= 9. =
 Martin met Joe Logan at the Surf & Turf Tap at one in the afternoon. It was still sunny, but a storm was moving in from the Pacific Ocean. Out on the beach, surfer dicks & chicks stood with their hair blowing to one side as they held their boards and looked out to sea. Life guards drove up and down the beach in orange combat vehicles, speaking on megaphones. Martin could not make out the words, just the tone. Whatever they were saying sounded ominous if not apocalyptic.
It was comfortable inside the bar. Martin wore a grayish-white hoodie. Joe wore sweats. Joe’s hair looked wet and tousled from a long set on the swells (Martin’s language for Joe had been surfing since daybreak).
Joe looked tanned, fit, and relaxed. "Four-foot rollers from the southwest all morning," Joe said as he held a cold beer. He had showered, and changed into a dark red sweat suit with the SDSU slogan down one leg. He was about to become a senior at San Diego State University. "What’s the matter with you?"
Martin fingered a hot cup of tea in both hands. "I am thinking of moving to London."
"Really," Joe said, leaving the floor open for Martin to elaborate.
The interior was, as always, shady and hospitable. It was like the weather—a lowlying babble of conversation, covered by a high layer of darkness and peace under the beamed ceilings. The walls all around were decorated with surf photos and other souvenirs dating back half a century—smiling men and women in grayscale, proud of their trophies, showing off their swimsuits and ripped bodies.
"Home life," Martin said as if that explained everything. "I am not going to live at home next summer. I probably won’t make it through this summer."
"London," Joe repeated while crouched around his beer at the bar with both muscular arms wrapped around the glass as if he were a large cat, and the beer was a kill he was about to enjoy.
"Oh yeah. London. It’s an option. I just wonder if it’s far enough away."
"Ulan Bator," Joe suggested.
"What?"
"Outer Mongolia."
"No Mexican food."
"That’s true," Joe said. "But we had a surfer chick at State from there. She could slide rings around any guy. I dated her while she went to State. Nice girl."
At that moment, Martin’s phone made a flushing-toilet sound, gurgling at length.
You have one unread txt message.
He pressed TXT and read the message. It was from Alienopolis Meta4City 39. His heart nearly stopped, but slowly resumed its pounding beat. He had programmed her name in code. That was Chloë Setreal.
Martin. How R U.
Joe said, "Bad news? You look like you just had a cow."
Martin shook his head. "Excuse me." He rose, took his tea, and walked out the front door while finger-tipping a reply.
Fine & U?
The reply came back two long minutes later. She must have been typing.
Newses(2). Had accident last night but going 2 B OK. Set up interv 4 U. Cn U come 2 LA?
He tipped back,
OGY. Call?
She replied,
Will call U 4 pm. Pls B 4 Me.
He replied,
Always 4 U.
She did not answer. He let the phone slide into one of the pockets on his hoodie. In his mind, he kept the conversation going. OGY meant Oh God Yes. He wanted to add but didn’t,
FYA
For You Anything. He was terrified she would think it meant For Your Ass, and decided not to—that would be pushing things.
"Hey." Joe came outside, holding his beer, and sat down at the table with Martin. "What are you up to? Looks like that tea woke you up. What’s in that?"
Martin felt a glow of joy inside. Was it possible that his summer and his life had been rescued? Was he about to have a new love life with the most wonderful and amazing chick he’d ever met?
"You’re on drugs," Joe guessed.
"No, I’m in love."
"That will do it every time. Can you drive home safely?"
"I’m not going home."
"Ever again?"
"I am going to LA."
Joe gave him a perplexed look, filled with concern. "Dude"
Martin shook his head. "I’ll be fine, but thanks for your concern.
Joe sat back, tanned and blond, with his rough, weathered hands linked over his taut abdomen. "Who’s the woman?"
"Girl that Carol and Alicia turned me on to. Works for Alienopolis in Los Angeles."
Joe brightened. "I know of them. They publish games and novels and movies about a bunch of superheroes and weird characters."
"I know," Martin said. "It’s my only hope in life as a writer. If I can get into the industry, which is like one chance in a million, I will revel and dwell in a fantasy world beyond anything we can imagine."
"True," Joe said. "I’ve played the role of Captain Tibur, the Shark King. I lead ninety-nine prehistoric sharks on a crusade under the sea to fight evil and save beautiful chicks. It’s really cool."
Martin nodded and imitated Joe’s posture, looking more academic and less athletic. What the hell—Chloë was a goddess, and she had liked him the way he was. "To hell with Shakespeare and Tolstoy. They had their day. We live in the age of Alienopolis superheroes and duperheroines."
"You are on a roll," Joe said admiringly. "When do you start?"
"I’m not that far along," Martin admitted. "I have to run up to LA for an interview. I don’t know. Chloë is handling the details."
"Chloë," Joe said in a questioning tone. "Your new secretary?"
"My duper heroine."
"Lucky you." He rose. "Well, I gotta split. I’m tending bar at the Surf Board up in Del Mar starting today. Did I tell you?"
"No, but congrats, man."
"Yeah, thanks. It’s four nights a week. My new summer gig. Drop by some time."
"I will."
"When you’re not chasing phantoms in Hollywood or whatever." Joe paused briefly to look around. "Enjoy the last of this warm, sunny weather for the next few days. It’s going to be wet and windy."
Martin sat at the table a while, as Joe strode off to climb into a rusting but chopped and cool VW Beetle classic and rattled off in a cloud of blue smoke toward Coastal Highway 101 going north.
He called home to tell his sister to tell his parents he might be out really late. He didn’t confide about Los Angeles. Too many questions, too much excitement, too little time.
"I’ll tell them," his little sister said. He could detect her sneer without seeing her.
"Out here," Martin signed off, wondering if he and she could ever be friends. And she was a really smart, cute girl. But so spoiled. Aside from being deathly loyal to one another, they had hated each other for over twenty years. Why change anything now?
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Thank you for reading the first half (free, what I call the Bookstore Metaphor). If you love it, you can (easily and safely at Amazon) buy the whole e-book for the painless price of a cup of coffee—also known as Read-a-Latte (hours of reading enjoyment; the coffee is gone in minutes, but the book stays with you forever). You can also get those many hours of happy reading from the print edition for the price of a sandwich (no, I don't have a metaphor for that, like a 'sandwich metaphor?'). To help the author, please recommend this book your friends, and also post a favorable (five star!) review at Amazon, Good Reads, and similar online reader resources. Thank you (JTC).
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