Around the table a new group of acquaintances discuss the recent Molokai gossip. An unpopular man from the west-end was found semi-conscious in a pool of blood. He was placed in a helicopter headed to the nearest functioning hospital off-island. Even before his body had left the ground folks began to satisfy their curiosity of events by making up their own stories.
“He was shot,” they say.
“No, his wife pushed him off the roof.”
“He jumped after finding out his wife was having an affair.”
Even at this small gathering of people I can see the roots of some good rumors taking hold.
Interspersed between tales of this man’s recent demise they bemoan the difficulty of the rumor-mill that is the reality of living on a small island. After three hours of listening to them discuss the woes of who said what about who and who about what one of them turns their attention to me.
“Wait,” he says, “We have all been talking about ourselves and yet we know nothing about you.”
Six hungry faces stare at me hungrily.
“What do you want to know?” I ask.
“How did you come to live on this island? What were you running away from?” they probe.
“Well, it’s a long story,” I begin “And I don’t tell a lot of people. But I know I can trust you all.” Their faces glow in anticipation.
“One word,” I hint, “Mafia.”
Living on a small island means that nothing you say or do is in confidence. Even the things you don’t do or say are subjected to public opinion as one woman tells me, “I stopped going to parties because I didn’t want to get so misconstrued by everyone. Next thing I know I have a new diagnosis in the community as an Agoraphobic (someone who never leaves the house). “
Damned if you do and damned if you don’t.
I’ve decided that if people are going to spread rumors about me then I want them to be good ones… hence the mafia story. I am also working other avenues… maybe some scandal regarding me being a serial killer.
You see, when you live on a small island, especially on Molokai, and ESPECIALLY on the West End, there is very little that changes. Locals fight to keep things the same, and then create drama, adventure and intrigue as naturally as the sea creates the shoreline.
I want to make it clear that I am not complaining about my new acquaintances’ ability to gossip. I quite like it… to a point. The characters of their sagas have as little to do with me as I have to do with the sheep herding practices on New Zealand and yet… It feels good to be around a group of highly animated folks discussing such trivial things that have nothing to do with me. I don't have television you see and so have spent way too much time in my little hobbit hole (the caretaker cottage) thinking and am in dire need of something or someone to bring me out of this self-obsessed state.
I indulge myself in the stories, and place as much attention to them being truth as I would in believing the reality of a sitcom. It’s still good entertainment though, no? And maybe by adding some red herrings about myself into the mix I can stir things up to the point where we will all get so sick and confused of the gossip and start talking about the things that are real… like the Venus star arriving as the first light in the sunset sky.
“What are your secrets?” he asks.
“I’d rather put my hand in a bee hive,” I think to myself.
But instead I say, “Don’t tell anyone… but I used to…”
You fill in the rest.
