, while batting away summer gnats from her tanned face.
“What a weird name,” I murmured. “Who’s ‘Mango Man?’ Does he eat mangoes, or what?” I asked. We walked past old plantation style homes and new-money mansions on the way to Kailua Beach Park. It’s been a long time.
I begged and pleaded with Lianne to please spend her last Saturday with me at the beach, before rushing off to San Francisco again for one more semester at Berkeley. Even though she was sick of the beach (she jogged there every chance she got — hence, the major tan), she gave in.
Mostly because I promised to buy her shave ice. Bribery usually works among childhood best friends. When begging does —
“Nah, nothing logical like that,” Lianne answered, tossing her half-eaten, melting-in-the-90-degree-sun mass of mushy slush and Kool-Aid into the rubbish can. “It’s because he sleeps under mango trees. He’s been around here forever, since I was little even.”
Mango Man… Speak of the devil, there he was up ahead, lumbering across the street.
It sounded so funny, I thought. But, as I watched him head off into the mango grove in the far distance, carrying old, plastic Times Supermarket bags filled with god knows what, under several, thick Army jackets, I realized it wasn’t funny at all.
He must be sweating underneath all those clothes. I could barely see his face, so dark, covered by long, stringy black hair. (Probably loaded with lice and maggots…ugh.)
“Earth to Lisa!”
“Sorry, watching Mango Man, “ I said, also noticing that he was barefoot. Bums are strange. Isn’t he roasting with all —
“Forget about Mango Man,” Lianne snapped, slightly exasperated. “Here’s the beach. The killer beach you’ve been dying to see. See? Big deal!” Then, she motioned to the left, where several joggers were running by with their respective canines. One or two young men were putting together their sails to go windsurfing. The water…
“Oh my god!” I screamed, pulling, tearing off my t-shirt and shorts and running toward the beach, leaving Lianne behind in stunned silence. "I hurled my body into the water, feeling its cool, blue kiss all over. The bright sun reflected red from my swimsuit. I drank it all in.
It’s been so long.
“Hey! Are you insane?” Lianne called out.
I looked out toward the shore. Lianne had gathered my clothes and slippers, and was staring back at me with amazement.
“No, I just missed it here so much!” I yelled back. “I haven’t been back in a whole year. I’m going to enjoy every stinking minute right now!”
A whole year in New Jersey of all places. Not Rome or Nova Scotia or Hong Kong, or Italy…or even Maui. Trenton. Home of smelly cow dung, moss-eaten forests, serials killers, and NO BEACH! I loved my grandmother dearly, but the next time she wants me to visit, I’ll have to pass. Hard pass.
“Why did you stay in New Jersey for one whole year, anyway, Lisa?” Lianne had folded my clothes neatly, stacking them next to my rubbah slippahs, far enough from the waves rolling in, then disrobed in her typical lady-like, slow fashion, which always irked me. She swum to me in long, smooth strokes.
We bobbed like glass floats for a while, catching up…
“My grandmother thought it would be great for me to stay longer than a month. Meet my other relatives, see the rest of the East Coast, help her out at the farm. Boring stuff like that,” I replied, floating dreamily.
“That sounds interesting, but I’d hate to get all dirty with the pigs and the cows. Smell that manure!” Lianne laughed, splashing me.
“It wasn’t that bad, actually,” I began, thinking back to those months, helping feed horses, watching cows roam around the five acres grandma owned since grandpa died two years ago.
He’d worked so hard on that land, growing tomatoes, string beans, onions, lettuce, cabbage, and pumpkins in the fall. When he died of lung cancer, grandma was left the farm, the farm which belonged to grandpa’s family since the pilgrams landed, probably. The farm probably helped her cope. At least, it gave her something to do.
“Grandma was lonely, even though her cousins and other grandkids come visiting every now and then. I think it helped her, my being there.”
“She was probably showing you off to all the eligible bachelors, her hapa-haole granddaughter, the lovely, the exotic, the luscious nubile nymphet — Lisa Lee Bray!” Lianne joked. “I’ll bet not many of them have ever seen a quarter-Japanese, quarter-Chinese, quarter-Irish, and quarter-British mix before!”
“OMG, it wasn’t like that at all!” I protested lightly. “They thought I was a model at first, but then, I fit right in. I looked like the perfect farm girl in my beat-up overalls and raggedy Ramones shirt.”
Eventually, we swam back to shore and sat, watching people walk by — local people’s second-favorite pastime. “I did realize how many different races live in Hawaii, so many mixes — I mean, more than on the Mainland. And, it’s more comfortable here. I feel more at home,” I noted. “I saw a lot of minorities being treated like freaks in Jersey, and not just blacks. Asians, Mexicans, Indians... I’m lucky, ‘cause I don’t look pure Asian, I look more haole…”
Racism is so stupid.
