by Nick Pirog
I may have told Chuck that I was playing with a few different ideas, but the truth is: after a week of trying to come up with a book idea, I’d gained five pounds (I eat a lot of Kit Kats when I’m thinking), I had a dry erase board with Mermaid Triplets with Superpowers? written on it, and I had a pounding headache (which might be from all the Kit Kats).
I wiggle my legs and Cassie stirs. We both jump off the bed and she follows me into the kitchen. I feed her a few blueberries, then I swallow a few Advil with the aid of a half-empty club soda. The dry erase board I ordered from Amazon takes up the better part of the living room and I walk over, pick up a red marker, and draw a line through my mermaid triplet idea.
I carry the rest of the drink with me, then head into the backyard. It’s the hottest day of the year so far and I slink into a chaise lounge in the shade. Cassie finds a spot near me, takes a long breath, then melts into the wooden deck.
I open the memo app on my phone and lean my head back.
Book idea.
Book idea.
Book idea.
Ugh.
I open Netflix and watch an old episode of The Office. I call two of my friends who I haven’t talked to in months. One in over a year. Neither answers. Finally, I call my brother.
“Wow, I must really be procrastinating,” I say out loud.
Mark answers on the third ring. “Little bro,” he says.
“Hey, Mark.”
We shoot the breeze for half an hour, mostly talking about my parents and their late-stage hippieness. We touch on him becoming partner, his wife, his kids. He tells a quick story about how one of his clients is a big fan of mine. We hang up, both promising to text more.
I snap a couple of photos of Cassie asleep, then post it to Instagram with the caption “Sleeping Beauty,” which I’m sure will amuse my 906 followers.
I get a text alert, thinking it’s probably Mark saying: You said we should text more! It’s not. It’s from Alex. It says: Check out this chick.
Attached is a screenshot of a Tinder profile. The girl is brunette. Pretty. She’s wearing a red bikini and standing on a boat. At the bottom is her bio: Rebecca, 27. Just looking for my Luke Skywalker.
Another text from Alex: She likes Star Wars, bro! This might be your only chance to ever get laid again!
I laugh.
I check the photo a few more times. She really is cute.
“What the hell,” I say.
I go to the app store and download Tinder. A half-minute later, it’s installed and I’m working on my profile. I select five pictures from Facebook that make me look more in shape than I actually am and that I have a bit more hair than I actually do. One of my best pictures is with enormous Hugo on my lap and I contemplate adding it, then think better of it. But then I realize the picture makes me more happy than sad and I set it as my primary picture.
(What stage of grief does that put me at?)
Next up is my bio. I’m a writer, so this should be simple. Only, it’s not. Do I want to be funny? Sincere? Laid back? Serious? Play up the Bestselling author thing? After ten iterations, I finally settle on:
Oregonally from Oregon (get it?) but I’ve been in Tahoe for the past three years. I’m a semi-famous author of a few novels. When I’m not writing, I’m playing with my dog, reading, watching Netflix, or THINKING about exercising. If you don’t know what Quidditch is, then this probably isn’t going to work…
Satisfied with my profile, I begin swiping.
~
Tinder message:
To Jess: Hey!
Tinder message:
To Nicole: Hey!
Tinder message:
To McKenzie: Hey!
Text message:
To Alex: None of the girls I matched with on Tinder are messaging me back!
Alex: Haha. Welcome to the world of internet dating. You match with that chick I sent you? Don’t tell me you’re just writing “Hey!”
To Alex: I swiped right on that Rebecca girl. Didn’t match. I might have said a few “heys!”
Alex: Girls hate that shit. Say something about their bio or comment on one of their pictures. And swipe RIGHT on all of them!
Tinder message:
To Brook: Hiya Brook. That’s a pretty nice looking fish you caught. Where was that picture taken?
Brook: Hi Jerry! I like your dog! Caught that sucker in Tahoe :)
Text message:
To Alex: I got one on the line!
Alex: Lol. I’m sure you’ll mess it up!
Tinder message:
To Brook: Thanks. That’s Hugo. He was awesome. He actually got hit by a car a few months back and passed away
Brook: Oh no! I’m sorry babe! Poor puppy! :( :( :(
To Brook: Yeah, it was pretty brutal the first few months, but I think I’m getting better. You live in Tahoe or just visiting? What do you do for work?
Brook: Oh good! I live here! #tahoelife. I’m a cocktail waitress at Harrah’s :) :)
Text message:
To Alex: She’s a cocktail waitress at Harrah’s!
Alex: Send me a screenshot NOW!
To Alex: [image]
Alex: Holy shit! Big ol fake titties!
To Alex: You think?
Alex: Yes, you idiot.
Tinder message:
To Brook: What are you doing tonight?
Brook: Work :( :( :(…But I’m free tmrw :) :) :)
To Brook: Awesome, we should try to get together
Brook: I totally forgot…my friends are playing at Live@Lakeview. We should meet up there. The first one of the summer is always a blast!!! Beer tent? 6:30?
To Brook: Great! I’ll see you there :)
Text message:
To Alex: Meeting at Live@Lakeview tomorrow! You gonna be there?
