riptide_asylum (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
riptide_asylum) wrote2011-06-20 11:41 pm
riptide_asylum) wrote2011-06-20 11:41 pm
Entry tags:
"He Wants What They've Got" (Out of the Dark, 2005)
Title: He Wants What They've Got
Rating: PG
Summary: Murray has a decision to make. But first, he heads over to Nick and Cody's for dinner.
How can I go home
With nothing to say
I know you're going to look at me that way
And say what did you do out there
And what did you decide
You said you needed time
And you had time
You had time.
---
While Terry Gross put the spurs to some aging rock star with a book tour, Murray gently guided his fuel-efficient foreign compact into traffic on the 880 and headed south. Getting out of Berkeley early on a Thursday evening was never easy, but tonight it was worth it. Murray had a long drive ahead of him -- 2 hours and 3 minutes, according to Google Maps -- to reach the Pacific Cove Marina and his two oldest friends in the world.
Except for a few mysterious months when Nick and Cody disappeared, just after Murray had announced he was leaving, heading north to start Roboztics, the three of them had kept in constant contact. Email made things easier, and since Cody's heart attack, even Nick had given in and gotten a cellphone, although Cody was the one who usually carried it.
Murray wasn't sure why exactly. Cody shouldn't need a cellphone when Nick never seemed to be farther than six inches from his side, but he'd certainly been enjoying helping the two of them come to grips with 21st century communications technology.
A white gas-guzzling behemoth of a vehicle cut in front of Murray's faithful little Honda and he stood on the brakes to avoid a collision. Despite being clearly at fault, the driver hung an arm out the window and made an obscene gesture Murray guessed was meant for him. He swallowed hard and took a handkerchief from his breast pocket, mopping the sweat off his forehead. He hated driving in heavy traffic.
If it wasn't for--
Murray turned off NPR as the highway narrowed, approaching the 101 interchange.
If it wasn't that he needed their advice so badly, on such a hard subject to broach, Murray wasn't sure he wouldn't have waited until the weekend to make the drive down to their secluded marina on the Central Coast.
It was just that this thing, between him and--
Two Subarus both tried to merge into the same spot in front of him, horns blaring, and Murray gave up rationalizing. There'd be time enough to mull things over once he got clear of Silicon Valley's tangled sprawl and settled into the long straight drive down past Gilroy, to the place Nick and Cody now called home.
---
The Pacific Cove Marina lacked any sort of formal signage from the freeway, and Murray had pointed out several times how many state and local regulations were being broken there, but even so, he'd been down to the Hightide's home port enough times he could find it in the dark with ease, rain or shine.
"Home port". Murray could almost hear Cody rolling his eyes at the misnomer, but as far as Murray was concerned, it was the terminology that was wrong, not his logic. As he pulled into a guest parking spot in the nearly empty lot, Murray rehearsed the best way to bring up what he needed help with. He locked the car and, pocketing the keys, crossed quickly to the locked gate at the head of the slip. The marina boasted three piers, home to eighteen slips total, but nearly all of them were occupied by year-round tenants, and since Nick and Cody had taken over managing the marina they'd managed to turn a neat profit at the end of every fiscal quarter, easily enough to supplement their Army pensions. And as of the beginning of the year, Nick had even agreed to let Murray set them up with a computer to keep track of all their finances.
Murray cupped the cold, metal padlock in one palm and carefully turned the dial left, then right, then left again until the hasp sprang open. He entered through the gate and just as carefully fixed the padlock back in place, then turned and looked out over the small harbor.
Soft yellow lights glowed in most of the boats at their moorings, and acoustic jazz played out over the water. From somewhere close by came the sound of people laughing. A dinner party sort of laughter. Murray couldn't remember the last time he'd laughed like that. He couldn't remember the last time he'd laughed at all.
He made his way down the water-logged gangplank to the Hightide, a 1999 42-foot Chris Craft liveaboard cruiser, lying easy and well lit next to the dock. Even though it wasn't the Riptide and never would be, a very large part of Murray felt like it was home.
They'd put out the stairs for him, and he climbed easily over the stern railing and made his way across the deck. He pulled the sliding glass door open. "Hello?" he called. "Anybody home?" Cooking odors assailed him. Garlic and onions and other things he couldn't name.
"Murray!" Nick looked up from the small stovetop. "About time you showed up."
"Boz!" Cody crossed the galley at the same time and came to meet Murray at the top of the stairs with a broad hug. "C'mon in!"
Cody looked great, animated and excited and well, and not in the least like he'd had a heart attack. He held Murray close for a second, then turned and guided him into the galley with an arm slung around his shoulders, squeezing gently. "'Bout time you got here, buddy! Nick's making butterflies in cheese!"
