“Did you hear?” Harlow asked after she bopped to me by the bar at The Surf Club a little after noon.
“Hear what?” I asked back.
“The Red Bear is a fancy restaurant.” She bounced. “We get to dress up!”
Well, that was so much of a little bit of all right, I bounced too.
But…
Oh no.
Dilemma.
“Wait, do you think I should wear my black one-shoulder caftan-like thingy with the big orange flower on it or my all-lace tiered dress?” I asked.
She wrinkled her nose as she considered this, then said, “I think the lace one is pretty, but it’s more summery than wintery.”
“I agree. So it’s the one-shoulder one,” I replied.
However, she was no longer listening to confirm our choice. She was looking beyond me.
I turned to look too, and saw a guy in faded, beat-up but not dirty jeans and a well-worn Phish T-shirt.
He’d wandered into The Surf Club like the kids with the golden tickets wandered into Willy Wonka’s factory. His eyes were round. His mouth was agape. And he seemed to want to take in everything all at once.
He stopped smack in the middle between a couple of tables, and the people at those tables, as well as others, not to mention Harlow and I watched him make a slow turn to take it all in.
Once he’d done that, he shouted to the general populace, “Groovintude!”
This did not surprise either Harlow or me because we’d met this guy in Denver. He was a friend to the Rock Chicks. His name was Kevin, but he went by “The Kevster.”
I already explained his outfit, and his exclamation, so I didn’t have to explain his monicker.
When he caught sight of us, he moseyed to Harlow and me.
“Angels!” he cried before he gave me a big hug and then one to Harlow.
He jumped back and exclaimed, “This place is what dreams are made of. Coffee. Booze. Food. Copious plants. The occasional beanbag. Free Wi-Fi. And a kickass mural. If I didn’t love my job, I’d want a job here.”
“It is pretty rad,” I corroborated.
“What are you doing in town?” Harlow asked.
“I’m the manager of Head Southwest. We open next month. I need to hire staff and get the lay of the land.”
For The Kevster, that meant settling on his favorite dispensary and finding a place to lay his head.
“Jetted down yesterday with Tod and Stevie,” he went on. “And by jetted down, I mean I brought them in my van so they could bring all the wedding stuff.”
Tod and Stevie, by the by, were the other half of the Oasis Square wedding planning committee, though they lived in Denver (another long story).
“But…if you’re moving down here, wouldn’t you need all the room in the van for your stuff?” Harlow asked.
He looked down at his tatty Converse, his faded, frayed jeans, his tee and swiped back the mop of his hair that might not have been combed since 2007, and then he stared at Harlow, baffled.
I fought laughing.
Allow me to explain.
