White Shirt

I'm trying to develop a story that is simple. I believe that the ability to write a good story comes not only from the ability to create poetical or philosophical descriptions, but also from the ability to simplify.

Summary:

I took one of his white shirts and wore it with my jeans from last night. He was taking a bath. Amidst the sound of running water and the absence of his voice, I left...

Disclaimer: I do not own Hawaii Five-0

White Shirt

HALF-PAST NINE. We'd just folded out a murder case when Danno asked me out. On one condition, I said, I drive my car and you drive yours.

"Fine with me," he said.

These two weeks he'd been inviting me to join him at his favorite bar. I enjoyed listening to him, part of it was that because he got a strange way of talking, then as talked he'd add casual remarks between the lines that struck me as interesting: "You know, Kono, the coffees in heavier metropolis, say, like New York, are thicker than island coffees. Ever wonder why?"

"No, never before," I said, "but now that you ask, I'd say that probably the making has something to do with the natural manner of the place."

"You're saying that coffees here are lighter because of Hawaii's relaxed manner," his eyes flickered as he smiled, then combed his hair using his fingers.

"You got it."

The talk would continue on and on. Sometimes until the midnight had passed. At random times Chin or Steve would call, asking about my whereabouts. "I'm with Danno." Chin would answer with a chuckle. Steve: "I got it, I got it." in a playful tone.

"It's funny how most people long for a tropical vacation," he said, "and find it strange that there's someone like me who loves being around skyscrapers and citylights."

"Looking impeccable in formal shirts, fine leather loafers, and stylish ties, too," I said with a smile.

He lit a cigarette. "Steve's joke! Now it is yours, too." he made a long, leisurely exhalation. This was the first time I'd ever seen him smoke. He was trying to look like a pro, too, but the stiffness of his fingers as he scissored the cigarette could never fool me.

"I don't know you're smoking."

"Just started two weeks ago, you know. Nobody taught me, and it wasn't like I need it that badly either. It was just because I feel like it," he frowned as he inhaled, "anyway, do you think it's strange, my fondness of skyscrapers?"

He massaged his eyelids for a while using his free hand. Probably the smoke had gotten into his eyes.

"No, it is… original, you know," I said, "Jesus—Danno, would you put it out? It makes my throat sore just by watching you!"

He chuckled and pressed the tip of his cigarette on the ashtray. It was only half-smoked.

"Anyway… original. I like it. Original," as if 'original' had become some kind of a magic word for him.

"You're always yourself, you know that," I said, "you're goofy, serious at times, you're trying to look tough, but deep down you're soft as a fur-ball."

"Fur-ball, eh?" he laughed in a low voice. He took another cigarette and was about to light it when I landed my palms on his hands, pushing them down slowly with a smile.

"For skyscrapers' sake, Danno, smoke someplace else, and when you've become a pro, come back to smoke in front of me!"

He laughed. I liked the way his face moved with him. He had the entirety of his expressions at range, as always. It struck me that he had the lightest face muscles that easened the completeness of his expressions.

"Hey, come of think of it, Kono," he said, "you're even more original than me. More original than you know! I mean, 'when you've become a pro, come back to smoke in front of me'? 'For skyscrapers' sake'?"

We laughed. A long, lightweight laughter.

"SURFING," HE SAID, "tell me everything you like about it."

I took a sip of ice water. "It's a very personalized happiness, surfing," I said, "as you ride the waves, the world around you vanishes—for a long time until you return to the beach there's nothing between you and the wind, nothing between you and the waves."

"A personal… seclusion, you mean?"

"You got it," I said, "There are things you can discover when you are on your own—things you wouldn't get by interacting with others."

"The other way around is valid as well, I think."

"As in there are things that one can only get by interacting with people?"

"Yeah," he said, "anyway, I used to take surfing lessons when I was younger. I wasn't even half a bad surfer." He bottomed up the Corona.

"I'm not surprised."

"Anyway, that's past. I couldn't even imagine myself doing it anymore. I couldn't even stand being at the beach for a long time. Guess I'm getting old," he took a quick swig of ice water, "I prefer the noise, the sort of aloneness that has a lot of noises in the background. I don't have to be a part of that noise, just have to be conscious that the world around me is still there. One has to remain attached to reality to a certain limit, I think."

I smiled. "That's deep. Really, Danno, does Steve know you're quite a Henry Miller?"

"Nah," he said, "for Steve I'll always be 'that Jersey boy with guns'—or ties."