Alex: Thatta boy! I’ve got to scramble a website together for a guy by tomorrow night so I probably won’t make it. Julie will be there with her mom. She says to bring Cassie
To Alex: Will do
To Alex: Question: how late are tanning salons open?
Alex: I can’t believe we’re friends
Chapter 9
“LIVE@LAKEVIEW”
Jerry
Even though I live less than a mile from the lake, it’s been eight months since my feet last met the sand. The last time was early November, just before the long onslaught of winter. Previous winters, I was able to take Hugo and Cassie swimming in the lake between snowmelts (the water is cold but with their heavy winter coats they didn’t seem to mind) but last winter it snowed a record 700 inches in the mountains—over 150 inches at lake level—and there was three feet of snowpack around the lake until late April. By the time all the snow melted, Hugo was gone, and I couldn’t stomach the thought of going to the lake with only Cassie.
Today, however, I shall make my triumphant return.
Cassie and I are halfway through the mile and a half trek to Lakeview Commons, where the Live at Lakeview concert series will take place each Thursday until the end of summer. The bike path that runs parallel with Lake Tahoe Blvd is bombarded with fellow concert-goers and Cassie and I move off the path to let a large group of twenty-something guys—I’m guessing one of the many bachelor parties that come each weekend—pass. A couple of them stop to pet Cassie and she lets them, giving an extra butt wiggle when an especially handsome one scratches her ears.
When they’re gone, I laugh and say, “You’re such a flirt.”
We resume our walk, continuing past Heidi’s Pancake House, the Bijou Shopping Center, Pyramid Peak Ski & Snowboard, Action Watersports Rentals, the Beach Retreat and Lodge at Tahoe, Beach Bear Cafe, Sierra Shores condominiums, then finally the lake comes into view.
No matter how many times you see it, no matter how many times you peer out on the expansive blue water surrounded by the still white-capped mountains, it never gets old.
It is truly majestic.
Nestled high i
n the Sierra Nevada mountains and straddling the California/Nevada border, at seventy-two miles in circumference, Lake Tahoe is the largest alpine lake in the U.S. (and the second largest alpine lake in the world). The runoff from those record snowfalls the previous winter have filled the lake to capacity and it’s bursting at the seams. I’ve never seen the water so high.
Cassie starts down the path toward the water and I give her leash a light tug. She glares at me, then lifts her eyebrows—which are a shade darker gold than the rest of her fur—slightly.
“Sorry, girl, but we aren’t going in the water,” I tell her. “I have a date.”
I texted Brook an hour earlier to make sure we were still on to meet at the beer tent at 6:30. Part of me wanted her to cancel, to save us both from my awkwardness. But she texted back: Yessss! I’m already hereeeeeee :) :) :)
Cassie glances at the lake, then back up to me.
“Okay, maybe on the way back.”
She does a double twirl.
A half-mile later we reach Lakeview Commons. The Commons is one of the most popular beaches in South Lake. On any given day during the summer, the clean restrooms, snack bar, outdoor grills, picnic tables, beach kayak and paddleboard rental, boat launch, and large sandy beach amass a large crowd.
But on concert day, it’s madness.
A stage is set up at the water’s edge and a thousand people are dispersed between the beach, the auditorium-style concrete bleachers built into the sand, the large beer tent up top, and the several food trucks (including the big kettle corn truck) parked on a blocked off section of the street.
The bike path runs between the beer tent—which is less of a tent and more a fifty-yard cordoned-off area—and a grassy area dotted with skyscraping evergreens. Tethered around the trees’ girthy trunks is a labyrinthine maze of different colored slacklines. They are set at varying heights—from as low as one foot off the ground to as high as ten feet—and a faction of barefoot hipsters, tweens, and kids await their turn to traverse them.
One of these kids is Julie.
She’s working her way down the length of a purple slackline two feet off the ground. She bites at her bottom lip in concentration as she takes another step, then another.
Cassie sees her and lets out a soft whine.
“She’s okay,” I assure her.
(The highly coordinated ten-year-old might have nothing to worry about, but the one time I attempted to traverse the two-inch wide nylon—at Julie’s relentless badgering—I nearly killed myself. I attempted a line that was eight inches off the ground. I took one lurching step, wobbled for a nanosecond, then attempted to jump to the ground. Sadly, one of my feet caught the line and I flipped backward and landed on my head. In a moment of clairvoyance, Alex was recording me on his phone, a video which he then posted to YouTube, where it quickly racked up 820,000 views.)
Julie moves gracefully, one foot in front of the other, to the halfway point. The line shimmies and she nearly falls, then she regains her balance, walks steadily to the opposite tree, then jumps softly to the grass.
“Julie,” I call out.
Her eyes open wide and she runs over and wraps Cassie in a hug. Cassie licks her face. Then Julie gives me a quick hug and says, “So, my dad said that you have a date.”
“I do.”
“Where is she?”
I cock my head at the bustling group of drinkers hidden behind a blue mesh fence and say, “Somewhere in there.”
“Are you nervous?”
“A little,” I confess.
“Well, just be yourself.”
I let out a chuckle. “Thanks for the advice.”
