» Stuff You've Overheard

Radio Shack social justice vigilantes.
I once worked for a few years at a Radio Shack store in the mid to late 80s: business had become quiet ever since the new supermall had opened a couple of miles away with its own RS and we found ourselves with a lot of idle time during the afternoon periods.

One of my friends who also worked there was a fantastic electronic tinker: when bored, he would routinely open up the various boxes of electronic gadgetry and tweak them for improved performance. Many a customer must have received a pleasant surprise when they found their two way radio sets now had an operational range of five miles instead of the advertised and FCC-limited one thousand yards; or when they opened up their new Pro-34 programmable multiband radio scanner and discovered it was several orders more sensitive as well as capable of accessing all the supposedly locked out cellphone and private police frequencies. We would keep one of the modified Pro-34s as a display unit and during slow periods set it to scan for interesting conversations over the supposedly private airwaves.

One afternoon we were listening to cellphone dialups and my friend was idly writing down the phone numbers being called: prior to the modern network system the touch tones were still in use and it was child's play for him to identify telephone numbers from their tone frequencies. We usually just tossed the numbers in the garbage as the calls themselves were relatively harmless: dope dealers discussing their latest hauls or a couple of punks discussing which of their friends they were going to rip off that afternoon. One evening, however, we came across a call which drove us to action.

The radio locked onto the phone call as the carrier went high, so the phone number was easy to capture: it was a fairly innocuous sounding discussion between an overworked businessman and his wife, who asked him to come home to dinner and spend some time with the kids and his repeated refusal to show up soon, citing a huge backlog of extra paperwork to get through before closing on some important deal. With a resigned sigh, she relented and told him she would try to keep things warm upon his return, whereupon she hung up.

The radio did not resume scanning: this could only mean the guy on the other end had kept carrier high in order to dial another number. Quickly perking up, my friend hit the lock button to keep the scanner from drifting after this particular session and hurriedly jotted down the number being dialed and leaned in towards the scanner's loudspeaker. When the answer came, it was the sound of a young lady asking who was calling. The businessman identified himself to her whereupon she expressed great pleasure with his call, followed quickly by his saying, "I'll be right over, honey." The carrier dropped at that point. We stared at the now softly hissing scanner, then almost simultaneously looked at each other and said, "Bastard!"

It took us a few minutes to decide on a plan of action: as I seem to have a talent for turning a wrong number call into a full conversation I dialed the number of the housewife and, quickly explaining that this was not a wrong number I adamantly tried to convince her to call up the other phone number in a half hour's time and keep calling until someone answered, then ask for her husband to come to the phone. I quickly explained our "accidental" eavesdropping and said such a wonderful sounding lady did not deserve to be treated in this manner. I never knew what happened afterwards but she thanked me and hung up. This happened about sixteen years ago before the vaunted "caller ID" systems were widely implemented so we did not fear any sort of reprisals along those lines: in today's world it seems accidental SMS and email address errors reveal far more indiscretions any airwave vigilantes could hope to equal.
(Fri 11th Jun 2004, 2:07, More)

» Hidden Treasure

Uncovered and reburied.
A friend once purchased an old station wagon from a much older original owner and brought it over to my place for the sort of cleanup and tinkering I enjoy doing on someone's new ride. While clearing out the years of accumulated dust and crud from the interior, I opened up the footwell vent box on the passenger side of the vehicle and found a thick envelope taped to the side of the box. Opening that up revealed several hundred dollars in assorted twenty and fifty dollar bills. Being honest sorts, we called up the prior owner of the vehicle and were told, "well, it was for emergencies involving the car so I guess it's part of the car: enjoy it." We certainly did: taking care of registration, inspections, plates and a full tuneup without spending any more of my friend's money was especially pleasant - and the last time I visited him he was still using that spiffy old wagon.


On the Upcountry Maui farm property I lived on for many years, we noticed a section of the land where the ground boomed if you walked on it with a heavy tread. After some impromptu soundings to determine the general dimensions, we hired some acoustic analyzers from O'ahu and determined the most likely place to dig for an entrance. We hit paydirt on our first excavation: a shielded entranceway to a twelve hundred square foot plus fallout shelter which we assumed was built during the Duck and Cover era of the Fifties. We called the prior two owners of the land and they said they had no idea it was there. As the owner before that was long dead, we concluded he was responsible for the heavy duty construction work. We cleaned it up and ran electric power and some basic plumbing to it, then effectively sealed it back up again: there really was not much else we could think to do with it as we had several perfectly good houses scattered across the property and were not inclined to rent out a cave to someone else.

