The Surf Guru

by Doug Dorst

  “Is this a joke?” I asked. “Are you behind this? Is someone fucking with me?”

  “What’s the problem?” Smiley said.

  I told him what the problem was. How Mo was Trace’s girlfriend, how they’d been together for some crazy number of years already. How Mo, who was older and had money, had bought us alcohol since we were way before legal, and she hadn’t ever minded cleaning me up whenever I got sick on myself or talking me down when the night suddenly turned hopeless. How the two of them had written a toast for me to give at my dad’s fourth wedding when all I wanted to do was curse everyone there. How, as combustible as they could be, Trace and Mo were the one thing I could count on anymore. How there wasn’t any room for some rhyming motherfucker named Archer.

  “Hmm,” Smiley said. I knew he’d quit believing in borders like these a long time ago. “The guy paid with a credit card,” he offered. “I’ll give you the number, if you want.”

  I told him I needed the rest of the afternoon off. He put his hand on my shoulder. “I’ll make you a deal,” he said. “Take these to your friend, and deliver the black ones, too, and then you can call it a day. Take the van home with you, just in case Charlotte’s thinking about slashing the tires again.” Then he disappeared into the front room, carrying a pail full of lark-spur and Queen Anne’s lace.

  I stood at Mo’s door, holding tightly to the smooth female curves of the vase. The day remained cloudless. A bluer sky never existed.

  I rang the bell three, four times. I knocked. I called her name.

  She answered the door in a thick green terry-cloth robe big enough for a boxer. Her face was pink and small and her hair was wet. She smelled like lavender.

  “I was in the bath,” she said. “I was thinking.”

  “You’ve had a hard day,” I said.

  “Like you wouldn’t believe.”

  I handed her the flowers. “Maybe these will help.”

  “They’re beautiful,” she said. “Thanks, Phil.” She led me into the living room and set the flowers on the coffee table. The air was cool and sweet. Ringo, her German shepherd, was lying on his side in a rectangle of sunlight. He was an old, old dog, arthritic and crooked. Around his head was a plastic cone to keep him from chewing himself open.

  “How long does he have to wear that?” I asked.

  “Until the end,” she said. “Which is probably going to be soon.”

  “That’s sad,” I said. “He’s a good dog.” All around the house were photos of Mo and Ringo growing up alongside each other.

  She closed her eyes and smelled the flowers, and while she was doing it I counted the seven freckles on her nose. I’d been counting her freckles for years. Usually I did it when I was loaded, to reassure myself that things in the world outside my head were still the same.

  “Thanks for the roses,” she said. “And thanks for driving Trace this morning.”

  “Aren’t you going to open the card?” I said, pointing. It was tucked between the stems, announcing itself whitely.

  “How did I miss that?” she said. She plucked it out. She used her palm to hide the blue heart and the ink on the card.

  I watched her read, thinking, Please don’t bullshit me, please.

  She looked up when she was done. Her eyes were blue-gray and revealed nothing. “Oh,” she said. “They’re from my dad.” The top of her robe had come open, showing a triangle of smooth, pale skin. With one hand she guided it closed again.

  Ringo started to whine. That dog understood things. I got up and brought him a chew toy, a length of thick rope with a knot tied in the middle. He gummed it and looked satisfied.

  As I was sitting back down, Mo took hold of my wrist and steered me into the loveseat next to her, smiling like nothing was wrong, like a girl wasn’t dead, like Trace wasn’t maybe blind by now, like she and I weren’t sitting together on a couch where she’d probably screwed a guy named Archer.

  “So,” she said, “are you going to tell me why your fingers are black?”

  “I have been implicated in many things today,” I said. “Today I feel cursed.”

  “You should try turpentine.”

  “You’re changing the subject.”

  “No, I’m not. Not if the subject is all this paint on you, which it is.”

  “The subject,” I said, “is Archer.”

  Mo was quiet.

  “Archer,” I reminded her. “I’d describe him for you, but I don’t know who the fuck he is.”

  She turned her head away slightly and bathwater glistened in the wings of her nose, and I thought she was going to say something to make things better. But she didn’t. “That was pretty manipulative,” she said, “not telling me you knew.”