Nick looked over his shoulder, intercepting Murray's questioning glance. "Tagliatelle alla Fiesolana." He transferred his gaze to Cody and left it there, a soft smile playing over his handsome features. "But technically you nailed it, big guy: butterfly pasta in cheese."
Murray frowned. "Should you be having cheese, Cody? And a cream sauce? What with your...?" He gestured at his own chest.
Nick snorted. "Why'd you think he's so excited? After this it's back to dry toast and salads."
Cody slung his other arm around Nick's shoulders and pulled the three of them close. "Now now, Nick, that's only partially true."
"No, it's all true. You'll believe me when you see breakfast tomorrow."
"Yeah right. Knowing you, Nick, we'll have leftovers for the next week! But I was talking about how good it is to see you, Boz." Cody tore his gaze away from Nick. "How long's it been, buddy?"
"Too long," Nick interjected.
"Well, I've been busy with the lab," Murray began, knowing how lame that sounded. "We're really making some great progress with mechano-receptive feedback in our dexterous anthropomorphic typing hand. You know, it's amazing how just the slightest, most minute correction to the equations can make all the difference between holding a ladybug safely between finger and thumb and, well--" He brought his palms together with sharp smack. "Ladybug soup."
Something in the pan hissed evilly, sending up a gout of scented steam. Nick poked at it fiercely with a wooden spatula. "If I'd known you wanted ladybugs, Murray, I wouldn't've bothered with these butterflies."
Murray started to explain but Cody squeezed his shoulder reassuringly. "He's joking, Boz. C'mon." He guided Murray to the big fan-shaped leather booth just past the edge of Nick's cooktop. Their battered old tomcat, Quinlan, leapt down from the booth and disappeared at Murray's approach. "Tell me all about it. You kinda lost me at 'progress'."
Nick smirked at Cody and kept stirring.
Over Nick's excellent pasta dinner, the three of them chatted easily and at length, slipping into old familiar rhythms.
Murray walked them through a simplified explanation of Roboztics' new experimental hand prototype and how he believed it was an improvement over the one Micromed, Roboztics' competitor was rumored to be debuting at RIA International in the spring.
This year the conference was being held in Adelaide, Australia, and for a while, the three of them tossed around the idea of sailing the Hightide across the Pacific Ocean. Murray offered to find a tides-calculation website for them, but it turned out Cody had real, old-fashioned waxed paper maps stashed away in the aft stateroom. He pulled them out and unrolled them across the table; using compass and protractor, he gleefully calculated they could make it on time if they left by the end of the week. "Give or take a storm or two." His shoulders rose and fell under the thick cable sweater and Murray felt Nick tense up next to him. He knew it was unlikely at this point, that Nick could be talked into going. The ease Cody wore was mirrored by worry lines on Nick's face, at his eyes and forehead. Even a day trip down the coast these days made him uneasy, Murray well knew. He kept his tongue still as Cody cheerfully spun out the possibility of the voyage.
Dessert was fruit, coffee and tiramisu. Murray ate most of the creamy dessert while watching Cody try wordlessly to wheedle a cup of full strength coffee out of Nick.
Like nearly all their friends, Murray had a healthy fear of Nick's coffee, and while he suspected Cody didn't mind decaf half as much as he was letting on, it was fun to watch his old friends sit and flirt, seemingly oblivious to his presence.
Delicately scooping up a spoonful of sponge cake and cream, Murray watched them and wondered how he'd managed to stay away so long. In reality, he saw them more than anyone else in his family -- besides Charlene and the girls, of course -- but the worry Murray'd carried down with him from the Bay Area seemed to melt away the longer he spent in their presence.
Cody laid his hand over Nick's and raised one eyebrow.
Nick leaned into him a little harder, but didn't release his grip on the whale mug. "Hey, we got a surprise for you, Boz." His eyes never left Cody's face.
Distracted, Cody brightened. He turned and fumbled with a pair of crimson envelopes up on the side, in a small brass letter-holder marked Mail. It was shaped like a sailboat and a dock, and you put the letters in the water between the two. There was a tiny brass person fishing on the boat, and someone the same size on the dock, frozen in the act of waving. Murray vividly remembered the flea market the three of them had been at when Nick found it in the middle of a pile of junk. He'd had to detangle it from a pile of cut-rate neon green fishnet socks in order to proudly present it for Cody's gleeful approval.
"Murray."
The brass boat's name was Eternal. Small dark letters etched, he could tell, by hand.
Try as he might, Murray couldn't get past the image of some anonymous joe, toiling in the darkness, painstakingly etching each letter on each boat, letter-holder after letter-holder, sending them out into the world with no idea where they'd end up.
