That Time I Tried to Pass a Counterfeit Fifty …

It was a pleasant, sunny day in Honolulu’s Kaka’ako neighborhood. I was in a cheerful mood as I strolled toward the Don Quixote Market — which, name not withstanding, is a large Asian shopping center. I go there with some frequency, but not so often that staff members recognize me. Well, there was the young Hawaiian bagger who kept offering to sell me some of his family’s pakalolo, but that’s another story for another time …

As I approached the market I noticed a local man standing on the corner, wearing only shorts and flip-flops. He looked like he might be in his late teens or early twenties, and judging from his sun-bleached hair and deep tan I surmised that he probably spent a fair amount of time on his papa he’e nalu (surf board). Seeing me, he called out, “Hey, uncle …” The latter is a respectful term for older males in the islands, so I stopped to see what he needed.

He opened up his hand to reveal a crumpled fifty-dollar bill. “Could you do me a favor, uncle?”

Before I could respond he continued, “Could you go into the store and buy five packs of cigarettes for me?” He then hastened to add that he and his buddies wanted to smoke and he had volunteered to buy the cigarettes, but realized when he got to the store that he had forgotten his ID.