by Rudy Rucker
We had the by-now customary series of heated email exchanges, even though I’d sworn to myself that this time would be different. Actually I’m not sure Bruce even gets emotional, maybe it’s just me. He likes to remind me that, after all, it’s only ink on paper, or no, only bits in a datastream.
We went ten rounds, and by the end we were bloodied and out on our feet, and it was time to stop. Upshot? It’s a great story. And we scored an Asimov’s cover illo.
The Perfect Wave
(Written with Marc Laidlaw)
It’s a pleasant June evening in the funky California beach town of Surf City. Shadows lengthen across the state university campus, nestled amid redwoods and pastures above the town; on the bay, wetsuited surfers bob and slide on the tubes off Parker Point, their waves gilded by the setting sun.
The Boardwalk amusement park’s chains of lights are coming on; squeals burst irregularly from the roller-coaster. Low cars creep down the beachfront avenue, pumping beat-heavy music. Couples and families stroll about; kids play in the yards of the grimy pastel homes in the side streets off the Boardwalk; skaters grind and flip along railings, stoops and curbs. Borne upon the cool evening breeze, the smells of grease and oregano waft from a waterside warehouse restaurant.
The establishment’s marquee displays a long-snouted grinning cartoon rat holding a surfboard and an oversized slice of pizza, the slice flopping down to drip a cheese-strand onto the rat’s gnarly bare toes. The rat wears a top hat and a long red T-shirt labeled C. R. The marquee sign reads:
Cheezemore Ratt’s Surf Shack
Pizza, Games, and Family Fun!
Yes, We Have “The Perfect Wave”®TM
A tall, skinny young man with a shock of straight platinum blond hair is spraypainting a mural onto a concrete block wall facing the mostly empty parking lot, the mural potentially visible to the cars trolling the beachfront avenue. The painter is Zep: avid surfer, amateur scientist, temporarily unhoused. His recently acquired companion Kaya sits on the ground, smoking cigarettes, drawing in an art-quality notebook, and admiring him. She wears a carved black coral tiki-goddess head on a Day-Glo red string around her neck.
Zep is handsome, in a street-worn, unshaven way. Kaya wears her hair in a blonde Bettie Page bob—or, no, that’s not her hair, it’s a wig. Her eyebrows are shaved off and replaced by fanciful drawn-on lines. Her face is young, her front teeth large and rabbity. She wears a flowing paisley pashmina-size scarf across her shoulders against the cooling evening air.
Resting beside Kaya are three cartons of spray-paint cans, and next to the cartons are the couple’s freshly spraypainted bicycles, fat-tire beaters with stuffed saddle bags. Zep’s bike is now green, Kaya’s yellow. A garish science fiction novel and a computer science textbook peep from Zep’s saddlebags, also a soldering iron and a voltmeter. Visible in the open tops of Kaya’s bags are a Tarot deck, the brass stalk of a pocket bong, a plastic ziplock bag of granola, a tea-kettle spout, the corner of a silky purple sleeping bag, also pliers and a screwdriver. Kaya’s bicycle has a tiny motor jury-rigged to its rear wheel, with a little cylinder of gas connected to the motor.
Zep’s bicycle has a rack welded to one side, and snugged into the rack is his peculiar translucent gray surfboard, with an irregular dark shape embedded within its center. The board’s surface is rough and sticky. It, too, has been recently decorated by the spray-can: the name “Chaos Attractor” rainbows across it in loose script.
Zep has already covered the concrete-block wall with a blue sky background dotted with red-tinged white clouds. And now, holding a dirty handkerchief over his mouth with one hand, he dances along the wall, swinging a can of green spraypaint up and down in great arcs—limning the requisite image of a perfect wave.
“Slower,” said Kaya in a gentle tone. “Don’t rush it, Zep.”
“I want transparency,” says Zep through his handkerchief. “So the sky shows through. I’ll build up the base of the wave one layer at a time.” He jitters back and forth till the can is empty, selects a fresh can, begins shaking it, and hunkers down by Kaya’s side.
Kaya shows her notebook to him. “Look, I figured out how to position Cheezemore Ratt on a board. You’re lucky you met me yesterday, huh?”