AT ELEVEN THE MUSIC CHANGED TO JAZZ. Bud Powell, he said. For all I've known, jazz and the sound of rushing waves never really got along. Tonight I was about to change my mind. He was a bit drunk. Still he talked of city lights, skyscrapers, the frozen faces in subways. Sometimes he'd add occassional remarks about Gracie. His face was red as beet juice. He went on and on. The music, he said, had reminded him of his short trip to New York two weeks before he moved to Hawaii. At a point his voice went into a perfect harmony with the music and the background noises. The musician was great, although they were not good enough for Danno. "Good technique, the pianist. He is kinda impersonal, though, don't you think? Anyway about the lights, sometimes I go out after three, you know, the lights were insane back then. I went on feet, you know, and I spent time until six in the morning to board the train home, changed, went to work at eight… Jesus! Just when I thought that the pianist is going to improvise, his fire goes out…!" Those things spoken by him with half-closed eyes! He'd removed his tie, unbuttoned two topmost buttons of his white shirt—just now he yanked the collar then pushed his sleeves even further back. Two tables away from here, a group of four girls were looking at him. At first I thought that was because he was drunk, Danno. Then I realized that there were plenty drunken people around here with faces redder than his, gestures wilder, voices louder than his. I looked at the girls then switched back to Danno. They were right: He was such a handsome half-drunk creature.

"Kono," he said, "Hear that! He's good, no? He's just being so goddamn insecure."

He polished off a glass of ice water to wash down the alcohol.

I ASKED CHIN ABOUT BUD POWELL. He laughed so hard he almost fell off his chair. I told him I was serious, that was when his laugh decreased into soft chuckles, when he'd finished chuckling he leaned forward and started firing away. I listened to him as he mentioned one name after another, one technique after another, until the talk ended with a familiar remark: "Most musicians are blessed with great techniques, but they're too focused on refining it they'd forget to improvise, to ride the tide—

"What's with that smile?" he asked, smiling.

"Nah, it's just that I've heard that before."

He continued the story by comparing Powell's swings with Monk's. When he'd finished he sipped on his cold coffee. Steve walked in, greeting us with his usual kind smile. "Jazz, huh?" Chin: "Bud Powell."

"My old man used to listen to him all the time," he said.

That was when Danno walked in wearing a plain white T-shirt, washed-out blue jeans, and his usual black loafers. Steve's face lightened up in a smile. "That's what I've been talking about!" Chin bursted into notions that he was looking good this way, he looked younger, etc. I seconded Chin's remarks, telling him that he looked better wearing it than his usual shirts that made him looked kind of severe. "Thanks, guys. Just for a change, I think."

He tapped me on the shoulder and spoke in a low voice just next to my ear, "The same group would be there next Friday. I'm gonna offer him my one-hundred and make him improvise."

"I wonder."

"No, really," he said.

The phone rang. Another case: A young man's body had recently been found on the shore, cut in half by a shark. After a quick gathering Danno, Steve, and Chin left. I was to find the information about the John Doe, of course, and whether the shark-bite was a pure accident or was triggered by a murderous will.

This was not the right time to hide a smile, but then I realized that the dead body was a story lied on the other face of the prism, Danno in a white T-shirt on another. I smiled: He looked so good in it.

TWO DAYS LATER THE CASE WAS SOLVED: He was killed by his own best friend over a dispute of novel royalties. The best friend got him on a boat with the man in swimsuit, tied, then thrown him for the sharks' feast. The man had refused to share the royalties with the best friend who owned most ideas of the story and eventually led to a nasty end. After the case had been solved none of us said anything about it. Then came back to our real, usual days: We tried to get over the weariness, sometimes the despair they'd inflicted us by pretending that we were all unaffected. Danno: "Tell me you're going with me tonight." Today, he'd returned to his usual shirt-and-tie look.

Yes, I said.

"Make them play 'Ornithology'," Chin said, "the piano swings are well-exposed in that song." I thanked him as he gave me a hug. I loved the smell of his cologne as always. Steve patted Danno on the shoulder: "Good luck, brah."

HALF-PAST TEN. Danno had a cigarette dangling between his lips. "You're not Humphrey Bogart, forget it." He laughed, asked if he smoked better this time. I said I'd rather watch him dance.

"No way," he said, chuckling, "you're just too amazed to tell me that I smoke better this time."

"Not even the slightest bit better."

He laughed, made one last inhalation before putting it out.

The group played better tonight. The pianist played in a far lively manner than the first time we watched him. Danno said nothing about the performance—or was it probably because he wasn't half-drunk? He nodded and tapped his fingers on his laps, played with the cigarette as he took it between his fingers. When a song started with energetic saxophone drills, his lips arched into a wide smile. "Dance of the Infidels," he said, "most of them think this one's a forgettable piece, but for me this one's carefree and deep at the same time." He spoke amidst the piano swings. One chord following the other like the footsteps of people in a folk dance.

