Lemon Tsupryk Q2 #4: Hawaiian Pineapple

The air is alive here.

Soft murmurs shuffling in the bright streets down below, buses squeaking, people laughing. Wind swells, rustling as it flows like saltwater between towering buildings. 

Stars blink down on it all, beating through the light pollution of the city. There’s Orion and his belt, and there’s the Great Bear—most known in the states as the Big Dipper. I am still in America, after all, and I do not feel like I am not; if I were on the sixteenth floor of a hotel in San Francisco I’d probably feel no different, what with the ocean lapping at the doorstep and wind rudely shoving my hair in my face. 

Except, pineapple is sweeter here.

I take my eyes off the only two constellations I recognize and the manmade stars below to fish another chunk of pre-cut pineapple out of the flimsy plastic container with my fork. The height of luxury, really; to be so high up yet so close to the ocean, suspended above the breathing city in a structure named after a butterfly named after the concept of royalty. 

I watch another bus pull up to the stop I can see from the balcony. The fruit’s sweetness seeps into my tongue, and the acid nibbles a bit back at me. I think of who would be taking the bus so late at night. Night-owl tourists, maybe? Or workers. 

I look down again. Raise another piece of pineapple to my mouth. 

Someone cut this pineapple. 

Someone put it in this container, crystal-clear plastic a near imitation of the ocean water here.

They could be on that bus. They could be taking that trek back to their cramped apartment outside of the glamorous part of the city, exhausted to their core, wondering about how much of their next paycheck they would be able to set aside for their emergency fund to afford fines or medical bills—they are still in the states, after all. Meanwhile I sit here, enthroned on the rickety balcony chair, eating the fruit of their labor.

The pineapple has gotten no less sweet, but I put the fork down. 

I think of the people loitering on the beach in shabby clothing, most in wheelchairs. Not a bad place to be homeless, my mother had said, it’s warm. Probably plenty to eat. Can she really imagine being in their place? Tourists walking by, averting their eyes. Trampling the leis laid out on the sand. 

And just because I see, just because I recognize, does this grant me any moral leg up above the rest? Or does that make me worse, because I cannot plead ignorance? 

I shudder against the chilling night wind. I feel like a piece of non-biodegradable plastic pulled along by the currents of the ocean, bobbing up and down nervously, as the whole world around me travels along pre-determined routes. The tickets for the flight here have already been purchased, one half of the round trip already used up. Our hotel room has already been occupied. My father has already paid for the pineapple. The damage has been done. 

I close the plastic container, leaving the rest for later.

The view from the balcony of our room at the Pacific Monarch.