I can list the bottles: Beaujolais, Dos Equis, Miller Lite, sometimes Jose Cuervo, sometimes Gosling’s—all sitting curbside in the sort of green bucket most people reserve for newspapers.
My dad says that he and his friends used to call Hawaii “the rock.” Many of his classmates and buddies went to Hawaii for the waves and never left. When you were on the rock, you got stuck. Plane tickets home were cashed in for long board and zinc funds.
People seldom emote in waiting rooms. Boredom glazes over their faces as they flip through the latest edition of Real Simple or re-read that email from their landlord detailing the guidelines for recycling, or lack thereof, in their apartment complex.