  “I didn’t know what I knew,” I said.

  Across the room, Ringo struggled to his feet and slowly padded into the kitchen. It was a good thing that nothing was chasing him.

  “You have to let me tell Trace myself,” she said.

  “Maybe,” I said. I’ve never been good at thinking on my feet.

  “It’s very complicated,” she said.

  “It’s not complicated at all,” I said. “There are rules. You play by them.”

  “Don’t lecture me about relationships, Phil. I know you. I’ve seen you alone for years, and I’ve seen you with Katie, which was even worse.”

  Outside, an ice cream truck tunefully drove by. I didn’t know they even had those anymore.

  “Please let me tell him,” she said. “Today’s not the day. He’s having his surgery, and it’s been a tough day for me, too. I saw a girl die this morning, Phil. I spent all day trying to get twenty-five more girls not to die any quicker. I’m tired.”

  “Tell me about her,” I said. “The girl who died.” I was out of other things to say.

  So she told me. She told me about how the girl’s father had started molesting her when she was eight, how he liked to go to titty bars and teach her the dancers’ moves when he came home, how the mother was a boozy mess, how the girl had quit eating and gone to the hospital near death, all bony and jagged, covered in fuzz like a duckling. How the girl had been getting better in rehab, until this.

  “That’s the worst thing I’ve ever heard,” I said.

  Mo’s cheeks had lost their bathtub glow. I could see how exhausted she was. I pulled her into me, and she hugged back, and I said maybe I didn’t have to tell Trace today. I could have sat there forever, basking in her aura of bath oils and gratitude. You know me, I thought. You know my face.

  And this is what I thought about as I nuzzled into her neck: I thought about easing my hand under the collar of her robe and rubbing the back of her neck, and then tracing small circles all the way around to the exposed skin at her throat, and how everything would be quiet except for breathing. I thought about sliding my hand down to her chest and underneath the robe. I thought about kissing her, our faces so close I wouldn’t be able to see the seven freckles. I thought about all those things. But when I put my hand on the back of her neck, she said, “Don’t. Phil? Don’t.” And I said, “I wasn’t,” but she had felt it somehow—in my fingers, maybe. So I put one hand back on her shoulder, and the other on the arm of the sofa, and we sat. Then I thought about Trace, and I thought about how sometimes loyalty is the one thing keeping you from dropping to your knees and howling like a poisoned animal in all your aloneness.

  There was a lazy jingle of dog tags from the kitchen, and Ringo reappeared, tottering over to us. He put his front paws on Mo’s knees and tried to lift himself into her lap. His rear trembled with effort. Mo pulled away from me and helped the big dog up. She poked her head into the cone and let him lick her face. “You’re a good dog, Ringo,” she said. “That’s my baby.” She stood up with the dog in her arms. I was surprised she could carry him. “He needs to go outside,” she said. She was fumbling with the back door when the phone rang, and she asked me to get it. I answered and got Trace’s voice in my ear.

  “Phil? Did I call you? I meant to
call Mo.” He sounded half-asleep and confused.

  “I’m at Mo’s,” I said. “I had a delivery nearby.”

  He didn’t question. “I’m ready to go,” he said. “It went well. They tell me it’s art.” Which turned out not to be true. Even though they kept the socket from collapsing in on itself, his eye would always look half-closed and droopy.

  “You sure you want me to get you? I’m still driving the van.”

  “That fucking van,” he said. “Let’s drive that thing to Mexico, the three of us. We’ll sell it down there and party with the money. We’ll all learn how to surf. We’ll find you a señorita who will let you sip tequila from her navel.”

  “I doubt Mo’s up for that,” I said. “She seems pretty tired.”

  “Let her rest, then. And get here quick. This place is full of dying people.”

  I joined Mo outside. The lawn was a hearty chemical green that matched her robe. The dog was in some tall grass along the fence, whimpering, straining to squeeze out some relief. I told her I was heading out to pick up Trace.

  “You’re going to bring him straight back here, right?” she said, and I told her yes, I would.

  “Why don’t you take the roses with you,” she said. “You can do something good with them. Surprise someone.”