"Earth to Boz."
Murray looked up guiltily. "Netflix!"
"Yeah Murray. Two of your faves: the original Blob and Them!." Cody frowned. "The uh--"
"That giant ant movie he likes so much," Nick finished. He was regarding Murray with a strange expression. "You remember. The first time he watched it we came home to find he'd gotten so paranoid about insects he'd stayed up all night inventing the Bozzz."
"I remember!" Cody said wonderingly. "That tiny, six-legged Roboz you could send in when you didn't want to be stung. What'd it do? It did something once it got in the nest. Like, it stunk, is that right?"
"It sang," Nick and Murray said in unison.
Murray hadn't thought of the Bozzz in years, even though he was sure if he looked, it would turn out to still be one of Roboztics' stalwart moneymakers.
Cody looked to Nick for an explanation, but Murray spoke. "The Bozzz is able to crawl into places people don't want to stick their hands in -- hornet's nests or simple beehives -- and once it gets there, it emits a high-pitched tone that makes the insects flee."
"Along with Mrs. Nakamura's shih tzu, too," Nick finished. "Right over the side. C'mon," he said. "I'll make us some popcorn. Let's see if another rewatch gets Boz inventing anything else." As he rose, he squeezed Murray's shoulder, his large, warm hand lingering.
That's right, Murray thought, following his friends back toward the galley. It sang.
---
you are a china shop
and I am a bull
you are really good food
and I am full
---
On-screen, the ants were winning.
Joan Weldon was screaming, both hands plastered to her head as they took over her lab. Murray had always felt she had a point. Giant ants took over his lab, he'd start screaming, too.
Murray sat in the salon's one easy chair, petting Quinn and watching his two best friends try to stay awake.
Cody was stretched out along the long arm of the sofa, propped up on several pillows Nick had brought up from their stateroom. Unlike the Riptide, the Hightide boasted a salon with sofas with footrests, so as soon as he'd gotten Cody settled to his satisfaction, Nick had plopped down next to him and promptly started falling asleep, despite the fact that New Mexico, one of the most beautiful states in the union if you asked Murray, was under attack from both giant ants and the scientists who'd created them.
But no one was really up to asking Murray anything.
Cody looked warm and cozy and happy, and as the movie progressed, Nick had taken the opportunity to watch Cody until his eyes grew heavy and he dozed lightly, missing all the best bits in favor of quietly passing out on Cody's shoulder.
Murray couldn't help but watch. He found his two friends fascinating. The way they never strayed from each other's sides, and all the silent talking they did, living down here in the middle of nowhere with no one but each other for company. Murray had offered them a Best Boz of course, a vastly improved clone of the original Roboz that Roboztics now mass-produced for shut-ins and the elderly. One of their best sellers. But Cody had just smiled and clapped him on the shoulder, pointing out that Nick would likely forget there was a robot on board the boat and shoot everything to Kingdom Come one night.
Murray frowned. Nick really didn't seem well sometimes. It was almost as if he was Cody's portrait, like in that old story, Dorian Gray. He bore the brunt of all the ills that had befallen them in nearly forty years together.
Onscreen, Joan Weldon was screaming again. It was something of a theme. Didn't seem to bother the ants much, though.
Murray kneaded Quinn's long, soft fur. Forty years. He fell down the rabbithole for a moment; he'd met Charlene in 1984, and they'd been together basically since then, so forty years would put them at...2022. Another decade or so.
Murray tried to imagine his wife, the youngest director of UCSF's Medical Imaging Lab in another ten years time. He let the image of her the way she'd looked in 1984 drift by, superimposing it sometimes, trying to remember the girl he'd married, tracking her through the years, relating her to who Charlene had become.
He saw her, of course, in the faces of his daughters. But he was also starting to suspect, genetics be damned, that he saw a little of Nick and Cody in his daughters, too. Natalie, the tough athletic one who puzzled him, given how little he was prone to sports. And Caitlin, blonde and graceful and gamine, interested in clothes and boys and a complete mystery to Murray and Charlene both. It was impossible, true, but sometimes Murray secretly wondered if Nick and Cody's genetics had found a way in.
If he could prove it of course, he'd be a shoo-in for a Nobel Prize. Quantum genetics and the father of the field, Dr. Murray Bozinsky.
With its distinctive rattling chirrup, a giant ant began to systematically throttle one of the main characters, who reacted with all the aplomb you'd expect.
Murray looked over at Nick and Cody. Nick's head rested on Cody's shoulder and, eyes closed, he seemed deeply asleep, looking more relaxed than at any point in the evening. Cody too was fading, sinking lower into the plush sofa, eyelids fluttering closed.
