admit it! I said I wouldn’t go surfing on my sister’s wedding day, but they broke me down. I just needed to catch a good one!” I say cupping a hand over my mouth to hold in this modest laughter.
I’m envisioning how releasing it might make things worse. I bind my laugh to my throat; in a quarrel with myself to forbear this grin its rightful place upon my face.
Staring to the left at the standing graduation photo of my best friend, Lucas Farnham, and I framed on a desk, next to a neatly arranged stack of my favorite manga, I notice how good I look when I simper. I do covet every moment I get to show the world my pearly white teeth.
Taking my hand away from my face and arresting this laughter, I reveal the greatest attribute to expression—a smile.
“Koa I’m going to kill you as soon as this wedding is done. Now hurry up and get your ass in your tux before you gets yourself into even more trouble.”
I shrug. “Well, where is it?”
“You’re impossible,” Malia voices, turning from me and fidgeting towards my closet. She proceeds into the walk–in closet to scour through all my formal apparel. Grousing to herself as she slides clothes on hangers with the word ‘trouble’ repeatedly making an appearance.
“What trouble? I’m here, aren’t I?”
Malia’s look daggers at me. She tries to mollify her stress as the maid of honor by circling her hands up to her chest, taking a deep breath, and then lowering them down slowly. She empathizes with her pressured self, telling herself, “I’m a good friend. I is maika`i.”
I find it comedic to see her so riled up. Calmly, I grab my black onyx surfboard that lay tilted on my bed frame and place it on the bottom shelf of a high rack. It’s subsumed into a colloquy of sixteen other boards; each with a story to tell.
Seventeen. Can’t complain.
Every year on my birthday I receive another. They’ve been coming ever since I was born. With so many compiled over the years, my sister Jade decided to straighten up the clutter by gifting me a surf rack. Each board is separated by about a foot of empty space. This organizer has an automatic platform located to the left of the rack that lifts me up to get to the ones at the top. I solely step on the stage, and it rises till I press a red button on the platform’s stage with my foot. If I want it to descend, I purely keep my foot sustained on the red button.
The delay in between the time I step on the red button and hold it is a long enough stall for me to retrieve the surfboard I crave. My room is an oval and has a high ceiling, so the concept of a vertical rack was wiser than a horizontal one. Two engineers from She Core are the fitted makers for any amenities in this house, including the surf rack.
All the stacked boards were a gift from my father; adored immensely by my brother, sister, and I. She’s been highly obnoxious lately. I struggle to envision how stressed she’s been over this wedding of hers. The spun–out process and futile efforts to make this day perfect, espoused under her wedding planner, exasperates all of us. The wedding planner even misplaced an item my father gave Jade.
My father left behind an aged blue hair pin for Jade that she swore she’d wear on this big day as his mother had on her big day. It’s an heirloom graced with three white pearls. The wedding planner was supposed to get it polished, and we later found it in our dog’s food bowl.
I walk back to my bed and sit at the end of its black wood frame to wait for Malia. Thunder roars outside. At once, the surf rack to the left of my closet quivers slightly.
His present to me annually is everything that remains on that rack. It’s a well put together set. He solemnly handcrafted and painted all of them up until board number ten. That one and the rest, apart from my black onyx surfboard, are either simply white or a plain color. They’re untouched by his artistic hands.
I picked up the eight untouched boards from my father’s company storage unit in Germany. A group of surfboards lie there that’ve never been sold due to minor defects. I’ve done this every year since the tenth anniversary of my marriage to life.
Modification of boards by him in his business was rare. Only for his sons and daughter would Daniel carve and paint the boards. The more personal the meaning of his gift became as it was directed towards family. The ones produced directly for the consumer are manufactured by surfboard shaping machines in Germany. The stamped designs are also done by machines in Germany. Nobody single–handedly paints those. It’d be inefficient for mass production.
