15. CHAPTER 15
Idon’t think I’ve ever been this cold in my entire life.
I know how objectively stupid that sounds considering there are entire countries much further north than I am right now.
And even though I was born here, the weather isn’t why I feel tied to the place.
Give me sun, give me steaming hot and sticky tropical days all year round.
Windchill so arctic it feels like it's blowing off the asshole of the North Pole, can fuck right off.
The sidewalks are covered in slush, and every step I take sends a slosh of grey, wet snow up over my Chucks.
I hate Wednesdays.
And Fridays.
And Sundays and Mondays.
I hate that I can’t ride my skateboard in these conditions.
I hate that Eden’s apartment building doesn’t have a doorman so while I was at work yesterday there was nobody to leave my delivery with.
And I hate even more that the post office didn’t notify me that the package was going to be held there for me to pick up until this morning, instead of yesterday when I could have easily picked it up.
I mutter curses into the scarf wrapped around my neck that’s not even mine.
It’s my brother’s too, same as the jacket; oversized, plaid, and aggressively masculine.
It’s not my style at all, but it’s been keeping me alive for the past three weeks.
I’ve had it on so often it feels like a second home.
It’s comforting, and big, and I can pull my hands inside the sleeves.
I've got my brown chords on again because they're the only long pants I have that don't have holes over the knees. Though they may as well be tissue paper at this point.
I should have caught the bus.
I need to stop being so stubborn.
Maybe the reason Eden and Tek are so damn grumpy all the time is because of this turd-hole weather?
Wait a minute.
Am I a genius?
Did I just figure it out?
Do I need to come up with a way to drag Tek somewhere more temperate? Somewhere tropical? Or would fifteen degrees warmer be enough?
I mean, he warmed up to me in his parent's basement. Literally.
I thought, for a second, he really was going to reach out and touch me when I lifted my shirt. I could feel it. There was something in the way he kept looking at me.
I know I was drunk, we both were, though I've had enough drunken hook ups with 'straight' men to know when they're hiding something.
But unlike all those other men, when I find that something, I can see it when I'm sober.
And that's not the case with Tek. He's a brick wall.
There's not even a slither of a crack where I can squeeze my way in.
He's vulnerable. I've found that, and now I see it like he's wearing a flashing neon sign around his neck everywhere he goes—but it doesn't say anything. It gives no clues.
He's still a mystery.
He's still untouchable.
Completely out of bounds.
I can't do this again.
What was I thinking about?
The cold.
This stupid fucking snow.
I have no appropriate clothing.
I really should buy some seeing as though I'm determined to see this winter out.
I've been wearing Eden's sweats at home, but that's where I draw the line. His taste is very lone wolf cosplaying as an angry lumberjack, where I'm much more soft boy sea otter. I'm cute, and I like to be wet.
One block from Main I catch my reflection in the liquor store window. My hair is matted and my undercut needs shaving, but I don't look bad. I'd fuck me.
I wait for the lights to change then cross over to the cafe. There are three tables lined up on the wide sidewalk with heaters above them, but everyone is inside like all sane people should be.
I stop at the door, stamping any excess snow from my shoes.
When I open the door, the warmth greets me like a giant hug, and I breathe the rich coffee air. The place is like every other generic coffee shop the world over. Wooden chairs and tables, art on the walls, and the music playing is famous songs covered by unfamous people.
It gets the job done.
It's not the best coffee I've ever had, but it's far from the worst.
As I wiggle my toes back to life I look at the pastry cabinet. The muffins look good today.
I step up to the counter, and the same young, silver-haired, barista who's always here is behind it.
“What can I get you?”
I give her my order and add an apple walnut muffin.
She taps it into the register then I take my muffin and collapse into an upholstered chair by the window where the heating vents blow warm air up my legs.
I close my eyes and let my head fall back, but just as I start to feel truly comfortable, my order is ready.
The coffee is fine, but I never expected excellence.
Looking out onto Main Street I see that in the short time I've been inside the sun has broken through, though I'm not optimistic. If anything, that just means more melted snow and my shoes are already soaked.
Can you die from having cold wet feet for too long?
Would it be weird if I take my shoes off and stay here long enough for them to dry?