Surprise: the pages of Kaya’s notebook are completely covered with astounding da Vinci-like drawings: a flow diagram of the air currents inside a cloud, a schematic for a small motor of novel design, a sketch of a twin-peaked quantum wave function, an image of Zep as a skeleton, and a fetching sketch of Kaya riding down the face of an enormous wave.
“Whoa,” says Zep. “I’m flabbergasted.”
“You still don’t remember me?”
“What.”
“We were in the same physics class freshman year, before you dropped out.”
“That makes you what, a junior now?”
“I never forgot you, Zep. Summer’s here, and you’re my summer project. Why do you think I pitched my tent by yours on the beach?” Kaya turns her face up at Zep, expecting a kiss, but he backs off, spooked, frantically shaking the spraycan.
“To be inside the radius of my awesome electronic sand flea disintegrator?” he said, not looking at her. “Maybe someday I can use the profits to buy a house.”
“You’re scared now? After last night?” says Kaya.
“You’re stalking me?” says Zep.
“Chasing happiness,” says Kaya, looking sweet in the fading light. “And I love talking physics with you. I’m writing a term paper about how the planetary wave function can change modalities and cohere into a fresh solution. About how the entire Earth can change. “
“All these threads at once,” says Zep, picking up a second spraycan and shaking the two cans at the same time. “What if I just put pieces of pizza on the wave. Hella easier to draw than Cheezemore Ratt and his Slicers.”
“Triangles!” says Kaya. “The elemental form. Good idea, Zep.”
Zep looks at her for a minute and comes to a decision. “Paint this with me, Kaya. You’re a better artist than me. Frankly, I’m worried about that wave I just started. It’s not epic. It needs—oh, of course!”
Zep sets down his paint cans to fiddle with his surfboard Chaos Attractor. The surface lights up with pale green scrolls which form a realtime graphical model of a wavy water surface as seen from above, with the water-heights coded as shades of green. The tints of green flow like sun and shadows on a wind-tossed harbor, but there’s something odd about the flow, something nonlinear, and now odd square-spiral waves begin rotating within the stew, sending out shockwaves of altered behavior.
It’s Kaya’s turn to be surprised. “Your surfboard’s a computer? I heard rumors but—how does it work?”
“That dark shape in the core, where it looks like a shark skeleton? That’s a vintage CAM8 cellular automaton machine. My good stick Chaos Attractor can not only simulate the state of the nearby sea, it can also propagate realtime tweaks into the surfspace at large, which means that, when I’m jamming the tubes, my moods can influence them. And when we’re dry-docked like this, I can use my board to simulate imaginary oceans. That’s what we’re seeing now. A boiling cubic wave equation. See how it wobbles out those bulges that gobble up the square corners?”
“That’s your mood?” says Kaya, tapping the surface of the board. “Oh, look, you feel me!” Oblong scrolls percolate out from her touches, blending with the jerky molten motions of the cubic waves. “I like you a lot, Zep.”
Zep freezes the simulation and walks to the wall with his cans of paint. “Grab a pair of cans and jam with me, Kaya. As soon as we’re done copying this image we can go into the Surf Shack to stuff our guts.”
“And talk about our future,” adds Kaya.
-----
Despite what one might expect for a kiddie pizza parlor, Cheezemore Ratt’s Surf Shack is a place of peace. It’s the audio ambience that makes the difference. The great room is wired to play the natural sounds of breaking waves, sprinkled with seabird skirl
s. Also woven into the mix are faint, sweet strands of surf music, and not hackneyed old crap, no, it’s offbeat procedural surf music that no one’s ever heard, the music mixed down low enough so that it fades in and out like a party you’re hearing from a quarter mile down the beach. The room’s air is fresh, with high windows open to the breeze off the bay. Children race in circles around a central clump of booths where their parents enjoy pitchers of imported beer.
Yes, the floor is sticky with spilled sodas, shiny from discarded pizza scraps, and gritty with cast-off kernels from the bowls of free pretzels and popcorn. And every so often a child falls heavily and breaks into screams—but never for long. The Surf Shack is an oasis of calm, the vibe-equivalent of an actual beach.
