They called me Pelochucho. My best friends were Chuck Norris, Palo de Coco, and El Socio. Peseta gave us all our nicknames: mine for my hair, Chuck Norris for his beard, Palo de Coco for his height, and El Socio because he was Puerto Rican. Peseta was a local crack-head whose own name came from the Salvadoran twenty-five cent piece. At one time, he’d been the best surfer in La Libertad. Now he begged quarters from tourists and handed out nicknames.

Continued from here

The Place

We woke up early the next morning to check the surf. It was smaller than yesterday and all blown out.

“Looks pretty shitty out there,” Marty said. “And the tide’s low. Maybe we should head south and get our morning session in someplace down the road.”

I agreed. I’d break my neck on that reef if the waves any shallower than yesterday.

The Pharmacy

“Let me get this straight,” the pharmacist said, “you have a drivers’ license from Virginia, an address in Orange County, and you’re here in Encinitas to pick-up a prescription written by a dentist from Utah.”

I didn’t mention that I’d been diagnosed by a radiologist from Louisiana.

“Here’s the thing.” Marty said, “The kid works for me. That’s the thing.”

It didn’t help that Marty held the biggest, cheapest bottle of vodka in the store with one hand, his credit card in the other hand.

Ellis Gardner climbed into her beat-to-shit truck and started the engine.  There was a crack in the windshield, on the passenger side, that had branched and was crawling towards her.  Another few days and that crack would cut right through her line of vision.  How did it happen?  Ellis had no idea, it just appeared, but she needed to get it fixed.  Soon.  Along with the passenger door and the tailgate.   And the engine.  And the rear brake light.  And definitely the suspension.  What she really needed was a new truck.  Whatever.