She shrugs me off and I pass over Cassie’s leash. I tell her to leave Cassie tied up to a tree if she has to go anywhere. She takes the leash, then asks, “Can I have some money for kettle corn?”
“Where’s your mom?” I scoff kiddingly.
“I don’t know. Somewhere down on the beach.” She holds out her hand and flashes her jumbled chompers.
I pull a five-dollar bill from my wallet and hand it to her.
“And a slice of pizza.”
I shake my head, then add another five.
“And a slice of pizza for Mia.”
Mia is Julie’s best friend and I spot the shy Hispanic girl leaning against a nearby tree watching us. I give a light wave and she waves back.
I hold out a twenty and say, “I want change.”
Julie snatches the bill from my fingers, blurts out a quick, “Thanks, Jerry,” then skips toward Mia with Cassie nipping at her heels.
“I guess I’m eating tuna fish sandwiches all July,” I mutter under my breath, then fall in with the bustling crowd.
I continue past the mesh fence of the beer tent and to a throng of people watching the concert from the paved concrete up top. For the first time, the riffs of rock music lift from the white noise of the crowd. Three guys and one girl fill the stage on the water, including a bass guitarist with long blonde hair clad in a leopard print Speedo.
Gutsy move.
I check the time on my phone—it’s 6:22 p.m.—then glance at the entrance to the beer tent. My next girlfriend might be in there. The next girl I have sex with might be in there. Do I even remember how to have sex?
My chest constricts.
While I attempt to psych myself up, I glance at the thicket of people packed into the concrete stands and on the beach. A small group in front of the stage is dancing in the sand, a demographic that will increase exponentially as the sun dives closer and closer to the mountains. One of the dancers is none other than my neighbor, Paddleboarder Pete. He has his shirt off, his hat backward, and is grinding against a woman in white tights, a purple shawl, and an enormous red hat.
Pete’s blistering confidence—not to mention his muscular physique—makes me suddenly aware of how I stack up in comparison. I’m headed toward DEFCON-1 insecurity when I notice a familiar bald head in the crowd.
Thankful for a reason to postpone my first impression a few more minutes, I pick my way down the steep steps and slide into a vacant space of concrete next to my father. He’s wearing khaki shorts, a light yellow golf shirt—which has the unmistakable aura of thrift store (my dad loves a good thrift store)—prescription sunglasses, a blue fanny pack, and of course, his trusty compression socks and Tevas.
“I was wondering if you were gonna show up,” the elderly Japanese tourist who ate my father says. “Are you here with Alex?”
“I actually have a date.”
“A date?” he exclaims.
“Yes, Dad, a date. Don’t be so shocked.”
He ignores me and asks, “Where did you meet her?”
“Online.”
“Tinder or Bumble?”
“Um…Tinder.”
“Let’s see.”
“What do you mean?”
“Her profile. On your phone. Let’s see it.”
I pull my phone out and show him a picture of Brook. He gives a quick whistle and slaps me on the leg. “Hubba hubba,” he says.
Hubba hubba?
“Take your sunglasses off,” I tell my dad.
“Why?”
“Just do it.”
He pulls off his glasses. His eyes are big and glassy.
“Are you stoned?” I ask.
“Very.”
I’m about to let out a long exhale of judgment, but I suck it back in. “Brownies again?” I ask.
“Nope,” my dad says, unzipping his fanny pack and extracting a small bag and holding it up. “Gummies.”
He shakes the pack at me and asks, “Want one?”
“I’m good.”
He shrugs.
“Where’s Mom?” I ask.
“Dancing, I think.”
I lean forward and scan the small group in front of the stage. “Where? I don’t see her.”
“There,” he points. “With your neighbor.”
“That’s
not—”
The shawl and hat are so big it’s nearly impossible to tell, but as I watch the woman flail about—my mother dances like Elaine from Seinfeld: disco meets grand mal seizure—I realize this is my mother. Paddleboard Pete is dancing—no, Paddleboard Pete is grinding—against the woman who gave birth to me.
I lurch forward and dry heave.
Fighting back a second round of bile, I squeak out, “How did this happen?”
“Well, a couple of days ago, your mom saw Pete pulling up in his truck with all his paddleboards. And in all the years we’ve lived here, neither your mother or I have been paddle-boarding. So she asked if maybe he would take us out for a private lesson. When they started talking about payment, he said he would gladly take payment in brownies—which, by the way, he said that you told him about.”
“Which, by the way, I had to tell him about because my dog was catatonic in his backyard from my parents’ weed brownies.”
He waves me off and continues, “Anyhow, he took us out yesterday, then we had him over for dinner and your mother, well, I think she fancies him.”
“He’s like thirty years younger than her.”
“Thirty-four, actually.”
I rub my temples with my fingers to keep them from going Mount St. Helens and ask, “How are you okay with this?”
He pats me on the shoulder and says, “You need to mellow out, son.”
I stand and head back up the stairs toward the beer tent. After seeing your father stoned out of his mind and seeing your mother grinding her sixty-eight-year-old hips against your hunky neighbor, well, talking to a hot girl doesn’t seem so scary.
