Lilith and I went wandering past Subway, past Times Coffee Shop, and past the Jiu Jitsu storefront at Ko`olau Center, an ordinary strip mall with an amazing view of the mountains. Between Chille Relleno's and the driver's test place, a man was sitting on a bench. Beside him was a dirty white bucket full of leaves and flowers; some of them were laid at his feet on the concrete. He wore board shorts, a Champion shirt, and a white crew cut; he had half a mouth of artificial teeth, and eyes that squinted so much I could never quite look him in the eye. He muttered something about getting kicked out, his mother the retired cop (Punahou '59), his brother (manager of a local car dealership) and the 9 to 5 life he didn't have because he didn't have . . .
He grew up across Kahekili where we live, up hill from us on Hui Ulili, back when the townhouses were being built (that was the 1970s). As a kid he used to walk down the trail that goes to the community pool and pick flowers. There were a couple of gulches he found flowers in, too. He'd always liked putting flowers together. That's why he's the Pua Master! People who see his Instagram come from all over the world to get flowers from him.
While he didn't want his photo taken (he didn't know my motivations, when I asked), he seemed interested in making a display for me and Lilith. "It's my birthday!" I said. He smiled broadly and began to put leaves and flowers together. If they didn't quite fit with each other, he'd take one out and replace it with something from his bucket or the sidewalk. He slathered his displays with baby oil to make them shine. I noticed that there were two musubis on his bench, a peeled orange on the ground.
He met Jesus in the flesh, he said. It's important to pray. He was in suicide watch when Jesus came down and saved him. He served in the Navy in the late 1980s, then spent time in mental institutions. "They should have me behind walls now," he said. He could stay with his mother, but she says he has restless feet. Doesn't want to live inside, so he doesn't. He asks people if he can take flowers from their gardens; if they say no, he doesn't take them. If they say yes, well, here he is.
He took a rubber band off one of his bunches and carefully moved it over to the bunch he was giving to me. His fingers were worn, the nails framed in brown dirt. His legs were pocked with bruises and sores (small ones). Finally, he handed the bouquet to me. I asked if he would take a picture of me with the flowers. "No! Together!" he said, and we made a selfie, and I told what a nice birthday it already was.
The McDonald's drive-through was so full that a bearded man in a pickup truck couldn't turn yet. He smiled through his open window. "How much did those cost?" he asked. "Nothing," I said, and pointed to where he might meet the Pua Master.
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