SoBe, my greyhound rescue, looks up at me with his big black eyes. He’s a tuxedo greyhound—black with a bit of white across his chest and white feet—and my forty-mile-an-hour couch potato. He cocks his head to the side and communicates silently in our daily conversation.
“All right. Let’s go for a walk.” I’m not motivated to go out, but he has to. It’s late May, and I miss the sun. I need a sweater, and I want to wear shorts and a T-shirt.
SoBe stands and stretches into a downward dog pose with his tail wagging. He hears walk and he’s ready to explore, rain or shine. Despite never having been fast enough to race, he’s the love of my life. SoBe steps closer and rests his head on my lap. He’s got me wrapped around his finger.
“You’ve convinced me,” I tell him. “I need to stretch my legs, too.”
I fasten his leash since it only takes a moment for him to become distracted and he’ll be gone once he starts chasing something—people and traffic be damned. We set out to the park at Coit Tower. As we exit my front door, my neighbor Mindy steps out.
“Hey, Axel,” she mewls.
“Mindy,” I say, trying to be polite. Mindy Fraser has flirted with me since I moved in. She’s beautiful, but not appealing otherwise. And anyway, I don’t pee where I eat. She once showed up only wearing panties at my front door. She said she accidentally locked herself out of her place. The first thing I wondered was why she was outside in just panties. But I gave her a T-shirt and called her a locksmith. I keep walking.
“How were the waves today?” my neighbor Andrew Fitzsimmons asks as I step into the courtyard.
Andrew knows I try to get out most mornings to catch a few waves, and he enjoys reliving his glory days of surfing with me. “They weren’t too bad in Pacifica.”
“Man, in my day, we’d head down to Santa Cruz.”
“It’s one of my favorite spots, too,” I tell him.
SoBe and I walk for a little over an hour. He attracts all kinds of attention, usually from the fairer sex, which I don’t mind at all. He’s helped make the transition to living in San Francisco a little easier.
A beautiful, dark-haired woman is talking to SoBe about his tuxedo when my cellphone rings and Foreigner’s “Urgent “plays, so I know it’s my baby sister. “Excuse me.”
She laughs. “It must be urgent.”
I can’t help but grin. “If you only knew.”
“Hey, beautiful!” I say into the phone as the woman hands me her card and mouths, Call me. I smile as I tuck the card in my pocket and admire the view as the woman retreats. I may just have to do that. I pat SoBe on the head.
“Right back atacha, you Barney,” my sister says.
I roll my eyes. Surfers use Barney to call someone uncool. I’m cool. My sister, Alana, is married to Marco Hammond, who’s been my friend since high school and is a professional surfer. “I hear waves crashing. Who’s really the Barney to call and rub in Australia’s best waves?”
“The waves are ankle biters today,” she complains.
It’s crisp today in San Francisco, though the fog has settled nicely. The temperature high might make it to fifty, if we’re lucky. “I’m not very sorry that you’re sitting at the beach.”
She laughs. “How’s the action with the Bettys?”
My sister and her surf lingo—Bettys are women. “Nothing too serious.”
“Up to your old bag of tricks—a different girl every night?”
Not every night. “What’s the schedule?” I ask to move the conversation off of my sex life and back to her and Marco’s plans. Winter is in full swing down below, and the surf competitions are running above the equator these days.
“I think we’re looking at a trip stateside to Cali in a few. Mom and Dad will be celebrating their fortieth, so we should start thinking about their anniversary party.”
This isn’t a real reason to call—their anniversary isn’t for nine months. Something’s going on. I look to the heavens for a moment. I don’t have time for this, but my sister is in Australia, enjoying the waves at Byron Bay, and she wants to ease into whatever she needs to talk about.
“What are you thinking?” I ask.
“We could always get them to the North Shore on Oahu?” she offers.
“I can’t get away for that in February,” I tell her. I get it. Marco hasn’t done exceptionally well on the professional surfing tour this year, and money is tight. “Kelly is in on Monday. Let me have her do a little bit of research and see what she can find.”
“Thanks, Axe.” She sounds tired. “I think it’s time the kids and I come home.”
My heart softens. “Let me know what you need. I’ll do whatever I can.”
“I needed to hear that today. Thanks.” I can hear her holding back the tears.
I sit down on the grass of the park. “Tell me more.”
I listen to my sister talk about her struggles with living out of a suitcase while on the professional surf tour, the challenges of four boys under seven and a husband who’s fighting an impending retirement. While surfing isn’t as dictated by age as many sports, agility and speed come easier when you’re younger. Plus, he’s supplementing his income by selling drugs, which makes me worried for Alana and the boys.
“Do you want