The on-screen throttling went on for some time; Murray ignored it in favor of this stray glimpse into his two best friends at rest.
It was funny but watching them like this was almost better than the movie. Taking nothing away from Gordon Douglas' cinematic triumph, of course, but Murray couldn't keep his eyes from straying in their direction, time and again.
Cody looked comfortable, sprawled full-length down one arm of the couch and covered in a blanket despite the mild evening. While his attention did seem to be on the movie, his eyes kept drifting closed, head resting against the couch-back. Nick, on the other hand, had given up entirely, and his low, grating snores were only infrequently interrupted by Cody's elbow and a shared glance in Murray's direction.
Murray stroked Quinn thoughtfully.
It was amazing to think how much time had passed since their adventures in King Harbor. So much had changed. This boat, for instance, and this deserted marina so far from all the action of L.A. Not a bikinied babe in sight.
But as Murray sat in the dark salon watching, he saw the years slip away. It wouldn't matter how old they got or where they lived or how. Nick and Cody would always just be...Nick and Cody.
Murray sighed.
Finally, the credits rolled, heralded in by a dramatic upswing of music, blaring trumpets and a full orchestra behind them, indicating that peace had once again been restored to the deserts of New Mexico, irradiated giant bugs bedamned.
After that, the screen went dark, but none of the three of them got up to switch discs or turn the machine off. The Hightide rocked peacefully in the night, with only an occasional lap of wave against her side audible through the open window. Murray felt like there should be a foghorn to complete the picture. But there wasn't.
"You enjoy the movie, Boz?" Cody's eyes were fully open but he didn't raise his head from the couch-back.
"You know, Cody, I've seen it a couple doze times maybe, but somehow it's never gotten old. It's funny, but I hadn't realized how many things had."
Cody glanced over at Nick, still asleep next to him. "You can say that again."
They lapsed into a warm and comfortable silence.
"Hey." Nick said, without opening his eyes. "What's eating you, Boz?"
"Yeah, you've been quiet all evening. Something wrong, Murray? If there is, you can tell us. You can tell us anything, buddy."
Murray nodded, fingers clenching on Quinn's fur. The old tom growled a warning and Murray forced himself to relax. He looked down at the thick white carpet in the salon and took a deep breath.
"Out with it, Murray," Nick said helpfully.
Murray swallowed hard and looked up at his two best friends in the whole world. And without any further ado, he told them what was wrong.
---
What did you do out there?
What did you decide?
You said you needed time, you had time.
---
The next morning, Murray Bozinsky ran late.
Not just five, ten minutes or so, something he could blame on traffic, but epically, spectacularly late.
It wasn't that he'd slept in, no; in fact, he'd gotten up early, just after dawn, and taken a seat out on the Hightide's stern deck. Nick and Cody weren't up yet; despite their military background, the two of them tended to be late risers. Murray didn't mind. He'd sat on the padded bench seat and watched daylight fall over the water, taking in the slow, mindful way the quiet marina approached the morning.
He'd gotten on the road by nine, enjoying having missed rush hour and in fact, continuing to miss it all the way back up through the Bay Area. Along the way, he cheerfully ignored the calm, pleading and then ever more frantic texts from his capable if easily excited executive assistant, until finally turning the phone off entirely as he passed through Sunnyvale. He made it into San Francisco at just after eleven.
At eleven-thirty, Murray was one hour overdue for a meeting at Charlene's therapist's office, to discuss some more of the issues she was having with their marriage. But at eleven-thirty, the same time he was supposed to be confessing his spousal sins, Murray was seated in a small, dark cafe with copper fixtures, just off the N Judah line, waiting for his breakfast.
The evening with Nick and Cody had given him a lot to think about, and he'd been up most of the night. Luckily, a life in research had made Murray no stranger to sleep deprivation and besides which, he felt better than he had in months. No, years. He was looking forward to seeing his wife for the first time in months, certainly. After all, he now knew what problem they were trying to solve.
The waiter appeared at his elbow with a grease-specked heavy ceramic plate, garnished with an assortment of wild greens native only to Bay Area eateries. There were several slices of artisanal bread, heavily buttered, with small pots of jam nestled close by. And in the middle of the plate, sat two absolutely perfect poached eggs.
Murray grinned.
After breakfast, he walked the rest of the way to Charlene's lab at the university. It was the type of freezing cold summer day that tourists never expect to find in San Francisco, and locals routinely dress for.
Despite the heavy corduroy jacket (which he'd worn on his first official date with Charlene), Murray felt the ocean mist brushing past and through him. He breathed it in gladly as he traipsed the few remaining blocks.