I just realized we didn't tell Haku about the shelter when we sold the property to her: I guess that little bit of treasure has been successfully reburied.


Several months after my father had died and we had finished all the details of his passing, I returned to the islands to spend some quality time with my mother. During an episode where we cleared out dad's closet space, mom said I was welcome to the old training revolvers (we used blanks on hikes with the setters to acclimate them to gunshots for those unfamiliar with the practice) and his favorite shotgun. As we folded up his shirts and pants to donate to a local charity, mom handed me his overstuffed tie rack (nothing but high quality thin silk ties: my dad's formal fashions would do a rude boy proud) and a box filled with his various money belts saying, "he traveled with you the most: I think he would like you to have these. And if you find some money in them, so much the better." Five belts, seven hundred dollars. Thanks, dad.
(Fri 1st Jul 2005, 8:03, More)

» Black Sheep

I seem to be the star. My brothers, on the other hand...
My older brother ended up being browbeaten by his first wife into becoming the bagman for a North Shore drug ring and offered up as the sacrificial "mastermind" when that group was busted: he was eventually given a probationary sentence brought about partially, I have always hoped, by my letter to the judge stating that my older brother is so very stupid he could hardly successfully pick his nose (true), much less mastermind a major drug operation. He is an essentially harmless person as long as you do not catch his attention, whereupon he will astonish you with his amazing ability to hold a long conversation without your ever saying a word. I guess being diagnosed as a hyper-manic helps in that regard. I avoid him simply because if I don't, he will start talking and never shut up.

My younger brother is the one to worry about: seven years ago he decided to write very detailed and threatening letters to all of the major old missionary family heads in Hawai'i and their immediate kin, which quickly earned him the ire of those who can very quickly turn paradise into hell with just a few pulled strings or dropped hints. This might have resulted in only a slight embarrassment to mom and myself but he could not stop there, oh no, not by a long shot. In addition to his threatening letters to the extended family were found several missives that directly threatened the life of Chelsea Clinton (yes, that one), thus ensuring that everyone within three branches of the family tree was visited by the men in black suits. Fortunately for me, my only visit took less than an hour but it definitely earned the punk my enmity, which worsened when I was called upon as the person closest to him (hah!) to make a special visit to his cell a couple of years ago for a new offense. After first being committed to an asylum during the trial during which he made a positive recovery with the use of copious quantities of lithium, he decided he no longer needed the chemical crutch and ditched the pills and whatever emotional stability they had lent him during that time. Shortly after that, he learned about a real estate controversy in San Diego centered around some historic bungalow and decided to torch the place as a way of resolving the issue externally. He failed. The next morning, when the camera crews were recording the damage, he returned and with cameras rolling attempted to set fire to the dwelling again. Climbing into his van he then attempted to drive over the reporter and camera crews. I have been notified the footage actually shows the cameraman and reporter dodging the oncoming van while still trying to record the situation: points for dedication to the job but demerits for being stupid cunts and not running for cover, you guys. While he seemed quite pleasant behind the armored glass panel there was a hint of not-quite-there behind the eyes. He seems to be in hiding now which is fine by me: if I never see him again that will be an ideal interval.

It is just a bit depressing to realize that despite having a decidedly sub-par life as far as my close relatives are concerned, I am still the shining star of the family because I have never been arrested or thrown into jail. But only a very little bit.
(Sun 16th Jan 2005, 11:21, More)

» Your Revenge Stories

More fun at college.
During my second year at Hawaii Loa a stupid female student decided it would be cute to walk across a frequently trafficked section of dormitory parking lot on the hoods of several parked cars, mine included. It was just a POS Omni and I didn't care about the paint getting scuffed but she slightly caved the hood in and needlessly dinged sheetmetal really steams me. I tracked down her location in the dormitories (pretty easy as there were only 150 rooms total) and proceeded to wage a low level war of annoyance against her. I started with keys liberally smeared with the slow drying, gap filling superglue, inserted into both lock cylinders of the door and then savagely twisted off to ensure no purchase whatsoever for removal. After four of these attacks her locks were replaced with unique blanks, necessitating a shift in tactics: toner bombs.

I secured one of the numerous and poorly cataloged jars of copier/laser toner from the computer supply center and created a slim envelope/baffle to slip partially beneath her door. A simple stamping on the exposed portion of the sleeve and clouds of the fine black powder filled her room. You can never get rid of all of this stuff, so people were continually getting black streaks from touching things in that room for years afterwards. The carpet was immediately replaced: her clothes took a bit longer to be completely cycled out.

