Post by WIL CROFT on May 28, 2011 2:13:39 GMT -5
[bg=1b1d1b][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellspacing,0,true][atrb=valign,bottom] | [atrb=valign,bottom][bg=1b1d1b] PISMO BEACH, CALIFORNIA "I can't believe you're making me do this." Wil and his daughter were sitting on the big beachfront patio of one of the dozens of seafood shacks in Pismo. This one, like most of them, specialized in clams and they were eating fried clam strips and shrimp and curly fries, with big textured red plastic glasses of iced tea and little paper cups of cocktail and tartar sauce and ranch dressing that were already getting mushy from having fried nibbly bits dunked into them. Tish was popping new freckles after only a few days in the California sun and was wearing a brand new halter top and shorts that Wil had paid too much money for because he was an absolute sucker for his kid and had justified the expense by just being glad that she wasn't harping on her weight for five minutes. She was laughing at him as she tried a fried clam in ranch dressing, just to see. It turned out to be a failed experiment. "You're only saying that because you can't do it." Wil scoffed, with the actual hand motion and everything. No matter how much time he spent in the California sun, he wasn't going to freckle, or tan. He was just way, way too Russian for that. But the tank top he was wearing with his skinny black jeans put his tattoos on full display and he had on a pair of classic Wayfarer Ray Bans that he thought were all kinds of cool. "Please, of course I can do it. I've read more books in my life than you've even heard of. I speak six languages, I can kill anything that dies, drive a stick shift and make the perfect French omelette." His daughter lifted up her hand and pantomimed a duck's bill going as she squawked out, "Mwah, mwah, mwah. You're stalling." He gave her a haughty look, or at least as haughty as you can look when your fingers and lips are shiny with fried clam grease. "Try me." She watched him with narrowed eyes. "Eight Miles High." A snort, "The Byrds, 1966. Easy." "Uh huh." She didn't look impressed. "Pink Turns to Blue." It took him a beat longer, but only a beat. "Hüsker Dü, 1984." She ran him through a few more and then, "Love the Way You Lie." Wil blinked. "Huh?" "Hah!" It was a crow of triumph. "I knew it! Wil, that was like in the top ten songs of the year last year. Love the Way You Lie? Eminem and Rihanna?" He was forced to shake his head. "I got nothing." Tish gave him a smirky sort of look. "The video had that hobbit and Megan Fox setting each other on fire?" "Ohhhh." Yeah, now he remembered. "I wasn't really listening to the song, I was mostly concentrating on watching--" And maybe it was a blessing that that statement was interrupted by a scream from the parking lot around the far side of the building, because before Wil could finish the thought he was moving. Pure instinct, just up on his feet and launching himself over the waist-high rail fence that defined the patio seating, running toward the parking lot and whatever was going wrong.  |