Danno ordered another Tom Collins then lit a new cigarette. I ordered another cup of coffee. For a long time we just sat there facing each other, listening to one performance after another. It was until he finally started again on skyscrapers and city lights. I leaned forward as he spoke. He had a way of talking about city lights, Danno. He probably didn't realize it, but there were times where his words struck me as poetic. Real, beautiful poetic words brought together in that spontaneous manner of his. There are so many colors of them, the city lights, blue, white, red, green, but most of the times they struck me as streams of white and blue. All of a sudden a thought struck me that the buildings were human trunks. The lights were coming out of their frames, or should I say ribs…

Everytime he went on and on with his stories I wondered whether he was already half-drunk again. The only fact to prove that he wasn't drunk was that he'd smile at me from time to time, affirming that he was holding his mind right here.

"Hey, have they played 'Ornithology'?" I asked.

"No," he went quiet for a while, "no, they haven't. You want them to play it for you?"

"Yeah," I said, "Chin said it's a good song."

He threw the cigarette butt between his fingers into the bottom of an empty cocktail glass. The next thing I knew a waiter was standing in front of him as he shoved a one-hundred note into his hand.

"Hand this to the pianist," he said, throwing a quick glance at me, "tell him to play 'Ornithology' using his best, improvised swings for Kono and Danny."

"Danno," I told the waiter.

"No, Danny—anyway, Danno's fine," he switched back to the waiter, "after this piece. For Kono and Danno."

AFTER "ORNITHOLOGY" THERE WAS ANOTHER LONG STRETCH OF SILENCE BETWEEN US. Danno had ordered another two glasses of Tom Collins, one for me with less sugar. I expected him to break the silence any moment and started talking again about the lights, or the skyscrapers he wished he could enter. I looked at his eyes, almost impersonal this time, and his pointless gestures. He was lost in thought.

The silence was followed by an unexpected kiss. That was more of an impulse from both sides. Probably both of us decided to pack the warmth and seal the package using that kiss, part of it probably because we thought we'd rather kiss silently and languorously than waiting for the silence to pass. He took me to his small house. I let him touch me that night. We were two clueless creatures without any key to discover lying on his messy bed covered in wrinkled white sheet. We made love three times that night, and in the morning none of us mentioned the lovemaking, as if each of us was lost inside our own perceptions, wavelengths. In the morning his messy, personalized room had its own bleak feel to it. The lights were filtering through the thin white curtains, creating blurred squares of white on the wooden floor. I took one of his white shirts and wore it with my jeans from last night. He was taking a bath.

Amidst the sound of running water and the absence of his voice, I left the room.

I ARRIVED AT THE HQ WEARING HIS SHIRT. Steve's eyes glittered in disbelief and bewilderment. Chin, who was about to greet me with a smile, all of a sudden retained the serious look on his face. "Did you—?" "Yes." He was speechless and blank-faced for a while. Then he shrugged his shoulders. I was pretty sure were they not a team, he'd beat Danno to pulp.

The idea of wearing his white shirt came from a personal idealism. It probably sprung out of the images I'd collected over the years. As a girl I'd seen Sharon Stone attended Oscar party wearing her husband's white shirt. That day I realized that a man's white shirt would possess an entirely different voice: Just throw it over a woman's body. His shoulders were wider than mine, I loved the way it fell on my body. I'd zig-zagged the buttoning, too, so it would expose my neck even more.

Danno arrived fifteen-minutes later, wearing a denim shirt paired with black jeans. He carried the scent of Marks and Spencer shower gel with him as he walked. Amidst the sound of running water and the absence of his voice, I left…I thought of the sound again. I thought of Danno washing himself, touching every inch of his toned body. Danno covered in steam. Danno, amidst the sound of running water…

I left.

"Hey," he said, "I thought I'd accidentally thrown that away, that shirt."

I chuckled.

"Looking good on you," he smiled, "really, you can even have it."

"Alright," Chin broke in, "we'd just received a black mail telling us there's another rat in HPD, connected to a drug lord from Thailand."

"Time to work, Danno," Steve said, "Chin, come with us—but we'll be splitting halfway: The drug lord has a friend in Hawaii, a local. You're to find out the location of his house. A modest one near the mangrove forest by the beach, I heard. Kono—as always: Conduct a deep research on the rat, the drug lord, and the Hawaiian friend. If any situation gets grave I'll call you for backup."

A Sequel, anyone?