Free Jim and the Flims by Rudy Rucker Page B

looked friendly.
    â€œSea-lion-fucker!” yelled Weena. She’d been learning the modern style of speech.
    â€œDoes he understand what you’re saying?” I asked. “Can I talk to him?”
    â€œDon’t squander the energy for this,” said Weena dismissively. “Yuels are scum. They can talk, in a low, grunting fashion. All verbs. And they use a kind of teep as well, via a low, gross channel that I can barely perceive. They exchange images, washes of emotion, and the like.”
    â€œI’m really getting curious about Flimsy,” I admitted. “And you’re saying that Val is over there?”
    â€œYes, yes. Let’s hurry and find Chang!”
    The sky had turned a bright cerulean shade. I tied my over-shirt around my waist and Weena threw her red coat over her shoulder. We walked to the pier. It wasn’t all that far. We took side streets so there wouldn’t be a lot of people getting excited about the yuel—who continued following us.
    By the time we reached the ocean, the morning fog bank had retreated a few hundred yards off shore. The sky was luminous, like a stretched membrane. The surf muttered, endlessly chewing the shore. Shrieks and music drifted from the Boardwalk amusement park on the south side of the pier. I noticed an animal rescue van nearby—some rangers were herding sea lion cows into the sea, probably bringing them back from my house. The yuel, attracted by the cows’ sexy barking, reconfigured himself as a bull, and slithered into the water for fresh conquests.
    With Droog on his leash, Weena and I took the stairs down to Cowell Beach, a sandy crescent nestled at the base of the cliffs on the north side of the pier. The waves here marched to shore in regular lines, each of them straight and well-formed, none of them very big. It was a perfect spot to learn surfing. And there, at the far end of the beach was a shed surrounded by surfboards sticking up from the sand, the shed bearing a red-on-yellow sign declaiming, “SURF HERE NOW.”
    I found Chang talking to a pale young couple who looked to be honeymooners from the heartland. Raptly they listened to him. Chang had grown into a handsome man: tall, with bleached hair, prominent cheekbones, Genghis Khan eyes, and a laid-back way of talking. While I was starting to look maybe a little middle-aged, Chang still resembled a twenty-year-old. It was like he’d been preserved by the sea and sun.
    He was telling his clients to start by catching some waves while lying flat on their stomachs on the boards, and then to try it kneeling. He said he’d paddle out and help them when it was time for them to stand.
    â€œWe’re all waves,” he concluded, gesturing at the sea. “And these humpers are your friends.”
    The honeymooners lugged their long, soft beginner-boards into the water. Chang glanced over at me. “Hey, Jim.”
    â€œHi, Chang. This is my friend Weena. It’s nice to see the master teach.”
    Chang shrugged. “Tubes for goobs. Seems like I’ve gotten too freestyle to win any contests these days. So here I am, grubbin’ it. You’re still a mailman?”
    â€œA little bit. I was in the hospital this week.”
    Chang shook his head. “On top of losing Val last year? Too harsh, man.”
    The sympathy put a lump in my throat. Weena took the opportunity to pipe up. “We’re on a quest for three surfers.”
    Chang considered her as if noticing her for the first time. “Why?”
    â€œHeader, Ira and this new girl,” I said, regaining my voice. “I want to talk to them. They live in a crumbling old Victorian house somewhere downtown. I think it’s on Yucca Street. But—”
    â€œThe Whipped Vic crew!” said Chang. “Sure I know them. Header, Ira, Ginnie—and don’t forget Skeeves. I hear they’re having a party today.” He chuckled. “Their house is curiously