A brisk ocean breeze kept blowing out their candles, but a few hundred fans, illuminated by TV lights, huddled together with towels draped over chilly shoulders, spirits undaunted, singing the best-known of Roc Molotov’s songs. The group was getting help with forgotten lyrics from a teleprompter mounted on a volleyball net. In the foreground, Beach Blast host Chad Sparx assumed a sombre tone as he took his cue.
“Wow. Thanks, Cleava, for that exclusive ‘Rocwatch’ report from our Northern Blast Headquarters, like a few hundred miles up the coast in Half Moon Bay. Here in Malibu, dudes and babes alike are really just dealing with the weirdness, asking ‘like how’ and ‘like why’ as we realize how totally uncool death is. And in case you were completely partied out all day and missed it, here’s what happened this morning on Beach Blast when rock legend Roc Molotov was about to drop in. Check it out!”
Uncle and Eddie collapsed in howls of laughter, shouting “totally!” at the same time. Roc, wrapped in a thick sweater and wearing a tired grin, was wedged between them on the old sofa in the lounge of Eddie’s studio. On the TV, the footage of Roc’s descent and ascent played yet again, and he watched with fascination, recalling the bizarre sensation of being suspended over the beach. Boxes of Chinese take-out, glasses, and three mostly empty bottles of Beringer Pinot Noir crowded the well-stained coffee table. Uncle tried to relight one of the three partially smoked cigars in the ashtray, succeeding only in spilling red wine on his cream-coloured caftan.
“Remember the take-out from the Lucky Star on Ventura?” Uncle dug into a box of shrimp chow mein.
Eddie made gagging noises. “That was the place with those gross red balls, right?”
“Nothing an over-the-counter ointment couldn’t take care of,” mumbled a slumping Roc.
Uncle laughed and farted simultaneously while pointing at the screen. “Like how! Like why!” he and Eddie bellowed, falling into each other again like a couple of wasted frat boys. Eddie grabbed the remote and turned it up midway through a “Rocwatch Exclusive” interview with some uncomfortable-looking dude on the set of the show.
“… normally the wind moves a body south.” The shorthaired interview subject wore a windbreaker and a hat with a state logo. He gestured to his right. On the screen he was identified as Glen Claire of the Coast Guard. On MTV, his delivery sounded especially terse, almost military. “But a coastally trapped wind reversal would have carried the body west and out to sea.”
Chad Sparx looked like he was listening to a lecture on the twelfth century origins of papal infallibility but still managed the right question. “But the body would still be happening on the surface, wouldn’t it, man?”
Glen Claire nodded, looking more than a little suspicious of his interviewer. “Except in this case, the weight of the harness could’ve prevented it from floating. It could’ve been lodged in a kelp forest on the sea floor.”
“Hard to fathom, dude,” replied Chad with a spacey expression as he set up the next music break.
Uncle muted the opening chords of “Stop Before I Start,” which seemed to run after every segment of Beach Blast. “Oh man, I gotta pull myself together. I’ve got a suite booked for ten to start the edit on ‘Swan Dive.’ Justin was on my cell screaming for it practically before flyboy here was even back in the chopper. And I’d better buzz by Marie’s; she’ll be flying her bikini top at half-mast in sympathy, and to ignore that gesture would be so wrong.”
Eddie grinned. “Listen, everyone thinks we’re down for repairs, so the place is all Roc’s till whenever, okay? Anytime you want to start recording, just say the word, Rocco.”
But the first-time skydiver was asleep between them, dreaming of watching the dolphins from above.