  On the way to the hospital, I stopped at a red light and saw a little boy in overalls in the car next to me. He looked at Smiley’s face with its demon grin and burst into tears. Who could blame him?

  Trace was standing in front of the glass doors when I pulled up. His eye was covered in gauze. He got into the van slowly, like an old man.

  “Your hands,” he said.

  “Tell me about it,” I said.

  He pulled down the sun visor and looked in the mirror. He fingered the bandages. “Want to see what it looks like?” he said. “I do.”

  “I think you should keep that on,” I said. “It’s probably holding something in place.”

  He flipped the visor back up. I put the van in gear, but Trace held up his hand and told me to hang on. He reached into his shirt and pulled out two surgical masks. He handed one to me. “Put it on,” he said. “So no one will know it’s us in this ridiculous fucking van.”

  “I have to do a delivery,” I said. “I have to bring some guy black roses.”

  “All the more reason,” he said.

  So we put on the masks. All you could see of his face was the one good eye. “Let’s get some smoke first,” Trace said. “I’m an eye patient. It’s medicinal.” The mask tented and pocketed around his mouth as he spoke.

  I drove us to Galactic Mary’s house, and I handed Trace the twenty I’d gotten from the rich old lady with the Jesus pamphlet. He went in, still a little wobbly, and came back out with a bag. We smoked in the van. I drove fast into town, racing the high, but Mary’s stuff hit fast and hard. It was good. It was just the thing.

  My mind was liquid by the time we got to the art-supply store where Chip worked. I opened the back of the van and saw both sets of roses, the vase of red and the box of black. I could have taken in the red ones instead, but I knew that wouldn’t solve Chip’s problems.

  Trace got out of the van. “I’m coming with you,” he said. “I want to see what happens when this poor bastard’s heart breaks.”

  We walked into the store together. There was a balding guy in a starched white shirt at the counter. “I have flowers for Chip,” I said.

  “Chip works in framing,” he said. “I’ll call him.” He switched on an intercom and said, “Hey, everyone come up front. Chip’s getting flowers.”

  “You didn’t need to call everyone,” I said.

  “What’s with the masks?” the guy asked.

  “There’s something going around,” Trace said.

  People gathered around the counter: a few girls my age, a few middle-aged women in floral-print dresses, some guys who were probably musicians by night. A spaniel-faced guy in a skinny tie walked up to me. “I’m Chip,” he said. I pictured him and the orange girl together on a beach, contentedly sipping rum drinks. It seemed possible. I thought about pulling the box away, I swear I did, but Chip had his hands on it, firmly, hopefully. I tried to whisper that he should open it in private, but he couldn’t hear me because of the mask and because his coworkers were chanting his name.

  I turned to go, but Trace grabbed my arm.

  “Chip and Alice,” somebody sang. “Sitting in a tree.”

  Chip opened the box, and there they were. All twelve of them, black as Bibles. Everyone shut up. A few people noticed my hands. Chip stood there with his mouth open. I felt grateful not to be him. I may have laughed, from relief.

  “What’s wrong with you?” the bald guy said to me. “Why would you do this to someone?”

  Before I could say anything, Trace put his finger in the guy’s chest and said, “Don’t shoot the messenger, fucko.”

  I watched Chip. Understanding crept into his face in a deepening red. “I think,” he said quietly, still looking at the roses, “I think you guys should get the hell out of here.”

  I led Trace away. Someone called us assholes.

  “Hey,” Trace said as we pulled away from the curb. “That guy stiffed you on the tip.”

  “Plenty of people don’t tip me,” I said. “This guy had a reason not to.”

  “It’s a matter of respect for the working man,” he said. “You have mouths to feed.”

  “I have mouths?”

  “I’m kind of hungry,” he said. His good eye crinkled up. Under the mask, he was smiling.

  “To the diner, then,” I said. “My treat, I guess.”

  “Ah, don’t worry about it,” he said. “Right now I should be with Mo. She and I both had to stare down Death today.”

  We were on an overpass, and beneath us cars flew brightly down the parkway. I said, “We could be in Mexico in three days if we headed south right now.”