The next insult was one that I had some difficulty with as I am a wee bit squeamish around them: cockroaches. I'm not talking about the tiny German variety but those monsters that occupy the tropical areas and grow to three inches in length if you give them the chance. Another membrane delivery device was constructed and filled with the scuttling mass (aiee...). After assuring myself it would be alright even if a few made it back out in my direction I snuck over to her dormitory, slipped the deposit end beneath the door and pulled the release on the far end, lightly squeezing the back section to encourage the blattidae to head in the opposite direction. To my relief nearly all of them entered her room where they promptly tried to hide in all sorts of semi-secure areas, just waiting for the first touch to send them scurrying into the open. When she returned and began discovering the artificial infestation the screams were audible across the dormitory campus.

The final insult was an inadvertent one: she and her friends ordered several pizzas from the local delivery place one Friday night and upon their arrival refused to acknowledge or pay for them, from what the delivery guy told us. We found out because as he left the dormitory we noticed the hotbags were still full and asked him what was wrong. There were a bunch of us, we were hungry, the table we were at was empty and we cut a decent deal with him, ensuring a lot of nice business for the future. As we tore into the still hot meal the same girl and her friends wandered out from their room and quickly figuring out what happened asked us to share some of the food. It gave me and my friends great pleasure to tell them to get lost.

Yes, that was her first and last semester on that college campus.
(Fri 14th May 2004, 7:46, More)

» Beautiful Moments

My last sunset with mom.
Shortly after my father died, my mother bought, remodeled and moved into a small house in the lower Kula region of Maui. I visited her there as often as I could in her later years, sometimes even managing three visits a year when finances allowed (I live about 5,000 miles away). It's surrounded by cabbage farms and has a low porch running along three sides of the dwelling. The small barn on the property has been turned into a garage with a compact living space set up in the rafters, making for a great way to visit the islands on the cheap: airfare plus about $60 a week for food and fuel makes visiting paradise easy on the wallet. Mornings there are wonderful, especially if I wake early enough to catch the mountain's shadow recede across the ocean and up the mountainside. However, it is the sunsets which are really what mom's place has been made for. Beachfront property might have all the sex appeal in the real estate market but the small group of islanders who live up on the slopes of Haleakala know where the real value is.

As the afternoon turned into evening my mother would sit near one corner of the porch gazing down the mountain towards the south coast of the island. As the sun approached the horizon it would become a bright red orb, casting washes of crimson light across the ocean and the central valley. If there were clouds in that direction, they would break up and scatter the sun's rays into shafts pointing into the darkening sky. Sometimes when the volcano had erupted on Hawai'i a particulate cloud would increase the density of the air around the islands, leading to an even darker red sunset. On evenings when there were numerous clouds above, the entire sky would be painted with a gorgeous palette of shifting red, pink, orange and purple hues. When the skies were clear there was just the sun and a long, glittering reflection across the water, making sparkles dance on the back of your eyes long after you had shut them against the pain of staring directly towards the spectacle. We would sit there as the cool air blew down from the upper slopes towards the sea and bask in the wonderful temperature differential as the warmth from the setting sun offset the cool, moist mountain air caressing our backs. For those who know when and how to look for it, as the sun's glowing orb disappears into the sea, for a moment the water's edge is lit up with a bright green glow: the legendary "green flash" of ocean sunsets. The show would continue for long minutes afterwards until we finally headed back inside her glass belted house, the better to keep looking outside from. It was moments like that which kept me coming back as often as I could during her final years of life.

Mother passed away in the spring of 2004. I rushed back as quickly as I could manage and arrived a few hours before final preparations had been made to take her to the crematorium. As the workers began to wheel her around the porch for her final journey down the mountain I noticed the sun had begun to set and asked them for one small indulgence. As the sun was beginning its descent into the horizon, we lowered the foot of the gurney, uncovered her head and let the warm red glow bathe her face one final time.

I never, ever questioned you when you said it, mom: you truly could not have picked a better place to die.

Thank you for your time.

p.s. My idiot brothers now want the estate company to sell the property as part of the settlement: all they can do is smell the money. I have no idea precisely how I can manage it but I am going to have that house for my own, regardless of their short sighted behavior. They can have their piles of money: I'll take the sunset.
(Wed 16th Mar 2005, 15:09, More)