As he walked, he noticed his surroundings with fresh eyes and a glad heart. The tiny mom 'n' pop hardware store, the Ethiopian restaurant they'd never made time to try, the chic boutique that was so abstract and hip that the only thing in the window was a stuffed armadillo, dyed blue and laying on its side in the middle of an oversized place setting. It was no longer important what the armadillo meant, or the place setting, or the store itself.
The sun began to burn off the morning's mist, and Murray turned and began the steep walk up the hill to the main campus.
As he climbed, he dialed his wife's cellphone number and was unsurprised by the barrage of anger she directed at him upon answering. At the top of the hill, he looked around, hoping to spot her in the milling crowds. The therapist she'd chosen was also part of the university, in order that she spend as little time away from work as possible. Effiency. That was Charlene in a nutshell.
After a tense exchange of directions, Murray spotted her standing impatiently on the steps of the student union. He slowed his pace, enjoying watching her before she had a chance to see him. If he squinted, he could still see Miss King Harbor, the frightened, fragile, determined young girl she'd been the first time he met her, back when she needed the services of the Riptide Detective Agency. Now, twenty years later, Dr. Charlene Weston, Director of the San Francisco University Magnetic Imaging Facility bore little resemblance to the beautiful physics undergrad who'd sobbed in Murray's arms, and giggled while he taught her how to fish. Charlene wore a tailored suit under her lab coat, and her hair was pulled back in a severe chignon. The hairstyle did little to undercut her natural beauty, but the same could not be said of the dark bags under her eyes.
Murray stopped a few feet away and waited for her to notice him. Which she did, in short order, the phone still at her ear. "Murray! Where have you been? We were supposed to be at Dr Chang's an hour ago! What happened?"
Murray smiled shyly. "Hi Charlene. I missed you too. I--I..." He took a deep breath and pulled a folded packet of papers from one pocket of his jacket. "Charlene, I guess I just didn't feel like Dr Chang was helping us all that much." He looked up. "But I think this will. Charlene..."
She threw reached for the papers exasperatedly, flicking through them quickly with a practiced eye. Her mouth dropped open and she looked up at Murray as if seeing him for the first time. "Oh Murray, no, don't do this."
Murray smiled. "I love you, Charlene." He stepped up close and gave her a shy peck on the cheek while she stood frozen, staring unbelieving at the divorce papers.
Then with one last look, Murray turned and headed west, past the university, past Charlene, and off towards the water.
Rating: PG
Summary: Murray has a decision to make. But first, he heads over to Nick and Cody's for dinner.
How can I go home
With nothing to say
I know you're going to look at me that way
And say what did you do out there
And what did you decide
You said you needed time
And you had time
You had time.
---
While Terry Gross put the spurs to some aging rock star with a book tour, Murray gently guided his fuel-efficient foreign compact into traffic on the 880 and headed south. Getting out of Berkeley early on a Thursday evening was never easy, but tonight it was worth it. Murray had a long drive ahead of him -- 2 hours and 3 minutes, according to Google Maps -- to reach the Pacific Cove Marina and his two oldest friends in the world.
Except for a few mysterious months when Nick and Cody disappeared, just after Murray had announced he was leaving, heading north to start Roboztics, the three of them had kept in constant contact. Email made things easier, and since Cody's heart attack, even Nick had given in and gotten a cellphone, although Cody was the one who usually carried it.
Murray wasn't sure why exactly. Cody shouldn't need a cellphone when Nick never seemed to be farther than six inches from his side, but he'd certainly been enjoying helping the two of them come to grips with 21st century communications technology.
A white gas-guzzling behemoth of a vehicle cut in front of Murray's faithful little Honda and he stood on the brakes to avoid a collision. Despite being clearly at fault, the driver hung an arm out the window and made an obscene gesture Murray guessed was meant for him. He swallowed hard and took a handkerchief from his breast pocket, mopping the sweat off his forehead. He hated driving in heavy traffic.
If it wasn't for--
Murray turned off NPR as the highway narrowed, approaching the 101 interchange.
If it wasn't that he needed their advice so badly, on such a hard subject to broach, Murray wasn't sure he wouldn't have waited until the weekend to make the drive down to their secluded marina on the Central Coast.
It was just that this thing, between him and--
Two Subarus both tried to merge into the same spot in front of him, horns blaring, and Murray gave up rationalizing. There'd be time enough to mull things over once he got clear of Silicon Valley's tangled sprawl and settled into the long straight drive down past Gilroy, to the place Nick and Cody now called home.
---
The Pacific Cove Marina lacked any sort of formal signage from the freeway, and Murray had pointed out several times how many state and local regulations were being broken there, but even so, he'd been down to the Hightide's home port enough times he could find it in the dark with ease, rain or shine.
