A. Homes - This Book Will Save Your Life

"OK," Ben says. "No donut."

"Nic called. He invited me to a wow-wow tonight on the beach. Will you be there?"

"I don't know if we're invited."

"Of course you're invited — you just don't know it yet."

"We've been out all day. Are you going?" Richard asks.

"For certain. I am closing early. I have a special hat." He goes into the back and comes out with an old Shriner's hat. "It's a wow-wow, like when Barney and Fred go to the lodge."

Richard has no idea what Anhil is talking about and doesn't have the energy to clarify. "All right, then," Richard says.

BACK AT THE HOUSE, there's a message on the machine for Ben from The Agency. "You're scheduled to report at eight a.m. tomorrow. Any questions, please call."

"Do you know the address?" Richard asks.

"I have it somewhere. Is there a car I can use? I want to leave the Volvo for Barth."

"I'll call about mine; it should be ready."

Richard brings Bentley's keys back to Nic. He's on the phone, but waves Richard closer. "Are you coming tonight? Did you get my message?"

Richard shakes his head.

"I stapled a note to the outside of your house — didn't you see it? — 'Hungry, Bored, In Search of Something — Join Us Tonight.' I need to know how many dogs do I buy. Do you eat beef? I'm getting beef dogs, turkey dogs, tofu dogs. How many dogs per person, how many ears of corn?"

"What exactly is it?"

"It's whatever you want it to be. A bunch of guys, a bonfire on the beach. Bring your boys."

"Who comes?"

"Yes, hello," Nic says into the phone. "I need beer, regular and nonalcoholic, Diet Coke, and those soy chips, two bags of each flavor. Can you put it on my account and I'll send someone to pick up everything? Thanks." He hangs up. "Guys, random guys, locals from the beach, guys from the studio, my accountant came once, went home dirty and his wife wouldn't let him come back."

"Should I invite my movie-star friend?"

"No actors, that's the only rule."

"I can't believe you have any rules."

"All societies have rules."

"What time?"

"We start the fire at eight."

"Can I bring anything?"

"Marshmallows and sticks."

RICHARD CALLS the car guy.

"I was hoping you wouldn't call."

"What do you mean?"

"On the way back to you they had an accident — it's totaled."

"You wrecked my car?"

"I didn't wreck it… If you hadn't moved all the way the hell out there, it probably wouldn't have happened. None of it would have happened. I don't even want to discuss it. Maybe we should just call it square, cancel the lease, you pay me five thousand dollars, and we won't even submit the first set of repair charges to your insurance."

"You totaled my car and now you want five thousand dollars? How can you say none of it would have happened? Something worse would have happened; we would have turned on the evening news and read about some girl found in pieces."

"Oh, right, I forgot about her. Fine," the guy says, "don't pay me. I'll send you a new car, a new lease, we'll start from the beginning again. Just write the letter, OK?"

"When will I get the car?"

"By the end of the week."

"I need it sooner. Tomorrow morning."

"Impossible. I'm not even sure I have the car on the lot."

"End of the day."

"I'll do my best."

RICHARD, the boys, and Nic get a lift to the pow-wow. Richard dutifully carries the marshmallows and shish-kebab sticks he bought at the overpriced store up the road. The back of the van is filled with hot dogs, beer, ice. About two miles down, they park at the edge of the PCH, where the surfers are loading their boards, calling it a day. Like sherpas, they carry load after load down onto the beach, setting up electric hot-dog grills, coolers for the beer, trash cans.

"About how many people are you expecting?"

"I always lose count — fifteen, forty?"

"How often do you do this?"

"Maybe three or four times a year."

"Do you charge admission?"

"It's my treat."

"I'll give you some money."

"I don't take money. Help me get this folding table up. We'll call this craft services."

"Are we making things like ships in bottles and leather wallets?"

"On a movie set, craft services is where the food goes."

Nic and Richard go down the beach gathering wood.

"I would think it's illegal to have a bonfire — an ember could escape and start something."

"It is. We get a film permit. It's the one thing this town understands — the movie business."

As people arrive, they introduce themselves — it's a lot of guys in Hawaiian shirts, Philip, Rick, Ron, Larry, Vance, Simon, Tenzi, and Pliny, but you can call me Joe. They hug each other, do some back-slapping, call each other "man," "dude," and "brother," and ask, "Where's it been?" Richard is reminded of how much he doesn't like group events. He wonders how he could get home from here. Could he call a taxi? Where would he tell it to stop?

A leathery man of indeterminate age extends his hand. "I am Tenzi," he says. "I have been in this water every day for twenty-five years. Three times bitten by the shark." He shows Richard three bites, one on the arm, one on the leg, and one on the thigh. "I have a lucky card. How do you know Nic?"

"I live next door. And you?"

"I know him from the sea. I taught him to surf a long time ago."

"Do you know the woman with the yellow bathing cap?"

"Madeline," he says. "She swims every morning."

Richard nods.

"She keeps shoes under the boardwalk."

Richard smiles — glad to know the secret.

The hot dogs are turning. A huge cauldron of corn is boiling. Anhil arrives last with boxes of donuts: "I put up a sign — 'Closed for Private Party' — and cleaned out the cases." He puts his hat on and does a jig in the sand. "I am a beach bum, a caveman."

Richard looks down and realizes that he's got his good shoes on. He takes them off, tucking them into the sand next to a pile of wood. Barefoot, he wiggles his toes — nice. Barth and Ben are playing Frisbee in the distance; the sun is setting; it's reminiscent of summers long ago, when he and his wife would take a share in a house on Long Island.

"I just changed my car insurance," one of the guys says to Richard. "It had gone up four hundred dollars without me noticing; I got it back down, took me twelve and a half minutes — I clocked it. How much are you paying?"

"I have no idea," Richard says.

Someone hands him a beer. "It's a chemical culture," the guy says. "My kid can't do his homework unless he takes Ritalin, and when my daughter started on an antidepressant she thought it meant she was a big girl — like going from chewables to gelcaps. It's a rite of passage, like what getting braces used to be."

Another guy spends the whole evening alternating between talking on his cell phone — saying, "Hello, hello, can you hear me? It's not a good signal. Hello, can you?" — and checking his BlackBerry for messages. "I'm in the middle of something big," he says.

An enormous hole is dug, the fire is lit. The hot dogs are roasted. Barth is filming, and, sure enough, a cop comes along and asks if they have a permit. Nic shows him the permit, and they give him some hot dogs and a couple of cans of Coke, and he hangs around for a while.

"How many dogs did you eat?" Richard asks Ben.

"Two turkey, one bun, no corn. And you?" Ben asks.

"One turkey, one tofu, no bun, half an ear of corn."

After dark it gets chilly; Richard wraps a vinyl tablecloth around his shoulders like a blanket.

"I'm wiggly," Anhil says. "I had a whole beer, never have I had a whole beer. I have no tolerance for drink, I go crazy."

"You had a fake beer," Ben says.

"What do you mean, a fake beer? I had the whole bottle." He holds up the empty.