9/11 Short Stories

On Thursday, Megan has additional and unsettling news about the director. “His blood alcohol level was over the top,” she says, “Thom needs to hire a replacement ASAP.” I can’t react except as an employee. “I’m confident Thom will find the right person.” However, in the privacy of my office, I worry and want to help. I text Thom: if you need names of available directors, call me. I doubt that he will. Still, on the sneak, I make a call to an agent/friend for any suggestions. Later, Malcolm and I eat dinner in Century City at a chain restaurant. He relays his day of surfing in Malibu and of his lunch with Doris. Who asked him why he hadn’t left for Berkeley yet? “I love to surf,” he said, and it appeared to satisfy her curiousity.

There’s no need to speak of my extreme discomfort. My face is beet red, and sweat drips down my cheeks. I take the bottle of water and drink. My lungs ache and legs give way. I plop on a section of grass. The hillside behind me is lush with greenery. Regardless of the beauty, I could be hit by an unaware motorist and my body hurled down the canyon. “This is fucking suicide,” I shout. I take my cell out of my pocket to call Uber for a drive home. Doris catches on to my plan and grabs my phone. She hands me a granola bar and a banana. “Downhill will be a breeze,” she says. The sound of her gentle voice seduces me, and I believe

Its Malcolm’s last day in L.A. and the final time I’ll ride in his rented mini-cooper. The fog smothers our faces. I close my eyes and hear the motor roar. We find parking on PCH and walk to Surfrider beach. We find a quiet spot on the sand. I watch as Malcolm suits up, picks up his rented surfboard and paddles beyond the breakers. The waves are above average this morning. I check my cell for messages from Thom. No surprise, there are none. I wonder if Dylan slept at his dad’s house last night, and they’re eating pancakes and eggs for breakfast. I lie back on the blanket. Soon, the sun will peek through the clouds. The day’s too beautiful to be unhappy. In particular, because it’s Sunday, hands down, the best day of the week. During the summer months, my family would spend every Sunday at the beach, if it didn’t rain. My father would carry the water cooler packed with sandwiches, fruit and home-made chocolate chip cookies. Tracy and Bobby would swim in the ice cold Atlantic while I waded in water well below my waist. Or often, I’d pick up sea shells from the wet sand to take home to show Tracy