Each of the others my dad gave me are unique. The surfboards were custom made to fit my character and size throughout the years. I ordered them based on the years in which I got them. The latest is the one I just placed at the bottom of the rack. They get older the higher I tilt my noggin, till my eyes reach my very first surfboard at the top.
The first surfboard I ever got was a deep carrot orange. It stands four feet two inches small with an eccentric lemon yellow octopus sketched onto the board. Sunglow paint shrouds the borders of its figure giving the octopus an ill–defined shape. Daniel’s intention was for the public to notice an unfixed shape in the artwork, then discern the motion of the octopus from its natural habitat. He saw all marine life as misshapen by water.
A clear, glossy acrylic sealant with hints of gold throughout the body of the board gave way to all the rich, sunny colors it has now from years of exposure to the ocean water and sun. I thought the colors would fade because of how cheap I’d been told the sealant was in later years. Instead, they mixed in time. An unintentional but ultimately positive effect.
The variety of deep carrot and bright lemon shades expand from the inside out as a result. It gives the illusion that a fiery entity is blazing through it as this eerily awoken octopus painted in a countercultural manner holds onto the board. The animal wraps its eight arms symmetrically around the front of the golden board and reaches out beyond it where the backside reveals the asymmetry of its extending tentacles. Now it’s just a work to admire as I’m too big to ride it.
My dad was an artist. Not professionally. Apart from painting my first nine boards, he’d portray his art on large five–by–five–foot linen canvases. His paintings never did get the recognition they deserve. My sister has them hung all over the house with most of them depicting different sceneries amid one of the ocean’s many faces.
Daniel had a strange affinity for the peaceful and the violent.
Some of his art I regard more as a bit of an experiment. A rough draft to a painting that never came having an erratic approach to the use of a paint brush. Like the one exhibited downstairs in the kitchen. It’s of a sailboat caught up in a tsunami with many swirls from his wrist movements that held the paint brush. The way his hand moved created eddies over the sailboat, in the windy skies.
The lower half of the painting features a secluded community of neon fish with a queer anatomy. They’ve taken refuge in the skeletal body of a similar sailboat to the one pictured above. Giant air bubbles prevail in an underwater cave with high ceilings where there too lie the remains of yet another sailboat akin to the other two. If I were to sketch a line with pencil from one sailboat to the next, an equilateral triangle would appear at the center of the painting connecting the three.
The one hung up in my room is my favorite. It fronts a ballerina performing an arabesque with a whirlpool at her pointed foot that touches the ground. It’s dark. The water pastels carry an awful lot of blood red with oxford blue. The living, splashing water drowns her as she emits all her energy to the splendor of one last ballet performance.
It’s her form and facial expression that makes me feel strong but scared when I look at her. An unsettling, dicey sensation creeps over me when observing the painting for too long.
The art itself speaks for breaking free, titled ‘Bailarina Liberada.’ It also suits the banded colors on my walls. If I’m standing at the entrance of my room, facing the painting or the end of my king bed, the left half of my room is adorned in a bright red wallpaper boasting a charming pattern of silver strawberries, delicately scattered across its surface like a constellation of celestial fruits. Their intricate details, from tiny seeds to delicate leaves, are meticulously captured in the metallic sheen. They continue onto the right half of my room, captured about a dark blue wallpaper. The silver strawberries seem to cascade in a whimsical arrangement, as if frozen in a moment of gentle descent about the two colors. I couldn’t decide between my two favorite colors. His painting hangs above my bed within a hollow in the wall, pressed into the center of my room. From behind it, a vertical line splits my room in the two colors.
The idea for my first board’s design was in relation to what I hooked onto after birth. I’d been fascinated by a gold chain with a golden octopus pendant Daniel wore the day I was born. To this day, my brother, Kosta Califf, adorns himself with the gleaming necklace. He avers his ownership over it vehemently, maintaining it was given to him by father.
That first board now lies at the top of the rack, on the right blue side of my room. Probably amassed with dust over the years, however still bright enough so that I can see it from my bed where I happen to be sitting now.
