MY ALARM JOLTED ME out of sleep. Fucking twangy country music. But that station was one of the few that came in around here. Since I worked in a record shop, I probably should have more of an opinion about the music of my life.

But I didn't.

I'd originally set my radio to that station because the broadcast came in clearly, in this little cove along California's Central coast. And I couldn't change it now that it was set. I was superstitious. Once things were done, I wasn't going to change them.

Changing things never worked.

My head pressed to the pillow, I realized that gah, I'd drooled everywhere. I lifted my head, willing the music to STFU. In a rush, I slapped the alarm and it fell off of the bedside table and I fell out of bed along with it.

Guess it's time to get up.

I got up painfully, scratched my ass, and padded down to the bathroom, already dressed in board shorts and a hoodie over a t-shirt.

My old, funky television blared. Guess I'd forgotten to turn it off last night. I paused to take a look.

A cartoon girl with big eyes and a bob was talking, saying "You don't know what super powers I have!"

I love anime.

"What super powers? You're just a little girl?" snarled the bad guy. He had on a suit. Bad guys always wore suits, right?

"Oh no, I have super powers you've never dreamed of," she replied. Atta girl. Go get him.

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah."

And then rainbows shot out of her hands.

Yes. Awesome.

Dammit. Time to go. I was on a schedule. If I didn't leave at exactly the right time, the same time, every day, well ... I didn't want to find out what would happen. I'd better get ready.

A few moments later, I grabbed my wallet and keys and slid my feet into my flip flops, then ran out, closing the door behind me.

Crap. I'd forgotten.

I unlocked the door.

I turned the light switch on. Then off. Then on again. Then off. Then on again. Then off, just to make sure it was really off.

And then I slammed the door, locking it.

Crap. I'd forgotten about the television too. Oh well. My OCD only went so far.

THE SEAGULLS CONGREGATED ON the shore, greeting the still-misty gray day, squawking like hell. The waves broke. And otherwise, it was quiet in the early morning.

I shrugged off my hoodie and my t-shirt, and wrapped a towel around my hips. Doing the surfer trick of taking my boxers and shorts off at the same time, while wrapped in a towel, I stepped out of my clothes and stepped into my wetsuit. Once I was decent, I dropped the towel, zipped up the back of the wetsuit, and ran my hands through my dirty blond hair. Then I got out my booties and squeezed my feet into them. The Pacific Ocean felt too cold for trunking it these days; you had to suit up.

With my nose slathered with sunblock and my board roughed up with Sexwax, I was ready. My bootied feet ran to the surf, my short board under my arm.

Then I was in the water, my toes down, paddling out.

Once I got out past the inside (meaning to the outer waves), I sat up, legs dangling on either side of my board, watching the waves.

A set came in and I caught the second wave, a rush of water propelling me toward shore, forgetting and remembering all at once what it was like to live my life.

After surfing a few more waves, I caught a final one in and got out of the water. And then I repeated the shoreline get-ready process in reverse order, unzipping my wetsuit, wrapping the towel around my waist, and putting my clothes back on.

And then I stood on the shore, watching the infinite waves.

AN HOUR LATER I walked down the street on my way to work, clad in a brown plaid button down shirt, buttoned all the way up, tan corduroy pants, and Vans. I lived close enough to work that I didn't need to drive. My hair was still wet from my shower, although it was combed back, and I was a little cold. Along here, it wasn't that warm, even in late summer.

My neighbor was out watering her flowers.

"Hello Mrs. Sandoval," I called.

"Hola Tad," she responded.

I walked past the diner, crowded with patrons, the flower shop, which was just setting up shop for the day, putting a wheelbarrow outside holding chalkboard-written specials, a book store, which had a GOING OUT OF BUSINESS sign in the window now, and the cyber cafe. Arriving at the brick record store where I worked, I pulled out the old key and jiggled it in the lock. My fingers touched the light switch and the store came to life.

Sort of.

The fluorescents needed a moment to wake up. Just like me.

I walked to the back of the store, straightening CDs and records as I walked. Dammit someone had put the Jeff Beck in with the Beck. Not cool.

Making it to the back office, I turned on the light and turned on the computer, settling in for the day.

I heard Susan, my co-worker, come in. Dyed hair, piercings, corduroy, trustworthy, tough, capable. She immediately started straightening up records, putting them back where they belonged.

In the age of Spotify and Pandora, we were a hipster mecca. And we limped on in the economy, almost making enough to live on and for the owner to live on as well.

"Morning," I called.

"How was the surf?"

"Good."

"Did it 'go off,'" she asked, teasing me.

"Sorta."

"You oughta be in a surf movie with responses like that," she said.

She was capable but also very annoying.

"You don't watch a surf movie for the dialogue," I said, trying not to be miffed.

"Yeah, I know." At least she had the decency to look slightly apologetic. She moved along the stacks, straightening.

But I couldn't let it go. "I wouldn't be caught dead in a surf movie. All of the surfers sound like idiots. 'You're there, and it's like, totally awesome, and you're, like, one with the Universe, man.' Pathetic. Have you ever surfed?"

"No. I prefer to be warm and dry rather than cold and wet."

"Your loss. Hey, can you check on the status of the online orders? I think the classical shipment is supposed to come in today."

She nodded.

Hours later, there was one customer in the store. Susan came up to me.

"So are you going to surf tomorrow?"

"Yeah."

"So you're not a creature of habit."

I glared at her. "I like my ruts."

"I bet you even eat the same thing every day," she challenged.

"What makes you say that?"

Later that night, I stood in my kitchen, eating fluorescent macaroni and cheese out of a pan. A surf flick was on television and one of the morons was being interviewed, saying "Dude, it was totally, totally, I mean you just had to be there. Totally awesome."

Disgusting.

I carefully washed the pan and put it away, exactly where it went.

Later that night, the moon shone through my open window and I stared at my lonely ceiling. Then, finally, my eyes closed and sleep came.

THE NEXT MORNING MY feet planted on the board as the tip dipped in the water, going forward, catching that last wave. After I went home and got dressed, I walked down the street wearing a blue plaid button down shirt, buttoned all the way, dark brown corduroy pants, and Vans. My hair was combed back and still wet from the shower.

I waved at Mrs. Sandoval, who waved back at me. Then I walked past the diner, which had patrons milling about outside. Today the flower shop offered two for one specials on mums. The sign in the bookstore now read "EVERYTHING MUST GO." And the cyber cafe was bustling.

In front of the cyber cafe was a bus stop.

And at the bus stop, a girl sat crying on a concrete bench.