  He lit the pipe again, passed it to me. “We can’t go without Mo. Especially since she’s the only one who knows Spanish.”

  I exhaled. “Do you know anyone named Archer?” I asked.

  “Don’t think so. Who’s that?”

  “It’s just a name I heard,” I said, and I thought, Just a name, just one name standing in for all the men who are better than you and me.

  Mo was sitting on her front steps, dressed, waiting and smoking. Trace thanked me and got out. I was going to tell him to take Archer’s roses and give them to her, but I decided Mo was right: I ought to use them myself. I deserved to.

  I watched as Trace hugged her. She touched his bandage gently, and he said something I couldn’t make out and they laughed. I honked as I pulled away from the curb, and they waved at me.

  This was my plan for the roses: I would go back to Smiley’s and get Alice the orange girl’s address out of the files. I would bring her the red roses and show her that her bad luck had boomeranged into good.

  I drove to the store and parked the van in front, because Smiley bolted the back door after hours. I unlocked the front door and stepped in over the electric eye that triggered “Edelweiss.” The light was on in the back room. I heard a clatter and a yelp, and I ran to the doorway. I saw Smiley on top of Charlotte on the workbench, pumping away. They were naked. They looked pale and waxy under the fluorescent light.

  Smiley stopped and looked at me, a smirk creeping up from the corner of his mouth. Charlotte tilted her head back over the edge of the bench and looked at me upside down. Her blond hair reached almost to the floor, where clothes and scissors and ribbon rolls and stems of baby’s breath were scattered around. I could still smell paint fumes, faintly.

  “I’ll just go now,” I said.

  “Bright and early tomorrow,” Smiley said. “No more of this late shit, okay?”

  “No more,” I said. “I swear.”

  “Hasta, then.”

  “Good-bye,” said upside-down Charlotte.

  That night I went to a bar a few towns over, where I didn’t
know anyone. The place was quiet. I was sitting by myself, tracing wet rings on the scarred oak, when a guy tapped me on the shoulder and started grunting at me. No words, just sounds, nasal and urgent. I told him to leave me alone. The last thing I wanted to do was try to figure someone else out. But the guy just got louder, more insistent, and he started jabbing his finger at me. I was about to knock him down when I realized he was pointing behind me, pointing at two women sitting at the end of the bar. Late thirties, both of them, and they looked like they’d seen some hard miles. One had straight brown hair crimped into little rows of waves. The other one wore a shade of bright pink lipstick I’d once seen on a dead old lady Black Swede showed me in the basement of the funeral home. These two women were staring at the TV, which was announcing the lottery numbers that nobody had matched. I turned back to the guy and he was smiling and making his noises, happier-sounding now. He pointed at me, then at himself, then at the women. I finally got it. He was deaf. “You want me to talk to them for you?” I said. “For us?”

  His hands tightened into happy little fists, and his head bobbed up and down—yes yes yes. I pitied him. He thought he’d found words in me.

  Little Reptiles

  Let us strive to do what is in our power and guard ourselves against these poisonous little reptiles, for the Lord often desires that bad thoughts afflict and pursue us without our being able to get rid of them. Sometimes He even permits these reptiles to bite us.

  ST . TERESA OF AVILA , The Interior Castle

  I. Boomslang

  On an after-hours tour of the natural history museum, my friend the herpetologist shows me the laboratory in which, fifty years ago, the division’s curator gathered with several colleagues to puzzle over an African tree snake that the city zoo had sent for identification. Thirty inches long, bright green and black-beaded, with folding rear fangs: it was almost certainly a boomslang, they agreed, but for the matter of the anal plate, which ought to have been divided but wasn’t. The men were confounded; this snake was a taxonomical impossibility. The curator picked it up for a closer look, but he took his grip too far behind the head and the snake whipped around and struck, burying those rear fangs into the soft flesh at the base of his thumb. That it was a boomslang was dramatically manifested by its behavior, the curator would write. Still, they all agreed, the snake was young and had been in captivity for some time, so it wouldn’t possess venom in enough quantity or potency for the bite to be fatal. The curator did the old cut-and-suck, then retreated to his office to chronicle his symptoms as the hemotoxin pulsed through his body.