There’re three wide rectangular windows that run vertically from the ceiling to the floor in my room. One in the bathroom, one on the red side of my room, and one on the blue side of my room. Sunshine regularly tickles the boards, streaming through the blue side window, to the left of the surf rack, like gentle fingers. On a sunny day, the orange–yellow octopus surfboard will reflect on the ceiling a shimmering gold shade. The windows are currently in view of the ashen clouds that’re starting to run short of this previously harsh rain.
The sound of thunder tiptoes away.
Within minutes of being in my room, I notice one board is missing.
“Now you wouldn’t happen to know where my brown carbon fiber Ubermotion board is would you?” I ask bewildered, glancing at the surf rack as my left hand glides across my messy black hair.
Malia looks at me with a disrupt look in her powder–blue eyes. I can’t tell if she’s nervous I’ll be mad. As she stands at the edge of the closet doorway, the shadow cast from the surf rack cunningly contorts her features into a delicate, mousy visage.
“I kind of borrowed it for this upcoming weekend,” she says in a worrisome tone with her lower lip protruding in a humorous pout. “Please don’t be mad. Your precious shortboard is safe at my loft. I promise,” she says in earnest as she flits from the closet to hand over my gray tux.
I stare at her suspiciously, myself standing up. Hesitantly I grab the tux on a hanger from her extended hands. It’s packaged in a clear plastic bag that the hook of the hanger goes through. “If you say so. Watch yourself though. Some people might interpret taking things without permission, oh I don’t know, as stealing,” I jokingly tell her raising both eyebrows and staring her down.
“I know. I’m sorry Koa.”
“I’m just playing with you Fish. I really don’t care as long as you’re ripping it on these hurricane waves.” Telling her this, I recognize just how nicely she’s gotten ready for the wedding. I must admit, I’ve never seen this girl dressed so proper. She’s always in sandals, tiny jean shorts, and rainbow tie–dye tank tops with her straight dirty blonde hair let down just below the shoulders.
Malia Bixby is a native Hawaiian with olive skin and a dab of freckles over her nose and cheeks. She’s twenty–three and has a killer grip on her board when it comes to doing some gnarly surf tricks. Her feet never leave her surfboard when she’s riding a wave. Performance wise I’d give her a nine out of ten and any other day I would deny that she’s a better surfer than me but today I’m feeling positive, excited for my spring travels to continue in Malaysia. I’m in a good mood since I’ll be going there to surf next week. The adventure kicked off in Costa Rica last week. I was there for four days.
I’m sure if Malia had the time to travel, she would and I’m sure she would’ve knocked this pretentiously dangerous hurricane out of the ballpark if she’d come out and surfed this morning with Jake, Lucas, and I.
Malia is wearing a bateau neck, cocktail length taupe dress that complements her eyes. It reaches right above her knees with a full pleated skirt and is set in a shirred midriff. She’s all dolled up with dewy skin makeup, a kiss of rose blush over her sculpted cheekbones, and a smokey bronze eyeshadow illuminating those morning glory eyes of a heavenly blue, papery pastel bloom.
She has her hair in a twisted side ponytail and is wearing the same fossilized shark tooth necklace her boyfriend presented her with for their anniversary. It’s one giant shark tooth. About four inches long and three inches wide at the base. It’s said to be around a million years old. The carbon black fossil dangles on an elegant fourteen karat, white gold two string chain roped twice around her neck.
Apart from when we surf, I don’t believe she ever takes it off. Though she’ll place it under the neckline of her dress to match the other bridesmaids once we arrive at the event.
Malia Bixby is my friend’s girlfriend and my sister’s good friend. She’s always looking out for me and on this day, the day of my sister’s wedding, she was sent out to go look for me by who other than my sister herself.
“Jade must be so pissed,” I murmur to myself.
“Damn right she is!” Malia yells back at me.
