The kind Spanish old man had already done Simon a big favor when he checked in. If he left that motel, it'd be hard to find another good spot short-term.
After thinking it over, Simon approached Roger Griffin after his afternoon shift handover, asking if he could get paid a week early.
The supermarket boss, with his inner skinflint shining through, didn't flat-out refuse but said everyone's pay settled weekly. Simon had only worked three days this week—if he wanted it now, he'd get just those three days' worth.
Simon wasn't about to haggle over a few dozen bucks and agreed readily. Three days' pay plus what was left in his pocket would cover it. As for next week's timing gap, he'd look for a temp gig with more flexible pay.
Then, Simon's straightforwardness made the not-entirely-bad middle-aged fatty feel a bit guilty. In a rare show of conscience, he rounded up to a even hundred and paid him $100.
Leaving Griffin Supermarket, Simon walked twenty-odd minutes back to his motel.
It was a classic U-shaped auto motel: white two-story wooden building, over a dozen rooms, a few cars parked in the courtyard.
L.A.'s afternoon sun was just right.
Stepping into the yard, Simon spotted the idle motel owner, Diego Salcado, hugging a guitar under the eaves, strumming and singing to himself, looking utterly content.
In Simon's old mindset, guitars were basically for the young—he'd fiddled with one in college but dropped it after starting work. But to Westerners, where music was part of life, no such limits applied.
He grabbed a chair beside the old Spaniard and sat quietly listening for a bit.
The man was playing an old Elvis tune, "Blue Suede Shoes."
Ignoring the heavy Spanish accent in the humming, the old guy's guitar skills were passable.
Making that assessment, Simon felt a twinge of surprise.
His own past guitar level was just basic strums like "Deskmate"—definitely below this old man's now. The old-school vibe of "Blue Suede Shoes" wasn't Simon's taste, but no denying its playing difficulty.
A quick thought, and it clicked.
Among those twelve memories was a top Hollywood composer's—guitar basics came easy. And plenty of those versatile elites were guitar fans too.
The old man leisurely finished the song before turning to Simon, asking directly in Spanish: "Back so early today?"
Simon didn't answer, just smiled and pulled out his wallet, handing over the $100 bill. In Spanish too: "Diego, this is last week's rent. And thanks for looking out for me."
The old man nodded, took the money, but glanced at Simon's wallet with a mix of teasing and concern: "Without this hundred, you'll be going hungry soon, huh?"
"Nah," Simon shook his head, grinning. "I spotted a church nearby—should snag some food stamps."
The old man burst out laughing at Simon's plan. "I like your go-with-the-flow attitude, kid. But that's not very devout. Hey, know guitar?"
Seeing the old man offer the guitar, Simon was puzzled but took it, almost instinctively retuning the strings before starting to pluck—still "Blue Suede Shoes."
As the tune kicked in, the motel owner nearly shook his head. The kid knew a bit, but it was rough.
But with Simon focused, the old man didn't interrupt.
Then, the Spaniard witnessed a little miracle that left him gaping.
In just ten minutes, Simon's playing rocketed from clumsy to smooth with jaw-dropping speed. The old man was amateur-level himself, so he couldn't pinpoint Simon's skill exactly.
But he deeply felt: ten minutes ago, the kid lagged a street behind him. Now, he'd surged ten streets ahead—almost pro.
When Simon stopped, the old Spaniard asked right away: "Kid, you studied guitar before?"
Simon nodded. His own performance shocked him too; he could only vaguely explain: "Haven't touched one in years."
The old man couldn't grasp what "years" meant for Simon but found a reason for his surprise.
"In that case," he took back the guitar, boxed it, and handed it over again. "Give me your backpack. Take this to the beach. Peak tourist season—with your level, a few hours' playing should cover meals for days."
Simon paused a second, then readily handed over his constant companion backpack, slung the case over his shoulder, and cheekily added: "Diego, lending me the Gibson—how about the car too? Walking to the beach, it'll be dark."
"You little rascal," the old man shook his head but tossed over the keys, adding in a mock-mercenary tone: "Don't forget to gas it up."
L.A.'s long coastline had tons of famous beaches, but the liveliest was Venice Beach, right next to Santa Monica.
Summer made Venice even buzzier.
Beyond tourists from everywhere, the boardwalk teemed with street performers, artists, painters, bikers, skaters—turning the whole beach into a lively carnival.
Simon drove ten-plus minutes to Venice Beach, paid two bucks at a lot, and hit the famous boardwalk with guitar on back.
Soon, he stopped at a decent foot-traffic intersection.
Case at his feet, he hugged the guitar, checked the feel, and randomly picked Elton John's "Rocket Man" from memory to strum and sing.
With two lifetimes' mindset, Simon felt no embarrassment busking—he'd be more ashamed if a grown man couldn't feed himself.
His sparked high-level skills drew passersby unknowingly. Though focused Simon rarely engaged the crowd, groups of two or three tourists would linger, listen a bit, drop coins, then go.
Sunset dipped unnoticed toward the horizon, orange rays from behind stretching his shadow longer.
From four o'clock till now—nearly three hours—Simon didn't feel worn out.
Glancing at the case thick with coins, he figured no need for another side gig—this could free time for other stuff.
Thinking that, planning one last song then pack up, a hand reached over the case.
A pretty hand: slender, long, fiery red nail polish.
Clearly a woman's.
These thoughts flashed as Simon's downcast gaze saw the pretty hand aiming not to drop money but snag the lone $10 bill.
That's crossing the line.
So he lifted his right foot, lightly stepping on the "mischievous" hand.
The owner seemed unprepared for his move; Simon hadn't expected no dodge. So as his foot landed, an exaggerated female voice yelped beside him.
"Ahh, kid, how could you step on me? So mean!"
Simon helplessly muted the strings, pulled back his foot, and turned.
Squatting by the case, Janet Johnston glared accusingly, zero thief-caught guilt.
Kathryn Bigelow stood beside her friend, looking helpless, smiling apologetically at Simon.
Simon ignored the still-squatting wild woman, turning happily to Kathryn. After meeting Jonathan Friedman last week, he'd called her—no answer, left a message.
Unexpected run-in now.
Kathryn was in her usual shirt and pants—crisp and capable.
Simon gave her a once-over. "What a coincidence, Kathryn. What brings you here?"
Though his gaze held no aggression, Kathryn felt a bit uneasy, slightly averting her eyes, soft-voiced: "Jenny's studio's nearby. I had a production meeting in Beverly this afternoon, came to head back to Malibu with her."
Simon nodded. "So, Near Dark? How's prep going?"
"Casting's wrapping soon, but funding hit a snag on the production side—might delay shooting a few months," Kathryn said, adding: "Saw your message. And Mr. Friedman called too—he's high on you, just shocked by your age."
Simon smiled, checked his watch, then to Kathryn: "Haven't properly thanked you yet. Since we bumped into each other, dinner's on me?"
Ignored all along, Janet felt a nameless petty grudge. Hearing that, she pointed at the case coins, teasing: "Kid, not planning to treat us with these, are you?"