Every so often a reader will ask what the deal is with the name of this column.
"Incidental Lives"? How insulting! How arrogant to deem someone else’s life as something of minor consequence, as some byproduct of mere chance.
The idea behind the column is quite the opposite. The name was gifted by "Under the Sun" columnist Cynthia Oi, who saw value in spending a few column inches each week examining the otherwise unheralded lives of everyday people in our community — the early-morning walkers, the grocery baggers, the folks who hold the elevator as you race through the lobby.
Thus, with respectful nods to Studs Terkel and many others who’ve taken up the project of writing about the lives of ordinary women and men, we’ve tried to document the unique and wonderful incidents from which our lives are constructed and to acknowledge the incidental ways in which our disparate paths intersect.
I was reminded of all this last week as I was dealing with the theft of my motorcycle, an aggravating situation made surprisingly bearable by a series of brief, incidental interactions with people I’d never met before.
With my in-laws combing the neighborhood and my wife, Tiffany, busy making signs and rallying the KSSK Posse, neighbor Tony rode by on his Harley to see what all the fuss was about.
Tony is a war veteran and serious motorcycle enthusiast. It took him maybe two minutes to offer me the use of one of his extra bikes.
This was the first time we’d ever met.
A few minutes later, Honolulu Police Department officer T. Nguepojo arrived to take my report. Patient and good-humored, he secured the top position on my list of favorite cops by never once uttering the phrase, "There’s only so much we can do."
Sure enough, the police recovered my damaged bike the next day, a mile from where it had been stolen.
In line later at Stoneridge Recoveries, where the bike had been towed, I shared a bench with 27-year-old cabdriver Russell Tavares of Waikiki, who had parked his van along the Ala Wai the previous night and forgot to move it before morning.
It’s been a tough run for Russell, who was badly hurt in a mo-ped accident earlier this year. That day, he was just eager to get his van back so he could start making back the $150 he spent to get it released.
"Kind of sucks," he said with a fatalistic shrug.
To be sure, there’s no such thing as a happy visit to the tow yard. However, Michelle, who worked the shatterproof check-in window, had the sort of warm personality capable of disarming even the most irate customer.
Eventually, I also got to meet 35-year-old Pacific Paradise Towing driver Jason Kohn, the guy tasked with getting my bike from the tow yard to the garage.
Business has been good for Pacific Paradise, which means no downtime for Jason. Securing the bike onto the bed of his truck, he allowed that tiring as the work may be, it does have its benefits.
"You meet all kinds," he said, laughing.
Reach Michael Tsai at mtsai@staradvertiser.com.
