by Melinda Metz
“Excellent work,” Adam said. “In the future, I’d meet in a neutral place. You don’t want some nutbar hanging around your job. But she didn’t look or sound like a nutbar,” he added quickly.
“And it’s just meeting for cupcakes,” David said. “If I don’t like how it’s going, I can wrap it up fast.”
* * *
Jamie found a parking spot and checked the time. She had more than an hour to kill. After she’d found that T-shirt—still slightly damp with sweat—on her doormat that morning, she’d wanted to get out of the house immediately. She’d decided to explore Venice before her surf lesson. Her surf lesson! Just thinking about it made her stomach attempt to origami itself. But Ruby was right. Jamie was trying to figure out what her passion was, and only considering things she’d already tried was way too limiting.
She grabbed her backpack, locked the car, and headed out. Her plan was to stroll down Ocean Front Walk to the spot near the Santa Monica Pier where she was meeting up with the Surfer Chick, Kylie. According to all the guidebooks, the Walk wasn’t to be missed. As soon as she stepped onto the concrete boardwalk, she pulled out her cell. Everything needed to be photographed. Starting with the guy drinking a smoothie wearing only a tiny, shiny gold Speedo and a giant snake draped around his shoulders. Jamie got a shot where the snake’s tongue was flicking the cup in the guy’s hand.
“A buck a pic,” the guy told her.
Jamie stared at him.
The guy smiled. “I don’t care, but my snake’s a professional model. He doesn’t work for free.”
Jamie laughed. The guy didn’t. Neither did the snake. She pulled a dollar out of her purse and handed it over. “Thank you kindly,” the guy said, and ambled off.
“Hey, wait!” Jamie called impulsively. The guy turned around. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Got another buck?”
Jamie handed one over. “Do you and your buddy make a living doing this?”
“It keeps us in Moon Juice smoothies and a rat a couple times a month,” he answered.
“Do you like it? Is this what you want to be doing?” Jamie asked.
“What’s not to like? I’m on the beach. No timeclock. Meet new people all the time and have friends up and down the Walk.” His face practically glowed as he spoke, and Jamie couldn’t resist getting another pic. She handed over a dollar before he could ask, then continued down the boardwalk. Friends, new people, chose his own hours, got to work outside, every day was different. It sounded pretty good, Jamie thought. Except it involved a snake, so it wouldn’t be close to her dream job. And what did a guy like that do for retirement? Maybe he wouldn’t have to retire, she decided. As an eighty-year-old wearing a teensie gold bathing suit and a snake, he might rack up even more dollars than he did right now.
Everyone working on the Walk looked pretty happy—the woman giving henna tattoos, the man who would write your name on a grain of rice, the b-boys doing their physics-defying flips and spins. Jamie wanted to get pictures of them all and ask them a million questions, but she didn’t have enough singles. But when she spotted a bearded man wearing a piece of poster board clipped to his suspenders that said BAD ADVICE $1, she couldn’t resist.
She veered over to the bench where he was sitting, and he patted the spot beside him. Jamie handed him a dollar and waited. The man stroked his beard, thinking, then said, “Here’s how to get eaten by a shark.”
“Oh no. Not today. I’m having my first surfing lesson,” Jamie protested.
“Then the advice will be extra-bad. Here’s what you do. Go swimming at dawn or dusk. There’s an extra chance the shark will confuse you with prey. Swim alone. Wear bright colors—they can look like sunlight on fish scales. And give yourself a couple little cuts. Sharks can smell and taste blood for miles.”
“You’ve now freaked me out completely,” Jamie told him. “But I guess I can reverse the advice to get some good not-getting-feasted-on-by-a-shark tips.”
He winked at her. “Not what you paid for, but yeah.”
“Can I ask you a question that doesn’t involve advice?” Jamie asked.
“Sure. No charge,” he told her.
Jamie leaned in a little closer. “Do you like doing this? If you could do anything, do you think you’d still want to make a living selling bad advice?”
He laughed. Actually, he guffawed. Jamie didn’t think she’d heard a laugh that actually counted as a guffaw before, but his did. And she had to get his picture. “I haven’t always been selling crappy advice. I’m an entrepreneur. That’s what I love. Finding new ways to get people to pay me a buck—and feel like it was worth it.”
