"When I was a newspaper man in Arizona, we all acted as if we owned the world," the young reporter said as he looked across the small cantina table at his company for the evening. This fellow almost looked like a local. His bright, flamboyant shirt and tinted glasses were something that Sam had never seen before, but this was Sam's first trip out of the country and he had already seen quite a few things that he had never seen before.
For some reason, the young man in the flashy shirt seemed an anomaly to Sam. He had an air of military training about him, but his wild, rebellious eyes looked to Sam almost as if he was looking in a mirror. And hell, why not, Sam had technically been a Confederate soldier, for a moment.
Sam lifted his glass of brandy to his lips, savored a taste, and then sopped up the last remaining particles of his drink from the stubble of his incoming mustache. Then he continued, "We had our minds cranked, like the motors of a steamboat. But like the boat, even when we were full ahead, we didn't move very much. We drank, smoked, amused ourselves to no end in the bars and cat houses, but also in our columns. We published just about anything we damn well pleased, mixing interesting fact with outrageous romance of our own design without any regard or responsibility to the readership at all. We very much made ourselves the heroes of our own reporting, until we tried to report on anything of importance. Then we were shown the door."
The man brushed some ash off the table where it had fallen away from the cigarette that he had been laboring over. "That sounds like an amazing trip," the man mumbled through his teeth.
"But it's not like this place," Sam continued quietly, "I can't understand why so many white people are so intent on converting the native islanders to our fearful religion. I guess that they feel bad for all of the people that have perished in this paradise and never knew there was a hell."
The man stood up and shook Sam's hand. He mumbled something about really enjoying their talk, but he had somewhere to be.
No, Sam would later correct his memory. He had said that he had somewhen to be.
The man tossed a crumpled piece of paper on the table, as if in payment. The note looked nothing like any tender that Sam had ever encountered.
"I like that style," the man concluded in his barely decipherable speech, "Truth getting all mixed up in facts isn't any kind of truth at all, is it?"
Sam nodded as the man sauntered towards the door of the lazy cantina. The man was looking at the ceiling.
"Enjoy your stay in Hawaii," the man said as he put his hand on the exit, "Things are going to pick up after this."
Sam finished his drink and looked down at the bill that his company had left on the table. This man with the bowlegged walk and the inarticulate speech was the first time traveler that Sam ever met.
-SB
7-29-14
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