Driving Aunty Abby
Today we present the winning entry for adult fiction in our annual Holiday Fiction Contest, which drew more than 300 short stories in two divisions.
By Laureen Kwock
'The Next Best Thing'
At 9:45 Saturday morning Aunty Abby called. A little Japanese lady who lived in Upper Manoa, she needed a ride to her niece's baby shower in Waikiki.
Illustration by Martha P. Hernandez • The Honolulu Advertiser
"What time?" I asked, rolling over in bed and wondering if I had enough gas in the tank of my 1988 Continental.
"Right now."
"Okay ... be there in 15 minutes."
I hustled to shave and clean up, then hopped in my cab and made it up to Manoa, five minutes after 10. Aunty Abby waited by her garage and the Toyota she never drove any more.
"You're late, Myron."
"Sorry."
Aunty Abby was part of the senior citizen crowd I'd been going after. And it seemed to be paying off. I called my service The Next Best Thing and handed out cards to all the seniors in case they get stuck some time.
Seniors were good, though sometimes they expected more than other fares, like lugging a case of Hawaiian Sun juice from the cab trunk to their kitchen.
"Stop at Longs."
"OK." I kept the meter running, while Aunty Abby popped inside. The marketplace was busy with shoppers heading for the stores and people lining up at the Post Office to mail their Christmas presents. I didn't have anyone to buy presents for, unless I counted my ex-wife.
Ten minutes passed. Then another five. I hustled inside Longs to check on Aunty Abby. Just through the door, I found her talking story with another lady. No, not talking story, she was in the other woman's face, the two of them going at it. Little old Aunty Abby. Who would figure on that?
"I didn't cut in line. Why do you say that!" she asked the other lady, small and spry like herself.
"You lie, lady. You cut. Just because you old, doesn't mean you can just jump in front."
"Who you calling old? You older than me."
The cashiers gave one another the eye. No one knew what to say.
"Aunty Abby, you ready?" I asked. "I got the meter running. You're going to be late."
"Who you?" the other lady asked. Small beady eyes looked at me.
"Cab driver."
"Hah. So that's why you jumped the line, because he's waiting and your bill going sky high if you stand in line the way you supposed to."
"I didn't jump the line." Aunty Abby glared at me. "Go back to your taxi, Myron."
I wanted to protest, but those two old ladies were scary. Then the store manager walked up, a young guy under 30 and looking worried. I knew he was scared too because his Adam's apple was bobbing up and down in his throat.
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| About the author
Laureen Kwock has written romance novels under the pen name Clarice Peters. She began this story after attending a writing workshop with author Gary Pak, accompanied by her friend Janet Shitabata, a Honolulu Advertiser Christmas fiction contest winner, back in 2000 in the children's story division. Kwock was born and raised in Hawai'i. A graduate of the University of Hawai'i -Manoa, she is a member of the Authors Guild, Romance Writers of America, and Society of Children's Book Writers and Illustrators. She is the author of 20 novels. Her young adult romance based in Hawai'i, "Kimber's Cowboy," was published by Bess Press. She is married and the mother of a college-age son. |
"She cut in line ..." the lady said.
Aunty Abby stamped her foot. "I did no such thing. I've shopped here for years. Why would I cut in line?"
"Because he's waiting for you." She jabbed her finger at me.
"Who are you?" the manager asked.
"Nobody." I wished I'd stayed in the cab.
"Your mother?"
"No. Customer."
"Oh." Customer he understood, and he had two riled up customers right now. He glanced over at Aunty Abby, dressed nice in her pink long mu'umu'u and Ni'ihau shell lei. "You went through checkout already?"
"That's right."
"You can go then."
The cashier was still ringing up the other lady's stuff.
I picked up the bags for Aunty Abby. She always asked for double bags because the plastic bags always break so easy. Inside I saw kids crackers and a few toys.
"Come on, you going to be late for that shower."
When she was seated and buckled up again, I pulled out of the stall and started for the exit. That parking lot had holes everywhere, all dips and bumps in need of paving. Aunty Abby was rocking and rolling in the back seat.
