“Who dat?”

Greg held the phone away from his face, staring at the timer showing the call connecting with the other end for more than fifteen minutes. The number on the screen? 911.

“I saaid, who der?”

Greg stammered, “Um, hi.”

“Honey, I ain’t got all daaay, you know? Whachu needin’?”

“Did I call 911? I need . . .”

“Who you thinkin’ you’d call there? Sheesh. I ain’t got time for no nonsense today. Ain’t you been watchin’ the TV today?”

“What?”

“Teleeviseeon. Ain’t you got a TV?”

“Well, uh, yeah. I do.”

“Turn it on, ya moron! There bee all the police respondin’ ta somethin’ big ’bout four miles from dispatch.”

“Wait. That’s got nothing to do with me or my situation. Listen, I need . . .”

“Where ya at?”

“What?”

“Where ya at, honey? I gots to know tha address of your so-called emergency.”

Sunnyvale Gardens. A picturesque apartment complex with multiple buildings, a unique architectural style in southern California wedged outside Glendale. Several units were constructed from high-tech modern glass, keeping the building cool and insulated while lessening the electricity cost inside each unit. Naturally, these condominiums required a higher price tag than similar units in the complex. Residents here appreciated the mazelike structure of the 40 buildings. But it was unnerving how the developer numbered each unit, a random, undiscernible pattern.

Thirty condos in the first building on the property were numbered 7, 1011, 318, 42, and 89, all on the first floor. Logically speaking, you might expect to see 27, 2011, 2318, 242, and 289 on the second floor. Instead, 15, 908, 502, 2045, and 2 were on the second floor, and the third wasn’t much different, following no set pattern. All the numbers were attached to the outside of the building in the same haphazard order, not showing you which floor each unit was on, just what building it occupied.

If you think It was tough for the residents, all of which could’ve bought homes but instead appreciated the upkeep façade of the fake grass, plentiful rock gardens, and palm trees, with zero lawn care maintenance, it was easy to understand why those with wealth would choose to live here. The numbering system was a minor inconvenience except for those who needed to make deliveries, such as DoorDash, Uber, Lyft, FedEx, UPS, and the United States Postal Service. USPS added a bonus to the mail carriers who delivered anything to Sunnyvale Gardens.

Greg, like many other visitors to the complex, was lost from the moment he arrived until he left through the security gate at the only entrance in and out of the gated community.

Greg’s conversation with the 911 operator wasn’t getting any easier. Now she was yelling at him to give her the precise address of his emergency, otherwise, she’d consider his call a prank and send the police out to arrest his ass. (Yeah – she actually said ‘ass’ on a recorded 911 call!)

“Sunnyvale Gardens, I think,” Greg shouted back. “I don’t know! I’m visiting a friend here.”

“Who yo friend? Wat’s hiss name?”

“Well, that’s rather . . .”

“Rather wut? You gonna say it’s racist? C’mon you mutha! Imma fixin’ to rip yo ass through the phone lines and strangle yo ass! Shoot. Sunnyvale Gardens. Must be some rich white boy, ain’t ya?”

“Look, I told you before. I’m visiting a . . .”

“Yeah, white boy. I herd ya. ‘I’m visiting a friend,’” she mocked, trying to mimic Greg’s voice. It wasn’t a bad impression, actually. Greg was impressed that she managed to sound what he considered ‘normal.’ “Okay. I gots you. Hang tight. We be there.” CLICK.

Greg stared at the phone, looking back up to the second floor, where a tattooed biker wearing a wife-beater tank top and dark blue jeans stood, smoking a cigarette and holding a black pistol in his left hand. “You gonna take a picture or just stand there?” The biker took another drag from his smoke. “I ain’t got all day. If you are? Do it. If not? Mind your business, and I’ll mind mine. Cops will be here in twenty minutes if I had to guess. You did call 911, right?”

Greg, still stunned after talking to the 911 operator, nodded yes.

“Well? Are you taking my picture or not?” Greg shook his head, no. “Cool. Then get out here. Once they arrive? This complex will come alive.” He laughed, took one last drag from his cigarette, and tossed it over the edge of the second-floor landing. He turned around, staring at Greg. “Have you heard the news? Sounds like something big happened over at Chevy Chase. If I was you? I’d bug out of here as fast as I could. White boy like you? You’d make good time before anyone would suspect you of anything. You’re about as white as they come!” He laughed, turned around, and entered the nearest unit, the door wide open. Greg heard the faint sound of House of the Rising Sun by The Animals as the door closed.

Greg Franklin didn’t know the area all that well, having moved from Desert Shores less than six months ago. He knew his way around Los Angeles and Orange County well enough. But Glendale was new to him, his ex-wife moving into Sunnyvale Gardens a few months back. She was the friend he told the 911 operator about. Not that she was a friend, having spent the better part of three years spending all his money on auditions and casting calls, costumes, and scripts to read for various television pilots, short films, and two major motion pictures, none of which she was fit for.

Honestly Greg was shocked that she talked to him any more. Leticia Paul, her maiden name, met Greg sixteen years earlier at Victoria Beach. He was surfing, something he did when he needed to think. Working in front of three computer screens for ten to twelve hours a day took a toll on his mental health. Surfing helped clear his head and remind him that the waves were impossible to tame, unlike the code he was programming for several Fortune 500 companies. He loved coding, but the hours were long, the logic tedious, and he needed to feel the sun and waves washing over him. He wasn’t all that good, but occasionally, he lucked out, caught a solid wave, and rode it into the shoreline.

That was the day he met Leticia Paul. Her friends called her Tisha because it was so hard to say her name repeatedly throughout the evenings they spent drinking and dancing. Tisha never married but had so many boyfriends, wealthy men who spent every dime they could to keep her. None of them ever managed to. Her new girlfriends loved hanging out with her and spent almost as much money on her as her boyfriends!

Tisha, collecting sand dollars on the shore of Victoria Beach, watched the surfers doing their best to ride a wave to the shore. Some managed to get a few feet before the wave fell flat. Growing up in Atlanta, Georgia, Leticia rarely saw the ocean except when her family visited her cousin in Savannah. Then, the beach was thirty minutes away, fifteen if her cousin drove.

That Thursday morning, the Pacific Ocean waves were fast, rapidly moving to shore with a quickness. So many surfers hit the shoreline, congregating along Newport Beach or Huntington Beach. But not Greg. He liked Victoria Beach. It was quiet, and not too many surfers knew about this spot. It was secluded but not too far out of the way. He paddled out, one of six surfers, waiting for the next perfect wave.

The surfers at Victoria Beach had an unwritten rule. It was code amongst the surfing community. Call the wave, and it’s yours. There is no calling it and then not attempting to ride it. You call it? It’s yours. Either you ride it or totally wipe out. There is no other choice. Greg’s day? Thursday, June 12, 2009, 9:42:21 A.M. PST. He called it, and his wave swelled, cresting into a beautiful tube, about a six-foot wave, the biggest one Greg had ever surfed! He rode it like a professional rodeo rider stays on the bull, staying on it to the shore. The wave went flat at three feet deep. Jumping off the board, he waded into shore, seeing Tisha collecting sand dollars.