My husband, Derek, recently turned into a road warrior.
Dressed in an understated polo shirt, khaki shorts and rubber slippers, you'd never know he harbored the soul of a samurai.
But it's not bad drivers, clogged freeways or ridiculous speed limits that bring out the fighter in him; rather, it's the sudden appearance of what appears to be an endless supply of public storage buildings along the sides of Hawaii's roads.
The first rampage occurred near the University of Hawaii. As we drove from Kaimuki toward Ala Moana, Derek grew more agitated.
"I think we passed three public storage spots," he groused.
"Did we?" I asked, wondering whether he wanted to play "I Spy."
"Yes. Public storage. Argh!" he said, shaking his head.
"What's wrong with public storage?"
"OK, with land prices going through the roof, and people being unable to afford decent housing, why are we building more places to store stuff? Why aren't we building places to store people?"
He had a point. When we returned to Hawaii from San Diego, we were surprised to learn that condominiums in town were being offered via lottery. We were equally shocked when a friend told us just a couple of months ago there was a line of people wrapped around the block on Kapiolani Boulevard, hoping to get their names on a list to purchase a new unit.
Clearly, housing is getting difficult to come by. The less land there is, the more we need condominiums so we can fit more people into a smaller space. The smaller our homes become, the more we need public storage for the stuff that doesn't fit into the two teeny closets provided by the developers.
After Derek and I had a 10-minute discussion about the lack of public housing, we went on with our lives. We ate, drank and were merry... until the next time we passed a public storage unit.
This time the public storage building was close to the freeway on-ramp on Ka Uka Boulevard.
"Wh-wh-what?! Is that a public storage unit?!" Derek cried.
I looked to the right. "Uh, yeah, looks like it. Yup, it's a public storage unit." I was glad I was driving.
Derek glared out the passenger window. "How many public storage places do we need?! That's a sizeable piece of land. We could have built a condominium there!"
I decided against pointing out that "we" couldn't have built anything there because "we" didn't own the land.
Instead, I opted for the trusty old "you're right." This time, the discussion lasted for about 15 minutes.
Well, if you can call it a discussion. It was more like Derek ranted and raved while I nodded, interjecting a "you're right" every now and then.
Pubic storage was fast becoming the bane of Derek's existence.
Some people play a driving game called "Punchbug," where every time someone sees a Volkswagen bug, she hollers "Punchbug!" and punches the person next to her.
Us, we play the game of "public storage." Thankfully, Derek chooses to growl instead of punch. "Public storage! Growl!"
"Is that another public storage? Growl!"
"One more public storage! Growl!"
The last time Derek flew into a rage over public storage was while we were driving to Ward Centre. Unfortunately, the area around Ward features several public storage units. By the time we parked, Derek had worked himself into a frenzy.
"You know, out in Waianae, we have tent city. All those people with no place to go. But here, here we have all the public storage units one could dream of."
"So what's the solution?" I asked. I thought about Derek staging a one-man campaign against public storage, picketing various sites and sitting cross-legged on the lawns.
Derek smiled evilly. "We turn the public storage units into real public storage units. We store the public."
An awkward silence ensued as images of people squished into cubbyholes ran through my mind.
But Derek wasn't finished. "And there could be showers in the front, like at the beach."
"Showers in front of the building?"
"Yeah!"
As Derek continued to outline his crazed vision, my thoughts wandered to "stuff" and the Buddhist concept of impermanence. I'm not sure how much stuff the average American accumulates, but I think it's safe to say we all could afford to cut down on our inventories.
My friend, Kim, suggested it's particularly hard in Hawaii because our culture teaches us not to waste anything. And so, in our attempt to keep it all, we find ourselves surrounded by empty mayonnaise jars, pastel plastic boxes from the dollar aisle at Don Quijote, pencils without working erasers, stuffed animals from the McKinley carnival, old college textbooks, and jackets with huge shoulder pads.
Even after we replace certain items, such as pots, pans and chipped dishware, we still keep the older models "just in case."
Just in case we decide to cook a meal for 300 guests. Just in case the new, expensive rice pot breaks when we're trying to make 100 cups of rice. Just in case.
The funny thing is it's true when they say you can't take it with you. You can take your family's love, fond memories and hard-earned experiences, but you can't take most of the stuff you kept in storage, "just in case."
Thank goodness, too. Who wants to be buried with empty mayonnaise jars, pastel plastic boxes and oversized jackets?
"So that's my idea. What do you think?" asked Derek, rousing me from my mental journey.
I chuckled. "I think that's a lot of stuff to think about."
Illustration by Jon J Murakami