My mind cycles through ten other ridiculous questions as I sit here alone.
Which is fine.
I can do this.
I can make it through the winter.
I can make it through the winter but… I need to get my ass in the ocean.
Since I first started, there has only ever been two times when I went this long without surfing. When I had my appendix out at fourteen, and when I stepped on coral and my foot got infected on Oahu.
I break off a piece of the muffin’s top, and, with my phone in hand, I lounge back and Google; car rental near me.
There’s only one option within forty five minutes.
It’s not one of the big names, it’s a small independent lot near the train station.
The website reads like a grandpa made it with Comic Sans font and photos that look like they were taken with film and scanned.
Every car is at least fifteen years old, and the prices are hilariously high considering all of the above.
Not to mention, because I’m under twenty-five, it’s a fifty percent daily surcharge.
I check Craigslist but the results are just as grim.
I broaden my search but pretty soon I’m back in California, so I put my phone down; annoyed, but not defeated. I will get in that damn water. An opportunity will let itself be known.
After I finish my coffee I return the cup and plate, wrap the scarf back around my neck, brace for the cold, and step outside.
The sun might have come out but the windchill is still fucked.
Bypassing Main Street altogether, I continue one block further down the cross street and take a left on Cedar Lane. Broadrock’s second strip of businesses are much less retail, and I pass by a law firm, a dry cleaner, and a dance studio on my way to the post office.
The post office is a brown brick building beside a doctor’s office, and inside it’s just as dreary as its facade.
A man with a mustache and a receding hairline stands behind a counter beneath fluorescent lights and ceiling tiles.
I greet him before he does me, and slide my package slip towards him.
He takes the paper, disappears out the back, and has me sign for the package without so much as a smile.
I linger a while, just staring at the box and the black Rip Curl logo boldly printed on the side.
It’s a generic postage box, but inside is a Flash Bomb steamer wetsuit, cap, and boots.
They were expensive as fuck—the most I’ve ever paid for a wetsuit in my life, by a lot—but it’s worth it. This is my sanity we’re talking about.
I grip the box under my arm, and leave the clerk in peace.
Outside again, I pause one shop down in front of ‘Harry’s Hut: Antiques & Treasures’.
On impulse, I push the door open.
Inside it feels a lot less treasure, a lot more junk, but I’m not a fancy guy. I lived in a dorm with three other men for the past two years.
The shelves are crammed with mugs, and plates, and what feels like thousands of ceramic figures.
There’s a box full of random cutlery, a taxidermied racoon with a mini top hat and monicol, and several racks of clothes.
At the back is some furniture, and I spot an armchair not too dissimilar to the one I was just sitting on in the cafe.
The tag says fifty dollars so I take a seat.
It’s comfortable, it doesn’t squeak, and other than a little fluff and dust, it feels like a steal.
Beside it is a large wooden crate filled with picture frames. I set my package on the floor and start looking through it. Some are rusty, some are chipped, but the glass is still good in all of them.
“You can have it for forty.”
I look up to see a middle-aged woman unpacking books from a cardboard box.
“Excuse me?” I say.
“The chair. You can have it for forty.”
I run my hand over its dark, woven upholstery.
I hadn’t considered actually buying it, but I start imagining it in the corner of the spare room instead of the camping chair, and suddenly I need it in my life. “Do you have any coffee tables?”
“No. Furniture’s been a struggle to find lately. Too many people want more than it’s worth… I’ve got a set of bedside tables, though.” She gestures towards the other side of the bookshelf she’s stacking.
I push up from the armchair to go take a look.
They’re dated, but not antique. I’d struggle to even call them vintage. Black wrought iron frames with glass tops and one drawer. They’re not ugly, but they’re certainly not pretty.
“How much?”
“Fifteen each.”
“Would you take ten?”
She agrees without hesitation, and suddenly I’m confronted with the logistics of my impulses.
“We don’t deliver,” she says, though not unkindly, as she walks towards the register. “I can help you get them to your car, but that’s it.”
I backtrack to the armchair and pick up my package. “I won’t need help, I just… I don’t have a car.”
“You walked to buy furniture?”
“I was picking up a package,” I tell her, placing the box down on the counter. “This was an unexpected detour.”
“Can you pay in cash?”