“Definitely worth it.” Jamie stood up. “Do I owe you for the picture?”
The man shook his head. “All part of the service.”
For Bad Advice Man, it seemed like creativity was key. Jamie thought she’d want a job that took creativity, too. She’d felt so stifled in her last job, having to teach to the test. There hadn’t been time to find inventive ways to get the kids excited about history. She’d had to focus on cramming the right facts into their heads so they could get the test scores the school needed to get its funding.
Jamie continued down the boardwalk, passing many more opportunities to spend a buck. She could have stuffed one in the pink bikini of a small dog or gotten her picture taken with two plastic aliens. According to a sign shaped like a huge marijuana leaf, she could get a medical evaluation for thirty dollars, and, presumably, use it in the medical marijuana shop attached to the “clinic.”
Everyone she passed seemed to have a sunny, happy vibe, until she wandered by a young woman selling her paintings. It had to be hard watching person after person walk past your work without giving it a glance. Jamie backed up so she could really look at the paintings. The girl didn’t bother to try to engage her in conversation or even look up at her. Her job was obviously creative, but that wasn’t enough.
The paintings were okay, just average beach scenes. Jamie could see why most people didn’t bother to stop. That was the thing about passion. Having passion for something didn’t mean you were good at it. Which definitely didn’t mean you shouldn’t do it. If you loved it, you should do it. But it probably couldn’t be the “job” part of your “dream job.”
Jamie couldn’t bring herself to ask the young woman the questions she’d asked the snake guy and the advice man. It seemed too intrusive. And Jamie also didn’t think she wanted to hear the answers the woman would give about the level of her job satisfaction. She hurried off, feeling a little guilty that she hadn’t bought something.
She was starting to feel overstimulated. A man in a turban whizzed by her on roller skates, playing a guitar as he went, and she didn’t marvel at him or at the teenager dressed as a mermaid blowing bubbles within bubbles. She picked up her pace, and reached the pier where she was supposed to meet Kylie, her surfing teacher, about ten minutes later.
Even though Jamie was early, Kylie was already waiting. Her fuchsia Surfer Chick T-shirt made her easy to spot. She was maybe thirty, with muscular Michelle Obama arms. Jamie took a deep breath and walked over to her. “Hi. I’m Jamie. Here for my surfing lesson.” Hearing herself say those words was slightly surreal.
“Ready to have some fun?” Kylie asked. “Because fun is at the top of my list of what I want you to accomplish today. I don’t care if you don’t do one successful popup. I want you to leave the lesson feeling surf stoked.”
“‘Surf stoked’?” Jamie repeated.
“It’s this high you get,” Kylie explained. “Surfing gets your dopamine and adrenaline going, and the breaking waves are surrounded by charged ions. The combo leaves you euphoric, as long as you don’t spoil it by expecting yourself to be perfect on day one.”
“I’m definitely not expecting that,” Jamie said. “Fun would be great.”
“Okay, let’s get you into a wettie. This way.” Kylie gestured for Jamie to follow her.
“As in wetsuit?” Jamie asked. “
It’s still so warm. Do I need one?”
“The water’s in the sixties, so you’ll want it,” Kylie answered as they walked. She led the way into a small surf shop and pulled a wetsuit and two plastic bags out from behind the counter. She handed them to Jamie. “Put the bags on your feet. That will help you slide your legs in. Then switch them to your hands when you’re ready to pull on the arms.” She pulled back a palm-tree printed curtain, revealing a tiny dressing room. “Call if you need help.”
Jamie went into the dressing room and shut the curtain. She stripped down to her bathing suit and slipped her feet into the plastic bags. “Oh, here.” Kylie tossed a Lycra shirt into the room. “Wear this under the suit. That way you won’t get surf rash.”
“ ‘Surf rash’?” Jamie was starting to feel like she should have done some pre-lesson research.
“It’s a rash you can get from the friction between the suit and your skin,” Kylie answered.
Jamie pulled on the tight lime-green shirt. Then she tried to get one foot into a leg of the wetsuit. She wriggled. Not much happened. She tugged. Then yanked. And managed to get the suit up to her calf. “Um, I think it’s the wrong size.”
