Processed in Paradise
A Short Story from Hawaii
I didn’t go to Hawaii because I needed a break. Let’s be honest. I went because something started orbiting Kaho’olawe, and where things orbit, I tend to show up.
It wasn’t loud hype. No banners, no desperate invitations. Just a shift in conversation. People casually mentioning it, like it had always been there, waiting to be noticed. I have a weakness for that kind of understatement. It usually means something is about to happen, or already is, just slightly out of frame.
My driver had the weekend off, which felt like a personal growth moment until I remembered I don’t actually do personal growth, I do improvisation. So I drove myself. I stopped at the edge of town for a picture. Obviously. You don’t cross into a place like this without marking the moment, and I’ve never been one to let a good entrance go undocumented. So I took my position in front of the sign, with a mix of deliberate and effortless. You know, like me.
For a second, it felt like arriving somewhere that had already started without me. Which, naturally, I took personally. So I got back into the car, drove past the sign, into whatever Kaho’olawe was about to offer.
Kaho’olawe unfolded in an easy and sunlit way and almost immediately, a Target appeared. Of course there was a Target. I’d heard my team mention it before, the kind of place where you go in for “just one thing” and come out questioning your entire identity, holding candles you don’t need and a plant you now feel responsible for.
Naturally, I pulled in. Or tried to. Parking, as it turns out, was a puzzle designed by someone who had strong opinions about spatial awareness. Concrete blocks lined the entrance like they had been placed by someone that said, “What if we make this… unnecessarily complicated?” The car, to its credit, handled it beautifully.
I stepped out, dress catching just enough of the breeze to feel intentional, and took a moment to look at the entrance. I had originally told myself I might pick up something. But standing there, just outside, I reconsidered. It’s a hot island. People are relaxed. Standards shift. Opportunities present themselves. So yes, maybe something.
Or someone.
I glanced at my reflection in the car for a second, not to check, just to confirm, and then headed inside, fully aware that whatever Kaho’olawe had started, was about to escalate it in ways that probably wouldn’t fit neatly into a shopping basket.
I met Kai at Aisle 1, which already tells you everything about how this was going to go.
He just… aligned. One moment I was considering whether I needed sunscreen, the next there he was, leaning into the moment like he had been briefed on me in advance. “Nice dress,” he said, before we even reached the peaches.
Of course it was.
By the time we drifted toward the candy bars, he had already closed the distance in an effortless, vacation-approved way. A light touch on my arm, casual enough to be accidental, deliberate enough not to be. I let it happen. I’m not unreasonable.
We moved through the store like people who had already agreed on something without formally stating it. I remember stopping somewhere between chocolate and poor decision-making, and I’m fairly certain we kissed near the cereals. Or the dog food. Honestly, the distinction felt academic at that point.
Target, even in Hawaii, tries very hard to remain a place of structure. Bright lights, neat aisles, the illusion that people come here with lists and leave with exactly what they intended. We were not those people.
Kai mentioned he had a place by the beach. “Cute,” he said, which in his voice translated to just enough chaos wrapped in a good view. Swings, a king-size bed, and, somewhat impressively, a clean bathroom. He emphasized that last part like it was a selling point. Hygiene is important.
“Stop convincing me,” I told him. “You had me at the pastry section.”
That seemed to settle it. We grabbed a cart, because committing to a direction deserves proper equipment, and I found a pen somewhere near guest services. The list came together quickly, almost professionally, if you ignored the content.
Strawberries. Whipped cream. Chocolate syrup. Figs, for reasons that felt both obvious and unnecessary to explain. Cucumbers, which I decided not to comment on. Red wine, because we have standards. Massage oil. Scented candles. Ice cubes. And then, just to remove any remaining ambiguity, lube. I held the note up for a second, looking at it like it might judge me.
It didn’t. Kai glanced at it, smiled in a way that suggested approval without surprise, and started pushing the cart.
I should have known the island would correct me. Kaho’olawe had been generous up to that point. Sunlight, timing, Kai appearing exactly when he was supposed to. And stories don’t like that. Apparently, neither does Target. Parking directly in front of the entrance, I learned, is not considered “making an entrance,” but rather “violating several clearly indicated rules.”
Kai and I exited the store in a state of distracted success. He was behind me, one hand occupied with the bags, the other one on my lower rear doing a surprisingly committed job of pretending we were already somewhere else entirely. We had everything. Strawberries, wine, candles, a vision. Except lube. Which, frankly, felt like a strategic oversight on Target’s part.
I was still processing that injustice when the mood shifted. You can feel it before you see it, like the scene is about to be interrupted by someone who doesn’t care about your narrative. Police.
