As he does so, he shakes his
head and gives us an apologetic shrug. Coupled with a
toothy grin, the driver's gesture reveals a touch of
mainlander frustration but is tempered with a
protective dose of islander fatalism. Coming through
the sealed windows of our rental car, it spells out a
succinct message: "Hey, it's Maui; what are you gonna do?"
Stallman can take it no longer.
"Don't you fucking smile!" he shouts, fogging up the
glass as he does so. "It's your fucking fault. This all
could have been so much easier if we had just done it
my way."
Stallman accents the words "my way" by gripping the
steering wheel and pulling himself towards it twice.
The image of Stallman's lurching frame is like that of
a child throwing a temper tantrum in a car seat, an
image further underlined by the tone of Stallman's
voice. Halfway between anger and anguish, Stallman
seems to be on the verge of tears.
Fortunately, the tears do not arrive. Like a summer
cloudburst, the tantrum ends almost as soon as it
begins.
Pages:
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350