My bag is way too big and way too full for a couple of days and a few nights in Big Sur. In fairness, my wetsuit takes up a lot of room. Also in fairness, I don’t need four bikinis. Pretty sure Fox doesn’t care what I look like in a bikini, having seen me totally and frequently naked in the past several weeks. I have no desire or need to impress Jonah or his wife, Rae, for any reason. In fact, Miss Moon Glow hippie child would probably rather swim naked, but I don’t think the beach we’re going to is private. That sounds as though I don’t like Rae, but I swear I do. She’s a very kind and sweet person, and generally, hella laid-back. I get along with her just fine. I can simply do without having my horoscope announced every time I see her. It’s her obsession.
I was, however, kind of looking forward to having a more guys less girls kind of weekend. Burping, bad jokes–usually toilet or raunchy sex humor—and sleeping whenever and wherever. Unfortunately Doc had to bow out due to work, and Samson got food poisoning. Probably because the man refuses to properly refrigerate dairy like normal people.
“You ready?” Fox says as he walks in my front door. “Bus is leaving, doll.”
“I’m not a doll,” I say, setting up his joke for him.
“Yes you are.” His voice takes on that “oh, you know this one” tone.
“A voodoo doll!” we say in unison, both our mouths left to hang open in faux shock. He laughs. I wink and smile. It’s comfortable. It’s normal.
Good. This weekend will be good. He’s right. I need to relax, and just because it’s not the original plan doesn’t mean it won’t be exactly what I need.
“All right, Kahuna,” I tease him. “Let’s rock and roll.”
He picks up my duffel and I sling the backpack over my shoulder and pick up the small cooler I packed. I stop to lock the door and follow him down the path to Jonah’s Wagon. And yes, it’s “The Wagon.” It gets a name because it’s a classic “Woody” station wagon with the wood paneling on the sides. Watch any sixties’ surf movie and guaranteed, you’ll see at least one set of dudes driving one. I smile at all our boards mounted on top of the car.
“Sophie!” Rae pokes her head out of the passenger side. “I did all our star charts last night—this weekend is going to be so dope.”
The audience is rolling in the aisles. Their sense of humor is cruel.
When we pull up to the rental house, I’m surprised and delighted to see how big it is—from what I can tell in the dark, that is—not to mention how much space there is between lots. The land is rustic and looks exactly like a weekend cabin should, save that the house is way larger than any cabin I’ve ever seen. This is a cabin mansion. A cabsion? I need to stop splicing words in real life. Nothing good ever comes of it. My smurfer joke could have gotten someone killed. I splice scripted words and audio in fake life, also known as work. That’s all I’m allowed. I can only be good on one side of the fence. Apparently, that’s the fake side.
It takes us all of ten minutes to unload the car—save the boards. They can wait until morning. We congregate on the deck with the first cooler of beer, cider, and sodas. There’s a fire pit—legal, no less—just off the deck, so Jonah and Rae check the side of the house for a woodshed. I listen to the waves crashing not twenty yards from us and smile. When they come back with a lumber score, I realize we need snacks. Fox joins me in the kitchen to dig through the groceries and see if we remembered s’mores fixings. He pulls out peanut butter cups.
“That’s not right,” I say. “We need Hershey’s Bars.”
“The peanut butter cups are only for higher class taste buds,” he reasons, adopting a smarmy, infomercial-esque pose. The package of candy is underlined by one hand and held up by the other. I flap a hand at him.
“You’re awful,” I say, but the amusement in my voice says otherwise.
He chuckles to himself while pulling out the rest of the necessary items for s’mores.
I grab the marshmallows. “What the hell?” I ask accusingly as I hold up the bag and point to the word vegan.
“Don’t look at me,” he says.
“These are Rae’s, aren’t they?”
The way he bites his lips looks like he’s trying to stop himself from smiling, and thereby gives away the truth.
“Are the goddamn chocolate bars vegan, too? The graham crackers? This is about nostalgia, here. And tradition. With brand names and preservatives! No artisan this or organic that!”
When my voice cracks, so does he. He busts a gut for at least a full minute before stopping to address the issue. “No, Lolls. The truth is, vegan marshmallows were all they had at the store.”
“Where did you go? Hippies ‘R’ Us?”
“No, smart-ass. Zerbo’s.”
“You bought stuff for s’mores at a health food store?”
“It’s California, woman; half the grocery stores are health food stores,” he argues, weakly, I might add.
“Bull. Shit.”
Right at that moment, Rae comes into the kitchen and picks up the bag. “What the fuck? Vegan marshmallows? I wanted straight-up chemical puffs.”
And then I lose my shit. Laughing, of course. Rae almost immediately joins me, tossing our PETA-approved sugar puffs on the counter. Fox is a holdout, but folds just before Jonah joins us around the kitchen island.
“Did you guys break into the weed already?”
I nearly pee myself I laugh so hard. Oh yeah, this is going to be a good weekend.