"Home port". Murray could almost hear Cody rolling his eyes at the misnomer, but as far as Murray was concerned, it was the terminology that was wrong, not his logic. As he pulled into a guest parking spot in the nearly empty lot, Murray rehearsed the best way to bring up what he needed help with. He locked the car and, pocketing the keys, crossed quickly to the locked gate at the head of the slip. The marina boasted three piers, home to eighteen slips total, but nearly all of them were occupied by year-round tenants, and since Nick and Cody had taken over managing the marina they'd managed to turn a neat profit at the end of every fiscal quarter, easily enough to supplement their Army pensions. And as of the beginning of the year, Nick had even agreed to let Murray set them up with a computer to keep track of all their finances.
Murray cupped the cold, metal padlock in one palm and carefully turned the dial left, then right, then left again until the hasp sprang open. He entered through the gate and just as carefully fixed the padlock back in place, then turned and looked out over the small harbor.
Soft yellow lights glowed in most of the boats at their moorings, and acoustic jazz played out over the water. From somewhere close by came the sound of people laughing. A dinner party sort of laughter. Murray couldn't remember the last time he'd laughed like that. He couldn't remember the last time he'd laughed at all.
He made his way down the water-logged gangplank to the Hightide, a 1999 42-foot Chris Craft liveaboard cruiser, lying easy and well lit next to the dock. Even though it wasn't the Riptide and never would be, a very large part of Murray felt like it was home.
They'd put out the stairs for him, and he climbed easily over the stern railing and made his way across the deck. He pulled the sliding glass door open. "Hello?" he called. "Anybody home?" Cooking odors assailed him. Garlic and onions and other things he couldn't name.
"Murray!" Nick looked up from the small stovetop. "About time you showed up."
"Boz!" Cody crossed the galley at the same time and came to meet Murray at the top of the stairs with a broad hug. "C'mon in!"
Cody looked great, animated and excited and well, and not in the least like he'd had a heart attack. He held Murray close for a second, then turned and guided him into the galley with an arm slung around his shoulders, squeezing gently. "'Bout time you got here, buddy! Nick's making butterflies in cheese!"
Nick looked over his shoulder, intercepting Murray's questioning glance. "Tagliatelle alla Fiesolana." He transferred his gaze to Cody and left it there, a soft smile playing over his handsome features. "But technically you nailed it, big guy: butterfly pasta in cheese."
Murray frowned. "Should you be having cheese, Cody? And a cream sauce? What with your...?" He gestured at his own chest.
Nick snorted. "Why'd you think he's so excited? After this it's back to dry toast and salads."
Cody slung his other arm around Nick's shoulders and pulled the three of them close. "Now now, Nick, that's only partially true."
"No, it's all true. You'll believe me when you see breakfast tomorrow."
"Yeah right. Knowing you, Nick, we'll have leftovers for the next week! But I was talking about how good it is to see you, Boz." Cody tore his gaze away from Nick. "How long's it been, buddy?"
"Too long," Nick interjected.
"Well, I've been busy with the lab," Murray began, knowing how lame that sounded. "We're really making some great progress with mechano-receptive feedback in our dexterous anthropomorphic typing hand. You know, it's amazing how just the slightest, most minute correction to the equations can make all the difference between holding a ladybug safely between finger and thumb and, well--" He brought his palms together with sharp smack. "Ladybug soup."
Something in the pan hissed evilly, sending up a gout of scented steam. Nick poked at it fiercely with a wooden spatula. "If I'd known you wanted ladybugs, Murray, I wouldn't've bothered with these butterflies."
Murray started to explain but Cody squeezed his shoulder reassuringly. "He's joking, Boz. C'mon." He guided Murray to the big fan-shaped leather booth just past the edge of Nick's cooktop. Their battered old tomcat, Quinlan, leapt down from the booth and disappeared at Murray's approach. "Tell me all about it. You kinda lost me at 'progress'."
Nick smirked at Cody and kept stirring.
Over Nick's excellent pasta dinner, the three of them chatted easily and at length, slipping into old familiar rhythms.
Murray walked them through a simplified explanation of Roboztics' new experimental hand prototype and how he believed it was an improvement over the one Micromed, Roboztics' competitor was rumored to be debuting at RIA International in the spring.
This year the conference was being held in Adelaide, Australia, and for a while, the three of them tossed around the idea of sailing the Hightide across the Pacific Ocean. Murray offered to find a tides-calculation website for them, but it turned out Cody had real, old-fashioned waxed paper maps stashed away in the aft stateroom. He pulled them out and unrolled them across the table; using compass and protractor, he gleefully calculated they could make it on time if they left by the end of the week. "Give or take a storm or two." His shoulders rose and fell under the thick cable sweater and Murray felt Nick tense up next to him. He knew it was unlikely at this point, that Nick could be talked into going. The ease Cody wore was mirrored by worry lines on Nick's face, at his eyes and forehead. Even a day trip down the coast these days made him uneasy, Murray well knew. He kept his tongue still as Cody cheerfully spun out the possibility of the voyage.