We headed down University Avenue, no picnic any time of the day. I checked the rear view. Aunty Abby had her arms crossed on her chest, not saying a word back there. Not even scolding me for driving too fast. The fight must've taken a lot out of her.
"You OK?"
"Yeah."
"Where's the shower?"
"The Shogun restaurant."
"All right. That's a nice restaurant. You can eat up, right?"
She laughed. "Yeah. Hard to find?"
"No. I'll show you."
I let her out by the entrance of the Pacific Beach Hotel and showed her where the elevator was.
"Thanks, Myron."
She looked at the meter and gave me 30 bucks. Twenty-five for the fare and five extra for tip.
"You need me to come back?"
"No. My niece probably take me back."
"Have fun."
I caught a break and got flagged down at a corner for an airport run. A $30 fare plus tip. Airport
is contracted so I couldn't find a fare back, so I cruised downtown. Cabbies aren't supposed to do that, but I have to make a living. Then two tourists by Kawaiaha'o Church flagged me down, needing to go to the Prince Kuhio.
An easy fare. After I dropped them off I parked at the zoo and headed across the street into the Jack in the Box. I ate in the park, scattering part of the bun to the pigeons. A small boy started running after the birds, squealing and giggling as they flew off. Once I thought I might have a son like him.
I got back to work, cruising Kuhio Avenue. I hadn't gotten very far before I noticed Aunty Abby on the sidewalk by the bus stop. I honked and pulled over.
"You need a ride home?"
"I'll take the bus."
"You'll need to transfer twice where you live way up."
Reluctantly she got in.
"Your niece couldn't drive you home?"
"I said no need. Someone coming."
I glanced in the rear view.
"Aunty Abby, you never tell me you wanted me to come back."
"I lied."
"Oh."
"I lied. Might as well. I'm a liar."
"Hey, why you talking like that." I headed up Ala Wai Boulevard.
"Maybe I jumped the line."
"What?"
"I say maybe I jumped the line in Longs. What's the matter with you? You deaf?"
She was thinking of her fight with the other lady. "So maybe you jump the line. Big deal."
She nodded. "That's what I think. The other lady she had left to get some other stuff. So I pull her cart back and take my basket and put it on the counter. Cashier was all ready. The other lady not around. So I was trying to save everyone's time."
"Sure."
"Then she return all huhu. I let people do that. I let them go first if I'm gonna search for something else."
"Me too."
She sank further in that back seat, looking even smaller than ever. "Never thought she make such a big fuss."
"No one will remember."
"She will. That lady. The manager too. And the cashiers. They'll remember."
"Nah, they won't."
"Yes, they will." Aunty Abby kicked the back of the seat. That wahine small but got some leg action.
"I can't shop there anymore."
"What you mean? That's your neighborhood Longs."
"Can't go back there. Gotta find some other Longs."
"Well, the nearest is Moi'ili'ili or Kaimuki. You going down that hill every Sunday morning? And what if that lady's in Safeway when you're picking up bread some afternoon?"
She gasped, horrified, and I realized she never thought of that.
"I rather shop at Star or Times anyway."
"Safeway is closer. You always shop there."
"If that other lady around she'll tell everyone I jumped that line in Longs!"
We'd reached the five-way stop in Manoa.
"She won't say anything. Just tell everybody she lolo."
Aunty Abby laughed. "I wish she was lolo. Then they would believe me."
Finally we reached her place. She started to pull out her wallet.
"How much?"
"Nah. This one on me."
"I can pay, Myron."
"My mistake. I never turn the meter on when I start. So I don't know the fare. Besides you give me a big tip earlier."
She smiled. "You nice guy, Myron."
She held out a doggie bag. "You want to take this for snack?"
"What's that?"
"Some crab legs and sushi, if you want it. I never touched them, just put them to the side on my plate. Pretty good stuff."
"Thanks then."
She got out of the car, looking peppier than when I saw her at the bus stop.
"I'll call you again."
"Sure thing. You go inside now, Aunty Abby."
I waited until she went inside. At the five-way stop I reached into the doggie bag and took out a crab leg. I stared at it a moment. My stomach growled. Hey, it was Aunty Abby. She said she never touched it, and she was no liar. I sucked on the crab leg, the sweet taste lasting all the way back to Waikiki.