Cheap, free-access videogames line the wall on the room’s right side, their speakers turned way down so as not to clash with the pulse of the surf and the chiming of the surf music. Along the left side of the room are the pizza and drink counters. And at the far end of the room is the entrance door to The Perfect Wave, a high-end networked virtual reality cave with a few hydraulically jacked surfboards. Riding The Perfect Wave costs seventeen bucks for a five-minute pop, ten minutes for thirty bucks. It’s popular enough that sometimes there’s a line to get in. There’s another Perfect Wave cave down on the Boardwalk, but that one’s too heavily frequented, it’s like a worn-out public restroom.
Del works behind the pizza counter; he’s a short young fellow with a plain, honest face. He serves a man a slice of Cheezemore’s Hawaiian pizza: roasted fresh pineapple, Serrano ham, and locally made mozzarella topped with roasted Kona coffee beans—then turns to smile at the girl beside him filling a pitcher with dark beer. Both of them are wearing top hats like Cheezemore Ratt, with little pins saying Slicer.
“Almost closing time, Jen,” says Del. “You want to stick around? Mr. Prospero said I could play The Perfect Wave free all night if I’d mop the place. That’s hundreds of dollars worth of play-time. I’m really moving up the tournament ladder. You could watch me play.”
“How do you surf on a ladder?” says Jen absently. “Anyway, sorry, I need to get out of this box.” She’s cute with high blonde pigtails, though her face is drawn. Her bloom of youth is fading, with only work in sight.
“I think it’s fun here,” says Del. “Working next to you every day. When are you off this week?”
“Monday.”
“Damn, I’m only free on Tuesday. Maybe I can change to Monday and we can take a picnic out to Bitchin Kitchen beach where Zep’s camped out. Surf the day away.”
“I’m malling on Monday,” says Jen. “I have to find a dress for Zep and Kaya’s wedding.”
“Wedding!” said Del. “Zep only met her yesterday.”
“Oh, she’s known him a long time,” says Jen. “He has such a bad memory. She’s been, like, tracking him, and now she’s finally hooked up with him, and she’s using astrological birth control, and you know what that means.” Jen arches her back, grins and pats her stomach. “Wedding in July!”
“Good thing Zep got Mr. Prospero to hire him for the mural,” says Del, shaking his head. “He’s gonna need an apartment, or at least a room. Poor guy. He has this impossible dream of buying a beach cottage.”
“Kaya’s really rich,” says Jen. “Doesn’t he know that? She plans for Zep to finish college. Do you think Zep will thrash his mural? How did he even convince Mr. Prospero that he could paint?”
“Day before yesterday Zep showed Prospero some mural pictures in a book from the library and claimed he’d done them under a pseudonym,” says Del with a snicker. “You know Zep. He can fake anything. And it’s not like Prospero’s paying him very much. Prospero’s always so broke—for a guy who runs a business.”
There’s a sudden squawk outside on the sidewalk, the sound of voices raised. Kaya is cursing at someone, and that someone, a guy whose voice raises the hairs on Del’s neck, is cursing her. Abruptly the man’s voice rises to a frantic bellow. Zep comes tear-assing in through the door with its tiny tinkling bell. Close on his heels is a big guy with an ill-favored, somewhat triangular form. Del knows the silhouette from high school corridors and adolescent nightmares.
“Lex Loach,” he mumbles, casting a sidelong glance at Jen. He’s shocked to see her straighten, pull back her pixie pigtails, and smooth down her Cheezemore-Rat-faced apron.
“Hi, Lex!” she chirps perkily.
Zep tosses Del the can of red spraypaint he’s carrying, then vaults the bar and reaches under the counter, pulling out the lead-filled billy club that Mr. Prospero keeps by the cash register. Zep taps the club against his palm, glaring at Loach, who’s holding a can of black spraypaint.
“Yo, Jen,” says Loach, dropping his pursuit of Zep and giving his spraycan a maraca shake. “You about ready?”
Kaya comes in the door now too. “Hey, crackwipe! What the quap did you just do? You think you can get away with that?” She’s carrying her paisley pashmina scarf by one corner; it’s all smeared with red paint.
A mother at a nearby table grabs her highly interested toddler and leaves. In any case, the place is nearly empty by now.
Loach slips into a stool at the bar, ignoring both Zep and Kaya. He sets his spraycan down and flashes Jen a sunny grin. “Maybe I’ll have a beer before we go.”
“I’m talking to you, butt-face,” says Kaya, right at his side.
“Chill, Kaya,” snaps Jen. “Lex is my friend.”