Dessert was fruit, coffee and tiramisu. Murray ate most of the creamy dessert while watching Cody try wordlessly to wheedle a cup of full strength coffee out of Nick.
Like nearly all their friends, Murray had a healthy fear of Nick's coffee, and while he suspected Cody didn't mind decaf half as much as he was letting on, it was fun to watch his old friends sit and flirt, seemingly oblivious to his presence.
Delicately scooping up a spoonful of sponge cake and cream, Murray watched them and wondered how he'd managed to stay away so long. In reality, he saw them more than anyone else in his family -- besides Charlene and the girls, of course -- but the worry Murray'd carried down with him from the Bay Area seemed to melt away the longer he spent in their presence.
Cody laid his hand over Nick's and raised one eyebrow.
Nick leaned into him a little harder, but didn't release his grip on the whale mug. "Hey, we got a surprise for you, Boz." His eyes never left Cody's face.
Distracted, Cody brightened. He turned and fumbled with a pair of crimson envelopes up on the side, in a small brass letter-holder marked Mail. It was shaped like a sailboat and a dock, and you put the letters in the water between the two. There was a tiny brass person fishing on the boat, and someone the same size on the dock, frozen in the act of waving. Murray vividly remembered the flea market the three of them had been at when Nick found it in the middle of a pile of junk. He'd had to detangle it from a pile of cut-rate neon green fishnet socks in order to proudly present it for Cody's gleeful approval.
"Murray."
The brass boat's name was Eternal. Small dark letters etched, he could tell, by hand.
Try as he might, Murray couldn't get past the image of some anonymous joe, toiling in the darkness, painstakingly etching each letter on each boat, letter-holder after letter-holder, sending them out into the world with no idea where they'd end up.
"Earth to Boz."
Murray looked up guiltily. "Netflix!"
"Yeah Murray. Two of your faves: the original Blob and Them!." Cody frowned. "The uh--"
"That giant ant movie he likes so much," Nick finished. He was regarding Murray with a strange expression. "You remember. The first time he watched it we came home to find he'd gotten so paranoid about insects he'd stayed up all night inventing the Bozzz."
"I remember!" Cody said wonderingly. "That tiny, six-legged Roboz you could send in when you didn't want to be stung. What'd it do? It did something once it got in the nest. Like, it stunk, is that right?"
"It sang," Nick and Murray said in unison.
Murray hadn't thought of the Bozzz in years, even though he was sure if he looked, it would turn out to still be one of Roboztics' stalwart moneymakers.
Cody looked to Nick for an explanation, but Murray spoke. "The Bozzz is able to crawl into places people don't want to stick their hands in -- hornet's nests or simple beehives -- and once it gets there, it emits a high-pitched tone that makes the insects flee."
"Along with Mrs. Nakamura's shih tzu, too," Nick finished. "Right over the side. C'mon," he said. "I'll make us some popcorn. Let's see if another rewatch gets Boz inventing anything else." As he rose, he squeezed Murray's shoulder, his large, warm hand lingering.
That's right, Murray thought, following his friends back toward the galley. It sang.
---
you are a china shop
and I am a bull
you are really good food
and I am full
---
On-screen, the ants were winning.
Joan Weldon was screaming, both hands plastered to her head as they took over her lab. Murray had always felt she had a point. Giant ants took over his lab, he'd start screaming, too.
Murray sat in the salon's one easy chair, petting Quinn and watching his two best friends try to stay awake.
Cody was stretched out along the long arm of the sofa, propped up on several pillows Nick had brought up from their stateroom. Unlike the Riptide, the Hightide boasted a salon with sofas with footrests, so as soon as he'd gotten Cody settled to his satisfaction, Nick had plopped down next to him and promptly started falling asleep, despite the fact that New Mexico, one of the most beautiful states in the union if you asked Murray, was under attack from both giant ants and the scientists who'd created them.
But no one was really up to asking Murray anything.
Cody looked warm and cozy and happy, and as the movie progressed, Nick had taken the opportunity to watch Cody until his eyes grew heavy and he dozed lightly, missing all the best bits in favor of quietly passing out on Cody's shoulder.
