On Missing

We decide to finish up our night at the beach with a drink and find ourselves in one of Hawaii’s shadiest spots. I swear to God, I didn’t know.

When I realize that I am ordering rounds at a “hostess” “lounge” (I’m compelled to use quotations because I have no idea what the hell to call this place) I am brought back to my last night in Jersey.

Unwilling to call it a night, we sought excuses to extend it with cigarettes on the hood of our cars, only to realize that we were parked besides one of Jersey’s Korean brothels. I have heard rumors that a significant amount of these women are manipulated with dreams of America or plain kidnapped and left missing to a future of prostitution.

Our conversations were interrupted by young men entering and exiting as we felt our tempers momentarily wake up. Some of us imagined Double Dragon-ing their way in to save make-believe princesses while others admitted how they were terrified to end up here on a lonely night.

In Hawaii, young businessmen are singing slow love songs with hostesses under their arms. And I wonder if the men sing like this when they are alone.

I order a round of tequila to remember conversations in Jersey. How it has mediated moments of anxiety, celebration and unrequited love. How we would inappropriately express the feelings we have towards each other’s sisters. How we would so often seamlessly talk about how the right woman could be the ail to all of our problems as well as the antichrist. How we would release our thoughts on God. I remember how, unlike most friendships, how these thrived because of difference, and not in spite of it.

As I’m leaving an old Korean lady rubs my face then slaps my ass.