The Game

Sam and Lisa get comfortable on their boards, I paddled out with the expert surfers to try and catch a big wave.
    As I waited, I looked on with envy as the surfers on the inside—closer to shore—caught wave after wave. After twenty minutes, the water finally swelledbehind me and I began to paddle. As a wall of blue grew in my peripheral vision, my body tensed: I wondered if I could handle a wave this big. It grabbed my board with a crack, like pealing thunder, and I leapt to my feet. The blue stretched far overhead. I cut through the open face all the way to the top of the wave and maneuvered to shore. I felt alive, exhilarated, ecstatic. I didn’t know I could do it before: I didn’t think I had the knowledge and the skill to take a wave like that. For the first time since junior high, I felt like writing poetry.
    As I triumphantly carried my board to the beach, I realized it was time, with girls, to take the big waves and stop messing with the mushy little inside ones, to go for the best rather than the most. I deserved it.
    When we returned home, I pulled Lisa aside.
    “I’d like to take you out for sushi on Saturday,” I said.
    It was so AFC of me. I was asking her out on a date.
    She hesitated for a moment, as if she were deciding the best way to let me down easy. She pursed her lips and squinted. Then, finally, she spoke. “Okay, I guess.”
    “You guess?” I couldn’t remember the last time I’d asked a girl on a date, and she was giving me attitude about it?
    “No, it’s just that…” She stopped herself. “Never mind. Yeah, I’d love to go. I was wondering when you were finally going to ask.”
    “That’s better. I’ll pick you up at eight.”
    The girls left, and I went to the kitchen to sauté a chicken breast. The remains of countless meals made by scores of guests had congealed into a black crust that coated the stovetop. As I waited for my food to cook, Tyler Durden came in through the patio door, wearing running shoes and a Walkman. He lifted up his T-shirt, examined a roll of baby fat on his belly, and took his Walkman headphones off.
    “Hey, man, I heard what happened with Mystery,” he said. “I’m really sorry about how things turned out. Let me know if I can do anything to help convince him to stay in the house.”
    “He’s very stubborn. I doubt there’s anything you can do.”
    “If he leaves, there’s no Project Hollywood anymore,” he went on. “I guess it would sort of become the RSD mansion.”
    “I guess so.” I scooped the chicken onto a plate and grabbed a fork and knife.
    “By the way. I bought a Style shirt on Melrose today. It looks just like something you would wear. I have to show it to you.”
    “That’s great, but kind of weird.” There was something I’d been meaning to discuss with Tyler Durden for a while now. “I’d like to talk to you about paying a small rent or part of the utilities. You’ve been living here for months now, and we made a rule the day we moved in that long-term guests should contribute to the house.”
    “Sure, man,” he said. “Just bring it up with Papa.”
    His words were agreeable, but not his body language. He shifted his head uncomfortably while he spoke, as if he didn’t know where to look, then wheeled around and left. He always seemed to go unnaturally out of his way to make sure he wasn’t actively involved in any house issue, drama, or meeting. Behind his smile I sensed something—not unlike what I’d felt when I’d kissed his girl in Las Vegas. By asking him to pay rent, I’d become a threat to him.
    I took my food to the office area of the house, turned on my computer, and checked Mystery’s Lounge. I wanted to read the masterpiece Mystery had been so furiously working on that afternoon.

MSN GROUP: Mystery’s Lounge
    SUBJECT: Mystery Moves Out
    AUTHOR: Mystery

    I will likely be moving out of Project Hollywood next month because it is no longer a suitable place for me. The invasive social environment has made living here uncomfortable.
    As far as lifestyle goes, Project Hollywood is a bust. I don’t see living here to be a positive experience for anyone. If and when my overpriced bedroom is made available, your unsavory roommates (save Style) will, at some point, undermine your happiness. This is something they have demonstrated on more than one occasion.
    In my specific case, aside from the issues with having a competing business running out of the same home I live in (one of many breaches