She comes up next to me at the front of the bed and gets down on her knees to reach for my black dress shoes that she’d stowed under the bed, still blabbering.
“You’re lucky I know you well enough to know that you would be the type of brother to go surfing on your sister’s wedding day. I mean seriously Koa, what the hell were you thinking? What if you hadn’t been at Sebastian Inlet? What would I’ve done to explain all of this to your sister?” She stands back up. Swinging the pair of black dress shoes in one hand with two fingers, one in each heel cup, and the other hand on her hip.
“Come on now Fish, when are the waves in Florida ever going to be this big again? Hurricane season came early this year. Besides your boyfriend was out there with me too,” I laugh, giving her a small nudge with my shoulder.
“Jake left the beach over an hour ago because unlike you he has his priorities straight and he’s well on his way to the wedding as we speak so don’t bring him into this. She is your sister, not his. You’re fortunate your sister asked me to come find you because otherwise you wouldn’t be a part of her special day.”
“Alright, alright calm down Fish. I’ll go take a shower and get dressed, ok?”
“No time!” Malia shouts fuming. The front sole of her right foot is tapping on the carpet floor quite frantically. She’s currently barefoot.
“But I’m wet.” I shiver as I shake myself trying to get dry from the cold ocean water.
“Here, use that towel.” She puts down the shoes next to me and walks toward the desk with a graduation photo of Lucas and I, kneels slightly, and grabs a towel from off the floor. She hurls it at me in low range and I duck to catch it on my head. I then lay the tux carefully on my bedside stool while taking off my black long–sleeve rash guard. I only lift the rash guard up to my neck and not over my head.
“Koa you’re helpless. What’re you possibly going to do with your life now that you’ve graduated? I mean come on! You couldn’t spare one day of being surf free for your sister?”
I don’t see how my high school graduation and my sister’s wedding are relevant to what my plans are for my future but I’m not trying to get her even more agitated than she already is. I take the mint green towel off my head and finish taking off the rash guard, dropping it on the light–gray carpet floor. I speedily rub the towel all over my seminude body.
“Chill, I’m already dry. Now look away so I can get dressed. You wouldn’t want Jake to get jealous.” I wink at her and smile.
“Oh, shut up Koa. Your commercial smile isn’t sweeping anyone. I’ll be waiting for you in the car. You’ve got two minutes. Chip–chop!” Her voice echoed as she shouted out and left my room, slamming the door behind her back.
I take my hands and wiggle my pinkies inside each of my ears. Assertive women like Malia can be loud and so can their antics. She has the tendency to slam my ear–splitting bedroom door.
I slip out of my lime green board shorts feeling the cool air conditioning on my bare white butt. I then run to my drawers inside of my closet to scavenger for some clean underwear. I scramble into the black tight–knit boxer briefs I pulled out while I reach for a wristwatch aloft the dresser.
Among a horde of men’s jewelry, I seize my favorite timepiece. I buckle its red rubber strap to my left wrist. A Gulixua watch from Galicia, Spain. It has a round stainless–steel case with a black chronograph dial, white gold–tone stick indices, two hands, three sub–dials, and a detachable compass on the strap. The case itself is bulbous and curved like a water droplet resting atop a leaf.
I return to my bed to rip the clear plastic bag my tuxedo is in. I quickly put on the rest of my outfit and then make my way into the bathroom located on the left red side of my room. Checking myself in the bathroom mirror, I spray some earthy sandalwood and tobacco scented cologne on the sides of my neck, directly under my ears, and tux shielded forearms. After which I brush my teeth, soak my head in the sink to get out the last of the beach’s sand from my hair, and comb it wet to the side.
Taking one final glance at the man in the mirror, I note the slight darkening of my normally satiny black hair, dampened by the sink shower. I wish my soft facial features would better complement the intensity of my deep brown eyes. My straight nose, slightly pointed at the tip, feels sore, and I observe that my lips appear darker than usual.
