A green light released her and she sped away.
Mark entered the alley between Third and Fourth Streets to Wingren Accounting Associates. The alley was narrow, yet the offices’ windows had bold, proud signs as if they once faced out to the busy Promenade. Wingren’s door was locked and the lights were off. A note said, “Back at 2:00 p.m.” Mark checked his watch; it was 10:34 a.m.
He sat down on the top of two concrete steps that led to the front door, with only a minor flinch from the sharp pains in his midsection that he had grown to expect with any major change in his posture. The thought of waiting for over three hours was unbearable. Mark was sore, tired, getting hungry, and simply wanted to get home as soon as possible. His home was only four miles away. But walking that distance would take the physical toll of completing a marathon and probably much more time. If he wanted to get home now, then he knew there was only one way to speed up the process. He walked two blocks and entered the Third Street Promenade.
Chapter Seven
IF A GROUP of civil planners came together to design an ideal beach city in a luxurious, utopian location, they couldn’t improve upon what already exists in Santa Monica, California.
The city boundaries encompass 8.3 square miles of an almost-perfect rectangle, except a notch where Brentwood dents its northeastern corner.
The city is mostly flat, with a gentle, downward slope to its southwestern border. Its famous beach is virtually straight with a tree-lined bluff that elevates to the north, rising high above the Pacific Ocean.
Skinny, sky scraping palm trees, spaced with the care of birthday cake candles throughout the city, shimmer and wave in a constant ocean breeze.
The Third Street Promenade presents a three block showcase of the finest shopping, dining and entertainment found anywhere in the world.
Entering it, Mark saw that the relative warmth of late morning had generated a typical crowd of tourists, street performers, and homeless people—all staples of The Promenade. If sheer number of people was an indicator, then odds were good that Mark could convince someone to let him borrow a cell phone for one short call or lend him two quarters for a pay phone. If he was one of these people and saw himself, he’d certainly lend some change. He had done so many times.
Out in the wide-open, outdoor pedestrian thoroughfare, he stepped into the flow of the crowd.
The day was beautiful—even by Santa Monica’s November standards. Carefree gulls cocked and bobbed their robotic heads, riding their razor-sharp, boomerang wings as they slipped sideways high above the crowd.
Along the center of the outdoor mall, merchants guarded goods stocked in green-roofed kiosks with retractable awnings. Everything is available on the Promenade—from wind chimes to clothing to crystals. A short distance away, a young girl sat in a director’s chair and worked on a newspaper crossword puzzle. She cracked her gum and occasionally looked up to tend to her cart of earrings.
Mark passed restaurants that featured outdoor patios enclosed in shallow perimeter fences and planters. With each breath, Mark’s nostrils pulled in an aroma that contained the samplings of no less than five menus. He was getting hungrier.
He heard the sound of competing music coming from speakers mounted outside shops, combining with the riffs of street performers and the ubiquitous murmur of voices through which laughter or an excited sentence poked from time to time.
All of these sights and sounds were familiar to Mark; he visited the Third Street Promenade often, but never in his current condition. Today this place had an odd, unfamiliar feel to it. He was usually quite comfortable walking the Promenade—grabbing a bite to eat between service calls. Now he still blended in, but played a completely different role in the ambiance—a role that intrigued tourists for whom the sight of a man dressed like Mark was unusual.
An
Mark entered the alley between Third and Fourth Streets to Wingren Accounting Associates. The alley was narrow, yet the offices’ windows had bold, proud signs as if they once faced out to the busy Promenade. Wingren’s door was locked and the lights were off. A note said, “Back at 2:00 p.m.” Mark checked his watch; it was 10:34 a.m.
He sat down on the top of two concrete steps that led to the front door, with only a minor flinch from the sharp pains in his midsection that he had grown to expect with any major change in his posture. The thought of waiting for over three hours was unbearable. Mark was sore, tired, getting hungry, and simply wanted to get home as soon as possible. His home was only four miles away. But walking that distance would take the physical toll of completing a marathon and probably much more time. If he wanted to get home now, then he knew there was only one way to speed up the process. He walked two blocks and entered the Third Street Promenade.
Chapter Seven
IF A GROUP of civil planners came together to design an ideal beach city in a luxurious, utopian location, they couldn’t improve upon what already exists in Santa Monica, California.
The city boundaries encompass 8.3 square miles of an almost-perfect rectangle, except a notch where Brentwood dents its northeastern corner.
The city is mostly flat, with a gentle, downward slope to its southwestern border. Its famous beach is virtually straight with a tree-lined bluff that elevates to the north, rising high above the Pacific Ocean.
Skinny, sky scraping palm trees, spaced with the care of birthday cake candles throughout the city, shimmer and wave in a constant ocean breeze.
The Third Street Promenade presents a three block showcase of the finest shopping, dining and entertainment found anywhere in the world.
Entering it, Mark saw that the relative warmth of late morning had generated a typical crowd of tourists, street performers, and homeless people—all staples of The Promenade. If sheer number of people was an indicator, then odds were good that Mark could convince someone to let him borrow a cell phone for one short call or lend him two quarters for a pay phone. If he was one of these people and saw himself, he’d certainly lend some change. He had done so many times.
Out in the wide-open, outdoor pedestrian thoroughfare, he stepped into the flow of the crowd.
The day was beautiful—even by Santa Monica’s November standards. Carefree gulls cocked and bobbed their robotic heads, riding their razor-sharp, boomerang wings as they slipped sideways high above the crowd.
Along the center of the outdoor mall, merchants guarded goods stocked in green-roofed kiosks with retractable awnings. Everything is available on the Promenade—from wind chimes to clothing to crystals. A short distance away, a young girl sat in a director’s chair and worked on a newspaper crossword puzzle. She cracked her gum and occasionally looked up to tend to her cart of earrings.
Mark passed restaurants that featured outdoor patios enclosed in shallow perimeter fences and planters. With each breath, Mark’s nostrils pulled in an aroma that contained the samplings of no less than five menus. He was getting hungrier.
He heard the sound of competing music coming from speakers mounted outside shops, combining with the riffs of street performers and the ubiquitous murmur of voices through which laughter or an excited sentence poked from time to time.
All of these sights and sounds were familiar to Mark; he visited the Third Street Promenade often, but never in his current condition. Today this place had an odd, unfamiliar feel to it. He was usually quite comfortable walking the Promenade—grabbing a bite to eat between service calls. Now he still blended in, but played a completely different role in the ambiance—a role that intrigued tourists for whom the sight of a man dressed like Mark was unusual.
An
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