“Just take it slow,” Kylie advised. “It’ll loosen up in the water.”
Jamie tried again. Arm muscles straining, she got the suit over her knee. Then it clamped down on her thigh. “Can these things ever cut off the circulation?” she called, hopping on her free foot.
“Well . . . I’ve never seen it, but—”
The hesitation and that “but” were enough for Jamie. “I don’t think I can feel my toes!” she cried. “You might have to cut this thing off me.”
The curtain was jerked back, letting Kylie, the counter dude, and two other guys get a good look at her in her surf shirt, bikini bottoms, and part of the Wettie of Death.
“Is she wearing the—” the counter guy began, but couldn’t finish. He was laughing too hard. The other guys were laughing, too. Even Kylie’s lips were twitching.
“No worries, Kooky. You’ve just been trying to get your leg through the sleeve,” Kylie explained. Her lips kept twitching, but she didn’t laugh.
“Oh. Okay. That explains it.” Jamie felt like an idiot. “I must be more nervous than I thought.” Her stomach felt like it had origami-ed itself into a porcupine, all sharp spikes.
“Let’s start again.” Kylie guided Jamie onto the small stool in the corner of the dressing room and pulled the curtain shut. She worked Jamie’s leg out of the neoprene vise, adjusted the plastic bag, and began gently working her foot into the correct opening of the wetsuit. Compared to the sleeve, the leg of the suit felt almost roomy.
About five minutes later, Kylie was zipping up the suit. “Are we having fun yet?” she teased.
“Well, I’ve completely given up any tiny expectation of perfection I’d been holding on to,” Jamie answered. “I guess that means I should be having fun any second now.”
Kylie slapped her on the back. “That’s the spirit, Kooky.”
“What’s with the ‘Kooky’?” It was the second time Kylie had called her that.
“It’s what we call new surfers,” Kylie explained. “You ready?” She nodded at the curtain.
“As I’ll ever be,” Jamie replied and Kylie whipped the curtain back, getting snickers from the guys.
“Take a bow,” Kylie whispered in Jamie’s ear. So she did, and the guys gave her a round of applause as she waddled toward the door.
Once they were outside, Kylie handed her a soft, bright yellow board. Jamie had been expecting one more like the one Kylie held—narrow and sleek, something that didn’t look like it was made of the same stuff as pool noodles. Maybe she kinda had been expecting perfection from herself. She’d had a few daydreams where she was riding through a wave tunnel looking extremely cool.
Kylie must have caught Jamie’s disappointed expression. “I always have beginners start with a foamy. It’s a lot easier to keep your balance on a soft board. And if—let’s make that when—you fall off, it won’t hurt so much if it smacks you on the head. You’ll have it attached to your ankle with a leash.” Kylie held up a length of turquoise cord with a Velcro strap at each end.
“We’re going to start off in the whitewater,” Kylie said as they headed down to the beach.
“Whitewater? Am I ready for that? Isn’t that the most dangerous part?” Jamie asked.
“You’re thinking of a river. In the ocean, whitewater is the part where the waves break near the shore. The only dangerous part is that once you catch your first wave, you’ll be gone. You’ll never want to do anything else,” Kylie answered. “The waves near the shore are the best place to let you get the feel of the water under the board, and we can stay out of the way of the serious surfers. They can be obnoxious, act like the entire beach is their property.”
They reached the edge of the surf. “We’re going to get right into the water. Like I said, I’m all about the fun, and I don’t think practicing moves on the sand is the way to get introduced to surfing. We’re going to walk out a ways. What you’re going to do is hold your board out to one side, one hand on each rail. That’s each side,” she translated. “Keep it an arm’s length away from you. You don’t want it to pop up and smack you in the face.”
“No. No, I do not,” Jamie agreed as they began wading into the ocean. Click, she thought. She’d started doing that. When she didn’t have her cell in her hand and she wanted to save a moment, she’d just think the word “click.” And she definitely wanted to hold on to the memory of her first time in the Pacific Ocean—with a surfboard.