I turned my head slightly, more curious than concerned. Kai, however, had a different interpretation of the situation. He ran. Not a hesitant step back, not a “let’s handle this calmly.” No. Full commitment. The kind of sprint that suggests prior experience. I watched him go, bags swinging, disappearing with impressive efficiency.
I’ve seen men run before. Usually toward me.
The officers, unsurprisingly, did not share his sense of urgency. They approached with the calm certainty of people who know exactly how this ends. My car was already being towed, which felt excessive but also, annoyingly, predictable.
They asked for my name.
I looked at them, waiting for the moment where this would turn into a joke. It didn’t. There’s a specific kind of silence that follows when you realize people are being serious about something they absolutely shouldn’t be serious about. I gave them a second, out of courtesy. Recognition has been known to arrive late. It didn’t.
So I said it, slowly, clearly, like you would explain something obvious to someone who had somehow missed the last few years. And watched it land like completely new information. Fascinating.
And so, my visit to Kaho’olawe shifted. No beach. No swings. No king-size bed, rhythmic movements, deep gasps and moments of lustful pleasure. Just a police station, a chair, and a paper cup of coffee that tasted like it had given up long before I arrived.
Processing. Such an unflattering word. For a moment, I almost felt like a normal person. It passed quickly, of course. But still. The horror.
A fine.
Not a conversation, not a warning, just a number attached to my name like this was some sort of… transaction. As if I was expected to participate in it.
They pointed me toward a machine. A machine! I stood there for a moment, looking at it the way you look at something that clearly belongs to another life. It blinked back at me like it had done this a thousand times before with people who understood concepts like “PIN codes” and “checking balances.” A code? I have people for codes.
I have people for anything that requires remembering numbers, pressing buttons, or acknowledging that money exists in a form other than “handled.” Money is a background process. It moves. It resolves. It never announces itself like this, in red screens and passive-aggressive instructions. “Insufficient funds.” Excuse me?
You don’t discuss money and you definitely don’t negotiate with a wall-mounted device about it. These things are taken care of. Quietly. Elegantly. By someone who understands the difference between necessity and presentation. I pressed a button. Nothing improved.
For a brief, deeply uncomfortable moment, I considered that I might have to ask for help. I didn’t. Instead, I stepped back, smoothed my dress, and looked at the machine one last time, as if to make it very clear that whatever this was, it reflected poorly on it, not on me.
So it came down to community service. The phrase alone felt… misaligned. How exactly is being on magazine covers, starring in the highest-grossing movie known to mankind, and, quite frankly, “being Doreen” not already a form of ongoing public contribution?
I didn’t say it out loud. Not because it wasn’t true, but because I’ve learned that when something is that obvious, explaining it only lowers the tone. Of course, there are no images from inside the school. Privacy. Boundaries. Protection.
Apparently those concepts apply selectively, because no one seemed concerned about my privacy when they took that mugshot under lighting conditions that can only be described as aggressively unflattering. No stylist, no briefing, not even a moment to prepare. I’ve had paparazzi show more restraint.
Inside I sat down and looked at the small faces in front of me, and for a brief moment considered whether this was the part where I simplify myself. It wasn’t.
So I told them stories about perseverance, which is not just about continuing but also about good hair and the right foundation to match an outfit. I explained how runway presence is all about balance, posture, timing and how these are life skills. I explained how important choosing your management is, to pick people who understand your trajectory, not just your current position.
The children listened and when it was over, I smoothed my dress, stepped away from the moment and realized I hadn’t eaten. Not a bite. Which, in hindsight, explains a lot about my tolerance for authority that day. Returning to Target felt… politically unwise. I’ve always believed in leaving certain chapters closed, especially when they involve fines, abandonment, and missing inventory. Fortunately, Kaho’olawe offered alternatives.
Walmart. This time, I pushed the cart myself. Growth after all.
I kept it simple. Apples. A smoothie. Nothing that required interpretation, decision-making, or emotional investment. Not everything needs to escalate. Some things can just… be apples.
I stepped back into the heat, slightly more grounded, minimally nourished, and still entirely unconvinced that this island was operating in my best interest.
By the time I made it to the impound to pick up my car, I found that final item on the shopping list after all, at the garage next door. “I’ll take it to go,” I muttered, mostly to myself. They handed me back the car like I was the inconvenience. I looked around once more, just to confirm I was done with this place, then got in and drove off.
Models shouldn’t go to islands.
This story follows an arc of a specific persona: the supermodel and movie star. Detached, slightly ignorant, moving through situations with perfect hair and questionable awareness.
Previous stories about me can be found here.
I went to Kaho’olawe, Hawaii for this short story, the latest project by Jihyun Vespoli. It’s a beautifully crafted destination, and I’d absolutely recommend exploring it yourself. With a variety of spots to discover, it offers the perfect backdrop for your photos, your roleplay, or simply being you.
