4. The Beach Bum

Five years Ago

It all startedwith a bad spicy bean burrito. Countless numbers of the Juan Especial had traveled through my body while I lazed on a beach in Puerto Vallarta or surfed or hiked or swam or did anything I damn well pleased and my heart desired for the past several years. My life choices were never a problem until last night.

The burrito hit me badly. At one point, I’d rested my head on the toilet seat in my beach hut and begged for a reprieve as the next wave of nausea built. Now my ass sat in a local medical clinic, and I prayed like my life depended upon it.

This near-death experience was probably payback for not doing anything with my life since I left Boston.

That thought snapped me to attention. Whatever it was, I needed this punishment to stop. I’d do anything, pay anything, to stop my insides from regurgitating all over the floor. For one millisecond, I almost added that I’d give up my millions, but let’s not get carried away here.

My millions, soundly diversified and paying me rich dividends for life, were lucratively funding my nonstop party of alcohol, recreational drugs, outdoor adventures, and yes, burritos from Juan’s local beach dive. If this date with a bad burrito was a sign to change my ways, then?—

“If I live, I’ll change. I will. I promise,” I swore under my breath as my insides twisted more while waiting at the local emergency care.

“Se?or Buddy Rodgers?” The doctor finally stopped by and pulled back the curtain on my corner of the emergency bay. “As we suspected, E. coli, and it’s running its course through your system.”

Dr. Lopez, Primario Médico, according to his name tag on his white lab coat, spoke perfect English with a hint of Spanish and possessed a square chiseled jaw like a male fashion model. Too young to be head of a facility like this, in my opinion, and I doubted his prognosis since my insides were inching their way up my esophagus, ready to burst.

“You will be fine, Se?or.” He handed me a pill bottle. “Take two of these to prevent further nausea. Chase with plenty of water.”

The doc made notes on a clipboard, then shuffled a few papers. His growing crease in his forehead did nothing to waylay my troubles.

“Hm. Early thirties?” He ran his finger from the top of one of his papers to the bottom, tapping at something written there.

“Yep.” I nodded, although at the moment my body ached like an old man.

“Well, your lab results are decent enough. At your age, though, strive for a healthy diet and exercise regimen. Oh, and lay off the bu-rrrr-itos.” He took no pity on me with his sardonic smile and extended the rolled r’s in burrito. Screw him. I had no niceties left for people in my current state.

Released from care, I threw my clothes back on and couldn’t get out of there fast enough. Something about emergency rooms creeped me out, like it was too close to death for me. I could imagine ghosts whispering in the corners, having a good laugh at the joke I’d become.

I pushed out the doors of the building, gasping for fresh air. And that would be the last time I ever ate a burrito, from Juan’s or anywhere. In fact, I removed the word burrito from my vocabulary.

It wasn’t until the next day I felt part of humanity again, and ten pounds of water and intestinal garbage lighter. But I stayed on the couch all day pondering life, at one point transferring to my porch hammock. While watching the sun setting over the Pacific, I ignored my neighbors and random calls to party.

Time drifted away, and I merely existed in the moment, breathing to the tune of the subtle beach breeze.

The hammock, rocking me, with the sunset glowing, warming my skin, and golden sand glinting like earth stars, stirred some sort of truth within me. This near-death episode freaked me the fuck out, like it was a message sent to me from beyond to get my shit together.

I used to have such a fire and passion in my belly when I was younger. Several years ago, my best friend, Daniel Jones, and I had reached the pinnacle of success thanks to an online legal service we sold for millions. Man, we were hustlers back then, with the energy of fearless lightning bolts surging through our twenty-something veins. But I took my huge payday, got drunk and high, and never came back down to earth.

Now when I looked in the mirror, all I saw was a man aging too fast. Deep circles, puffy eyes, leathery skin—the sun to thank for that, as well as for my bleached-out hair.

I was fit enough, thanks to the active lifestyle of sun and surf, but the drugs and alcohol and hard nights—okay, maybe days too—of partying were at odds with me.

Things needed to change. I’d buried my past, refusing to entertain memories of my father, my mother, and Sara, and I probably needed to deal with all of it. But I crossed my arms, stubborn, unwilling to go there tonight.

Nope. What I needed was a new path forward and to stop hiding out on this beach, letting life pass me by.

A few daysinto my new sedentary, sober, contemplative lifestyle, when my phone rang on the table next to the hammock, I almost switched it to ‘Do Not Disturb,’ but something told me to answer it.

“Yellow?” I always answered the phone with a funky bravado. I smiled at the memory of how much it used to irk Daniel, my very conservative former business partner. What made us so successful? We were total opposites. Me, the crazy frontman, him the serious about everything else type of man.

Not that I couldn’t be the serious one from time to time. Hell, I grew up with one of the most serious men known to mankind who never knew how to have fun. And shit, I didn’t want to think about Dad another second.

“Is this um, Buddy Rodgers?” a voice from the female side of life flooded into my ear.

I cleared my throat and sat up a little, as much as the hammock would allow.

“Yep. Who’s this?”

“I’m Honey Adams, calling on behalf of Mr. Cal Tomms of Dream Waves Studios.”

“Yes?” Honey Adams. Nice voice. Silky and smooth, yet professional.

“We received your manuscript submission for ‘Never See the Light of Day.’”

“Uh… Manuscript?”

“Yes. We had an open call for new action adventure proposals in several publications around the world. While your submission was a little, um, crude, we think it has potential.”

“Oh?” Holy freaking shit.

The truth was, I’d forgotten all about it. In one of my more messed up rages, drunk and high as I could be, I got the notion that I was some sort of hotshot word-slinger capable of writing a movie script.

My creative urges were squelched long ago by my tough-as-nails father, and I had no idea a story was even still in me. But I woke up the next morning, my head on the keyboard, and hungover. The square letter keys etched into my skin like I’d had them tattooed there. On the table next to me was a completed manuscript.

I knew nothing about the craft of screenplays, and I immediately tossed the script into the garbage. Later, curiosity got the better of me and I retrieved it back out and stuffed it into my desk drawer.

In one of my sober sprints, I took it out and read it. It wasn’t half bad. Although I don’t actually recall ever mailing it to anyone. Jeez, I needed to stop getting wasted.

“We would like you to come to our movie studio in Los Angeles to meet and talk about developing your script for production.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. Would you be available next week?”

“Oh!” Realizing my dumbfounded brain was making me sound stupid, I scrambled to get out of the hammock to stand and take this call seriously.

Oof!I landed face down on the porch, sending my phone sliding across it. I belly crawled to reach it.

“—still there?” I heard her say.

“Yes! Yes, I’m here. I-I’d love to go to L.A. No problem.”

“Fantastic. I’ll send you the details.”

“Sure.”

“Would you be able to meet next Thursday or Friday?”

I fist-pumped the air. “Yeah, let me check my schedule. Can I get back to you later?” Of course, I had no schedule. Rich beach bro life didn’t require one. But she didn’t need to know that.

Business tactics 101 came flooding back to me because I was Buddy freaking Rodgers, and this call had me back on top, walking on clouds.