“Yeah, I know what you mean,” Lianne chimed in. “I really look Asian. I mean, how much more Japanese can you get than me! I’d walk into a Carl’s Jr. in Turlock, or go shopping in a mall, even in L.A., and get strange looks. A grandma made slanted faces at me once, with her kids around, and a couple told me to go back to ‘Jap-land’ and eat black dog. Scary.”
Suddenly, I didn’t want to think about the Mainland anymore.
I wanted to think about Hawaii, where everyone is every race and mostly treated with respect. Or, at least, not bothered just for looking different.
“Hey, let’s go drop by Gary and them’s house. I want to let him know I’m back. Maybe we can all go to the movies tonight, the whole gang.”
Lianne nodded, and so, we dresssed and headed out. The sun felt warm, soothing on my back, the perfect friend.
The Meeting
After the movies, we decided to linger awhile at Zippy’s, a favorite local plate lunch place. I ordered a chili-spaghetti plate and sat in a booth, waiting for the others to grab their food. That’s when I saw him out of the corner of my eye.
Mango Man walked in, wafting dirty laundry, grape juice, urine, and a faint whiff of mangoes. He headed to the counter, and that’s when all hell broke loose.
“Hey, get outta here, you fucking bum!” A well-built man with blond hair in Army fatigues stood behind Mango Man, bellowing. “You’re stinking up the place! Whew! Don’t you ever shower? You smell like shit!”
The rest of the patrons in the restaurant laughed, a few uneasily. Even my friends. Everyone, but me. I watched with growing dread.
The haole continued, belligerent as hell. “If you don’t leave now, I’m gonna throw you out myself!”
Mango Man turned, holding a styrofoam cup of coffee in his trembling hands. He whispered, “I no make trouble.”
“Well, I do!” And with that, the Army soldier grabbed Mango Man by the lapels and sent him flying.
The homeless man hit his head against the wall and crumpled, spattering hot coffee on his jacket, and our table. Suddenly, incredibly, Mango Man rubbed his hands together, as if praying to an invisible god, and began to cry like a wounded child.
My heart began to hurt.
Before I knew it, I rushed to the fallen man’s side. I knelt beside him and helped him up. The room was still.
Everyone stared, my friends gawking in disgust and disbelief, Lianne looking away.
I even heard that Army grunt smirk to anyone listening, “Bums like that should get a job, not loaf around here, asking for hand-outs!”
Me and Mango Man made it outside, to the warm, but breezy night skies. I guided him to a sidewalk. “Are you okay?” I asked. He kept his head bowed, weeping quietly.
He finally nodded, clutching my arm tight. “Please walk me to my home.”
“Uh, where do you live?” I asked.
For the first time, I saw his face up close. Why, he was mixed race, just like me! Throw in a little Polynesian, Filipino, and Samoan, too.
He smiled, then, revealing yellowed, but perfectly straight teeth. “Oh, you know…that’s why I’m Mango Man!”
I laughed, instantly at ease. Jeez, what did I think, he’d turn into some green monster and swallow me whole?! “So, it’s true? You live and sleep underneath the mango trees?”
“Yeah, I get shade, I eat, it’s pretty there. I show you,” He tugged at my shirt, leading the way home.
The Name
We arrived at a grove next to a park in 15 minutes. His blankets, green with a few holes, but still usable, lay strewn besides the largest tree trunk I ever saw. One of his plastic bags had fallen open, revealing old books about the Korean War and poems from behind enemy lines, black and white pictures, towels, newspapers, and … a brown Teddy bear, with one ear missing. I picked the bear up and touched its button nose.
“My mom made that for me. It’s good luck,” he said, motioning me to sit. He seemed proud, as if he were welcoming an honored guest into his Kahala mansion. “Hello, meet Digga Digga.”
“Hi, Digga Digga. I’m Lisa.” I turned to him and repeated my name. He smiled again, scratched his head, and and stared at his feet, uncomfortably. “I know everyone here calls you Mango Man. And I know why. But what’s your real name?”
He reached over and patted my shoulder. I waited for a feeling of revulsion, waited for me to pull away — but I waited for nothing, because all I felt was peace and contentment. I liked being here.
“Long time…” he started, scratching his head again. His fingers were dark, almost black, and his nails were long with dirt encrusted inside — probably permanently. “…Melvin. Yeah, Melvin. I’m Melvin.”
I reached over, held his hand, and smiled back. “Hi, Melvin. Nice to meet you…”
Mangoes dangles and danced in the glowing moonlight. They smelled heavenly.
PAU