A temple angel, slim with long blonde hair, asked if she could help. "Not just yet," Joe said and wandered down aisles of tin cloth pants, wax impregnated jackets with wool liners, vests, and virgin wool sweaters. He stood a long time in front of the duffel bags and assorted luggage. He was tempted by a carry on bag with a heavy leather handle, but in the end he bought a bag that reminded him of his Air Force AWOL bag--flat bottomed with a humped top and a single massive brass zipper. The canvas twill was doubled around the sides and bottom; the handles and the shoulder strap were made of dark bridle leather; it was the Fort Knox of AWOL bags. While he was at it, he bought a belt made of the same heavy leather. "Might as well have the best," he said to the angel, repeating the Filson motto. When he was back in his room, he unsnapped the new belt buckle and replaced it with the one he had worn for twenty years. The words he had scratched on it with a Dremel power tool were nearly rubbed away: "Eating a plum, hearing/ the roar of centuries--Kokee." Once a year, the islanders are allowed to pick plums in Kokee, in a park on the rim of a deep canyon. The trees are old with thick limbs. He remembered a young Hawaiian woman on a low limb, stretched out, reaching for plums--brown skin, black hair, dark green leaves, fruit, the ocean gray and blue for thousands of miles in all directions. Echoing silence. It was like being in a shell or a giant's ear. Joe put on his new belt and went down to the hotel bar. He ordered an ale and watched a boxing match on a large TV. Pit Bull Salvatori was wearing down a fighter named Fanatuua. He was sagging, his body blotchy. The bell rang and Fanatuua collapsed back against a padded corner post. A trainer squirted something into his mouth and rubbed his chest while his manager talked in his ear. Fanatuua nodded once. The bell rang again, and Pit Bull was on him, lefts, rights, uppercuts, trying to end it. At some point in life, Joe thought, how people lose becomes more interesting than how they win. Fanatuua wouldn't go down, seemed calm, almost as though he weren't there. He was covering up, weaving slowly from side to side. Maybe he was fighting the clock, not the man. Maybe if he made it through eight rounds he would have earned his money. Maybe he was out on his feet. The Philly crowd yelled for a knockout; the referee watched closely.