I found a parking space in front of the shop, next to a charcoal-gray BMW coupe with chromed wheels and a rear spoiler. Despite the customization, the car hadn’t been washed in a while and the marine air had done its job on the paint. The license plate read SHT CRL. A bumper sticker said SAVE THE COAST, and a blue handicapped-parking permit rested atop the dashboard.
A cement ramp with metal railing led to the entrance of the store. Brass wind chimes tinkled as I stepped in; then I was assaulted by the drum solo from Wipeout. The store was double-width, with one half devoted to surfboards, custom wet suits, and surfing paraphernalia, the other to beachwear, suntan lotion, and posters, mostly variations on the tiny-man-rides-monster-wave theme or flesh-in-your-face shots of overripe women in micro-bikinis. Logos filled the rest of the wall space: BODY GLOVE. ONE WAVE. NO FEAR.
A few girls in their late teens browsed the poster bin, giggling, and a middle-aged couple stood by the swimwear, fascinated by the neoprene bathing suits. No one worked the clothing counter, but a man in his forties sat behind the surfboard register, eating a fast-food breakfast from a Styrofoam box and looking down at something. Above him a pink banner screamed SEX WAX!
Without glancing up, he said, “What can I do for you?”
“Just browsing.”
He forked something into his mouth, and I noticed the sports section in his other hand. His hair was longish, very thin, minnow-silver, combed across his forehead but unable to hide the sunburnt skin of his brow. He had well-proportioned features, except for light-brown eyes that were set too close. His skin had loosened its hold on the bones below. The eyes were bloodshot and bagged and, though he was lean, a second chin tugged at his first. He wore a lime-colored polo shirt with sleeves that reached his elbows. His shoulders were broad, his forearms chunky and furred with gray hair that nearly obscured an anchor tattoo.
The music switched to the Beach Boys’ “In My Room.” One of the browsing girls brought a rolled poster over to the clothes counter and looked around as she fished money out of her jeans.
The man said, “I’ll take that here.”
He put down his paper. The girl came up and paid for her poster and left with her friends, laughing.
The man swallowed a mouthful of egg-muffin and watched the girls wiggle the glass doors.
“Having fun,” I said.
“Yeah,” he said. “You see what she bought? Stud poster—centerfold from Pretty Boy. It’s meant for gays, but they put out a calendar and it sold so well to women, they decided to market the months separately.” He grinned. “In our day, girls weren’t like that, huh?”
“Not the ones I knew.”
“So what is it for you?” he said. “Reincarnation, or just passing through from Chicago?”
“Reincarnation?”
“Second childhood. Second chance at the big wave. That’s what it usually is when a guy your age comes in. Or a tourist wanting to bring home a little piece of California for Aunt Ethel.”
I laughed. “I’m looking for bathing trunks.”
He hit his forehead and gave another grin. “Wrong again. Good thing I don’t gamble. Suits are over there.”
I went over to a rack marked DUDES and flipped through the merchandise. A pair of baggy black trunks caught my eye because of a square patch with a Saint Bernard over the pocket bearing the legend BIG DOG. The mutt’s tongue was out and he looked mischievous. Clearly a spiritual brother to Spike. I pulled the shorts off the rack and brought them up.
The man said, “Cool baggies,” and rang up the sale.
I said, “What do the guys having a second childhood usually buy?”
“The works: board, board cover, leash, wet suit, wax, sport sandals, zinc, hair dye. We have the suits custom-cut for us; usually they’re freaked out to see what size they take now. Plus all the changes in board technology. A guy your age might have rode something as big as a tree trunk. Name of the game now is minimum weight.”
Turning his hand into a blade, he sliced air.