“Friend?” squeaks Del.
“Jen!” says Kaya. “This turd sprayed black paint all over Zep’s mural!”
Loach shrugs. “Just wanted to save myself having to clean an even bigger mess off that parking lot wall in a week or two when the sale of this place goes through. No point putting any more work into it, Zeppo.”
Zep smacks the billy club evenly into his palm.
“No point flipping out either,” continues Loach. “You see me gettin’ mad? I could get mad. You sprayed a friggin’ pig face on the hood of my SPC. But thanks to a little turpentine and your stoner girlfriend’s do-rag, I’m willing to let it go. Just don’t come out from behind that counter, batboy.”
“I’ve heard enough,” says Kaya and stalks outside.
The smell of burning pizza crust registers upon Del. He reaches for the big wooden paddle. “What sale?” he quickly gets in.
“Prospero didn’t tell you, huh?” gloats Lex. “He’s in denial. Fact is, he’s selling this place to my Dad, yo. Gonna install a Snack-Fac right here. Give the Boardwalk tourists something they can relate to. Not like this space-case Cheezemore Rattshit scene you got here now.” He glances over at the Perfect Wave cave and snickers. “You play that big bad surf game, Del? You a heavy dude in the virtual world?”
“Don’t make fun of Cheezemore Ratt,” says Del with simple dignity. “He’s vibby. Just like Mr. Prospero. And, yes, I have the number two Perfect Wave ranking in Surf City. My Perfect Wave handle is El Surfiño.”
“You just tell that to everyone?” says Loach, shaking his head as if pitying Del’s naiveté. And then he reverts to his usual warty demeanor. “It’s not fair you get all that free time on the Perfect Wave machine here. Maybe I’ll have my Dad move that rig to our house while we’re steam-cleaning the stink outta this hole.”
“Let’s have our beer at the Boardwalk,” says Jen to Loach, hanging up her apron. She flashes Del a smile that lifts him for a second. “Del, since you’re staying late, will you close out for me?”
Stiff-faced, he says, “Uh—sure.” And turns to slide out the darkened extra pizzas with the paddle. The special after-hours snack he’d planned to share with Jen. The Surf Shack’s lights flicker twice. Closing time.
Still holding that billy club, Zep follows Loach and Jen outside. Knowing that Zep is weaponized, Loach chooses to ignore him. Kaya is standing in the lot looking happy again. It’s night now, with a low full moon’s light dancing on the ocean waves. A few blocks away, the Boardwalk amusement park roars.
Kaya w
atches Lex let himself into his Dad’s Suburban Personnel Carrier, leaving Jen to haul on the massive slab of passenger door as if she’s opening a bank vault. The behemoth rolls away.
“I can work that slash-mark into my composition,” remarks Zep, calmly studying his defaced mural. “I can have the picture be showing a quantum transition where one version of reality shifts into another. On the left side I’ll have pizza slices on a normal-type wave, and on the right side I’ll have, um, Easter Island moai gods on a boiling cubic wave. Like that tiki god you wear on your neck. Tikis are easy to draw. No arms and legs.”
“She’s a goddess, not a god,” says Kaya, fingering her amulet. “But—if Loach says his father is buying this place, why bother finishing the mural?”
“I’ll get paid just the same,” says Zep. “No effort’s ever in vain. And who knows, maybe my mural can juju the deal into falling through. Anyway, half the time Loach is talking out of his ass.”
A muffled thud sounds a couple of blocks away, followed by a crowd’s burst of applause and laughter.
“Could be the Loach family is in for a run of bad luck,” says Kaya, dimpling. “Could be they’re losing their wave.”
“You spiked that pig’s gas tank?” says Zep.
“His fuel injector,” says Kaya. “I set it up to explode like a bomb. I’ve forgotten more about motors than most men will ever know. What do you say we move all our stuff inside the Surf Shack and lie low?”
“I’m down with that,” says Zep.
-----
Delbert’s desultory mopping is done, along with the counting out. Zep, Del and Kaya have the whole Shack to themselves, the lights dim, the doors and windows shuttered and locked, infinite beer on tap and the two burned eggplant-and-anchovy pizzas that Del made.
They’re sitting at a table, smoking Kaya’s bong, with plangent surf music playing on low. Kaya extends her tongue; it’s smarting from molten mozzarella.