“Okay, now turn around and point the nose of the board toward the shore,” Kylie called. “Look over your shoulder, and watch for a good wave, one that’s big enough to carry you in. Don’t go for one that’s already breaking.”
Jamie studied the waves rolling in. She had no idea which one would carry her. “How big is big enough?”
“Doesn’t have to be that big with the soft board you’re using,” Kylie answered. “When you see one you want to try, get on your stomach on the board and start paddling. Keep paddling until you feel the wave lift you. And remember—fun!”
Jamie nodded. It was hard to focus on picking a wave and fun at the same time. “That one? The second one back?”
“Looks great!” Kylie answered.
Jamie pulled herself onto the board, wiggling around to get herself centered, then she started to paddle. The wave took her—and carried her all the way in. She tumbled off at the last moment, but came up laughing. “That was awesome!” she yelled. “Awesome! Let’s do it again!”
By the end of the lesson, Jamie had successfully popped up to her feet three times and was completely surf stoked. She felt like she’d been drinking champagne, champagne and sunlight, her body all fizzy inside. She couldn’t stop grinning as she headed back down the Walk to her car.
It wasn’t like she saw herself finding a way to turn surfing into a career, but she definitely had something new for her list of likes. Not likes. Loves! Today definitely belonged in The Year of Me.
* * *
Mac purred, kneading his claws into Jamie’s hair. Tonight his person smelled happy, and new scents that Mac couldn’t identify clung to her. He could have stayed right there the whole night, but he knew Jamie still needed a packmate. It was a dog and human thing. She couldn’t help it. And there were other people out there who needed Mac. They didn’t belong to him, but he couldn’t ignore their loneliness, especially since they all seemed too stupid to know what to do about it. Maybe it wasn’t stupidity. Maybe it was just that they had extremely weak noses.
He stood and stretched, then leapt off the bed. Time to get to work. He slipped into the night, and darted through the shadows to the house of the young one, feeling the need to check on her again. He squeezed through a partially open window and padded back to her bedroom. The plastic pony was tucked into a box that smelled like the woman. There was contentment in that smell, and h
appiness in the scent of the young one. Satisfied, he started to leave, but paused near the sofa. The other girl was on the sofa again, reeking of anger and hurt. She wasn’t a young one, but she wasn’t fully grown. He remembered when he was that age. Sometimes it was like madness ran through him, making him want to run in circles and climb up the curtains. Mac opened his mouth and tasted the scent, taking in all the flavors. He’d see what he could do for her.
But first, some fun. Tail up, whiskers twitching, Mac trotted to the bonehead’s house. He wasn’t in the yard, but he was close. Mac stuck his head through the dog door, took a quick look, then crawled through. A second later, he heard the bonehead’s bellowing bark. Mac trotted to the kitchen and leapt up onto the counter. He pawed a container close to the edge, and when the big mutt raced by, Mac gave it one last push. The barks turned to a howl as the container bonked down on the dog’s butt. Something white and powdery that Mac couldn’t identify spilled out, coating a patch of the dog’s fur.
Mac started pawing at another container. “Diogee, what are you doing?” the dog’s packmate yelled. And Mac heard footsteps coming down the stairs.
The bonehead finally noticed Mac—just in time for Mac to send the second container off the counter. The dog leapt back with a yowl. Mac’s bomb missed, but hit the ground with a satisfying thump and sprayed coffee everywhere. Mac knew coffee when he saw, and smelled it. It was Jamie’s catnip.
The man burst into the kitchen. “Have you gone rabid?” he yelled, and the dog rolled over and showed the man his belly. Pathetic. But it gave Mac the perfect opportunity to escape. He started for the dog door, then turned and raced up the stairs instead. He’d get a little something for Jamie. He knew she’d gotten a good whiff of the man’s smell from that shirt he’d given her, but she hadn’t done anything. She might need reminders. Sometimes he still had to remind her about breakfast, and she knew he always wanted breakfast as soon as he woke up.
Mac decided to keep giving Jamie other choices, too, even though he liked this man’s smell the most and thought the man needed a human packmate as much as Jamie did, maybe even more. He’d keep bringing her smells, and eventually he knew she’d figure out what she was supposed to do.