I crack my nose with my right hand and then grab some spearmint lip balm lying next to my toothpaste, thinking that gliding it over my lips will make them lighter. I turn my lips inward and then pucker them, licking over the top lip to get another taste of the spearmint. It does make them shiny. I lean in closer to my reflection, putting my hands over the sink on the counter and turning a cheek to the mirror.
“If only you’d grow some facial hair you wouldn’t look like such a wuss. Someday. A smile is all I need. You handsome devil.” I back away from the mirror and give an overemphasized smile with my eyelids pinched shut.
Looking fresh as always, I run out the bathroom and out the bedroom door. I hit my foot on the seven–foot Norfolk Island pine tree in the hall. One of Kosta’s recent undertakings was purchasing and caring for these trees. They range in size from six to ten feet and are potted around any part of the house accommodated by a vertically oriented long rectangular window. They don’t give my home a particularly strong or distinctive scent. Jade took it upon herself to envelop our home with a zesty aura by infusing every corner with citrus flowers.
I hop from there, out of the house plant’s way, passing my three–year–old Japanese Akita, who pops his head out from behind the tree with the position of his neck expressing power. I’d say he’s the king of the house but Kosta’s cat, Caligula, would beg to differ.
My dog has thick triangular ears, slightly rounded at the tips, and a well–curled fluffy tail. He sports a white and tan coat with a deep rich reddish tint and tone. He likes playing hide–and–seek so I’m not startled whenever he appears out of nowhere.
“Bye Toothache!”
He barks at me. Then he pushes his butt into the air and places his broad black nose onto the ground, eagerly wagging his curled tail.
An elevator for my surfboards but none for the house.
Sprinting down the hall with natural lighting and whipping around a corner, I flash down a flight of white limestone steps. Each step’s interluded by black marble tile risers. I trace the black metal railing with my palm the whole way down till the only surface below it is a dead forest rebirthed as copper red walnut planks.
I make a swift landing on the front doorknob. Before I go, I backtrack in the opposite direction of the light buttercream French country style double doors with aero blue accents past the foyer, towards the kitchen. Opening the stainless-steel fridge, I glance about to see where I’d stashed them. Right next to my brother’s protein shakes where I left them.
“Ahh,” I exhale, finishing a pineapple peach energy shot.
“Sei Whale throws it right up to the rim. Fin Whale comes flying from the right corner.” I pretend to dribble the bright yellow plastic bottle with a tipped powder blue cap and toss it towards the trash can from ten feet away.
Caligula is resting on the kitchen countertop above the trash can. The plain open roundness of her lemon–shaped sky blue eyes fool people into thinking she’s approachable. As a Sphynx breed, she has no visible fur. Her skin’s predominantly a dim gray with a black patch across the center of her face and around the edges of her wide open and upright ears. Before the small plastic container can hover over the trash can, Caligula knocks it down with her left paw.
“Fin Whale dunks it. Score!” I jump up throwing one fist in the air and then jolting it back to my side pocket. Shifting inside my pocket I make sure to have my cellphone. I grab my brown textured–leather wallet off one of the butterfly green granite countertops in the island kitchen. Now two more of these shots and I should be set from dying of boredom at this event since I’m typically not used to acting all proper and what not. I grab two of the small Kombucha energy shots from the fridge and drop one in each pant pocket in case I nod off during the wedding. The fridge door closes on its own.
I make my way back to the vintage wood double doors when Toothache bites an inch of my dress pants. These pants weren’t tailored and pressed so my dog could rip them. I lift the baby of the house and he licks my face in three strokes before I put him back down.
“My you’ve gotten strong. I’ll see you later buddy,” I assure him, tapping him on the head. The rain rendered his hounding me outside the house impossible. He doesn’t appreciate wetness.
I exit through the main doors, closing them behind me. I run into the grass and jump over the short hedges instead of following the avenue of Versailles travertine that’s the set path to enter my home.
Wedding here I come.