Exercise 14: No Ideas, but in Things

Andrew empties two scoops of vanilla protein powder into a shaker-bottle half-filled with soy milk. He fastens the lid on the bottle, twisting it past what's necessary, then shakes the mixture. He pops the lid open and empties the drink into his mouth.

Through the small, undressed window above the sink, a foggy gray light suggests the apparition of a coast. California, veiled in a writhing morning of tulle-clouds and low, dense fog, doesn't hide what he told me last night was Malibu. It's marked by the colossal slope of darkness - one I'll never forget - that ends what can be seen of the coast through that window. And somewhere past there, around the bend, behind the dark mountain - El Matador.

Andrew's face moves to and from in the kitchen as he carries vitamins and a glass of water to and from, to and from, breaking the morning view through the window into blinking glimpses. He looks here and there, regards with regent's eyes the details outside - the apartments and houses, the fog, the miles of ocean, God only knows. Then he looks at me though not quite at me.

"Ready? They're down there by now." He says.

I nod, holding my breath, biting the inside of my lip. The pull for the zipper of my wetsuit flutters at my legs in a gust of wind coming through the open patio door. Beige carpet - better than cold wood - spreads through my toes. He closes a wooden cabinet.

Suddenly we are descending morning stairs, and the roar of the ocean is bigger than the fog, bigger than the mountain I agree is Malibu, bigger even than the ocean itself. The sound of crashing burrows deep into my ears. To the right of the hill, just beyond the tops of houses and sand-strewn "pads", the twin stacks of El Matador rise out of the Chevy plant and into the fog – two of a kind, built for a purpose, a purpose, to industry, they serve.

Andrew does not speak to me. Or if he does, I can't understand him through the water flooding my brain. The nose of his board angles down the hill. He hurries toward the water, toward who waits for him there. I try to keep up, but I lag behind. I only find him when he stops running.

In the parking lot, his friends are active wiggling into wetsuits, waxing boards, surveying the surf, or saying good morning with elaborate hugs and loud laughter. I squint at the ocean and try to reflect the hour in my face. The wetsuit, once a Christmas gift, hugs my body tightly. I’m only tired, I’ll say . . .