Could this be in the script?

The illegitimate great grandnieces of Kamehameha struggled without success to remain inconspicuous as they waited behind a screen for us to finally leave. The oven had been smoking for some time. Although, it’s probably not called an oven, I thought, and we’re probably their last customers for the day so they’re probably thinking you’ve said goodbyes so just get out of here. 

“I can drive the damn car,” I said.

We were sitting at one of the picnic tables spread across the front lawn. Jane, who’d been musing aloud that a rooster crowing in the middle of the day was yet another message from Dad, snapped in my direction, “I’ve already called Cheapo Cars and they’re on their way.”

“I certainly hope so.” We were only 15 miles or so from the airport but we were on the non-touristy side of the island where the roads were narrow and the islanders on “island time.”  I calculated we’d already been sitting at that picnic table for an hour.  Just us and the chickens on a glorious day.   And those big-assed Hawaiian ladies with their beautiful smiles holding daggers in their hearts for us Haoles.  I didn’t blame them. 

At first it seemed odd to my Western sensibilities that there were picnic tables and a playground at a mortuary but I had to admit, it was my best funeral-related experience so far.  I decided to come back to Kauai to die.  At his memorial in a Methodist Church in Reno that he didn’t belong to, all his war-time, pilot buddies in their wheelchairs cursed him for figuring out how to die brilliantly.  I only remembered the pasty taste of his dead flesh.

Let’s return from the awkward foreshadowing of the plot [cue the scriptwriter for future rewrites].  We’re once again at the oven scene, the big-assed Hawaiian princesses, the roosters with messages from beyond, and the Cheapo Car guys.

“I don’t understand. The car was fine when your father drove it. . .”  Oh please don’t cry again, Kathy. It’s not part of the script. You can’t be calling your lawyer first and children last and then stage a three day sob fest. 

“Let me guess,” Jane said, “Dad picked the car and Dad did all the driving.”

This could be part of the script.  Jane’s bitingly sarcastic. She did not get that trait in absentia of a paternal gene.

It was Day Three on the Island. The first ended in a run for a gallon of gin.

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