Murray couldn't help but watch. He found his two friends fascinating. The way they never strayed from each other's sides, and all the silent talking they did, living down here in the middle of nowhere with no one but each other for company. Murray had offered them a Best Boz of course, a vastly improved clone of the original Roboz that Roboztics now mass-produced for shut-ins and the elderly. One of their best sellers. But Cody had just smiled and clapped him on the shoulder, pointing out that Nick would likely forget there was a robot on board the boat and shoot everything to Kingdom Come one night.
Murray frowned. Nick really didn't seem well sometimes. It was almost as if he was Cody's portrait, like in that old story, Dorian Gray. He bore the brunt of all the ills that had befallen them in nearly forty years together.
Onscreen, Joan Weldon was screaming again. It was something of a theme. Didn't seem to bother the ants much, though.
Murray kneaded Quinn's long, soft fur. Forty years. He fell down the rabbithole for a moment; he'd met Charlene in 1984, and they'd been together basically since then, so forty years would put them at...2022. Another decade or so.
Murray tried to imagine his wife, the youngest director of UCSF's Medical Imaging Lab in another ten years time. He let the image of her the way she'd looked in 1984 drift by, superimposing it sometimes, trying to remember the girl he'd married, tracking her through the years, relating her to who Charlene had become.
He saw her, of course, in the faces of his daughters. But he was also starting to suspect, genetics be damned, that he saw a little of Nick and Cody in his daughters, too. Natalie, the tough athletic one who puzzled him, given how little he was prone to sports. And Caitlin, blonde and graceful and gamine, interested in clothes and boys and a complete mystery to Murray and Charlene both. It was impossible, true, but sometimes Murray secretly wondered if Nick and Cody's genetics had found a way in.
If he could prove it of course, he'd be a shoo-in for a Nobel Prize. Quantum genetics and the father of the field, Dr. Murray Bozinsky.
With its distinctive rattling chirrup, a giant ant began to systematically throttle one of the main characters, who reacted with all the aplomb you'd expect.
Murray looked over at Nick and Cody. Nick's head rested on Cody's shoulder and, eyes closed, he seemed deeply asleep, looking more relaxed than at any point in the evening. Cody too was fading, sinking lower into the plush sofa, eyelids fluttering closed.
The on-screen throttling went on for some time; Murray ignored it in favor of this stray glimpse into his two best friends at rest.
It was funny but watching them like this was almost better than the movie. Taking nothing away from Gordon Douglas' cinematic triumph, of course, but Murray couldn't keep his eyes from straying in their direction, time and again.
Cody looked comfortable, sprawled full-length down one arm of the couch and covered in a blanket despite the mild evening. While his attention did seem to be on the movie, his eyes kept drifting closed, head resting against the couch-back. Nick, on the other hand, had given up entirely, and his low, grating snores were only infrequently interrupted by Cody's elbow and a shared glance in Murray's direction.
Murray stroked Quinn thoughtfully.
It was amazing to think how much time had passed since their adventures in King Harbor. So much had changed. This boat, for instance, and this deserted marina so far from all the action of L.A. Not a bikinied babe in sight.
But as Murray sat in the dark salon watching, he saw the years slip away. It wouldn't matter how old they got or where they lived or how. Nick and Cody would always just be...Nick and Cody.
Murray sighed.
Finally, the credits rolled, heralded in by a dramatic upswing of music, blaring trumpets and a full orchestra behind them, indicating that peace had once again been restored to the deserts of New Mexico, irradiated giant bugs bedamned.
After that, the screen went dark, but none of the three of them got up to switch discs or turn the machine off. The Hightide rocked peacefully in the night, with only an occasional lap of wave against her side audible through the open window. Murray felt like there should be a foghorn to complete the picture. But there wasn't.
"You enjoy the movie, Boz?" Cody's eyes were fully open but he didn't raise his head from the couch-back.
"You know, Cody, I've seen it a couple doze times maybe, but somehow it's never gotten old. It's funny, but I hadn't realized how many things had."
Cody glanced over at Nick, still asleep next to him. "You can say that again."
They lapsed into a warm and comfortable silence.
"Hey." Nick said, without opening his eyes. "What's eating you, Boz?"
"Yeah, you've been quiet all evening. Something wrong, Murray? If there is, you can tell us. You can tell us anything, buddy."
Murray nodded, fingers clenching on Quinn's fur. The old tom growled a warning and Murray forced himself to relax. He looked down at the thick white carpet in the salon and took a deep breath.
"Out with it, Murray," Nick said helpfully.
Murray swallowed hard and looked up at his two best friends in the whole world. And without any further ado, he told them what was wrong.
---
What did you do out there?
What did you decide?
You said you needed time, you had time.
---
The next morning, Murray Bozinsky ran late.
Not just five, ten minutes or so, something he could blame on traffic, but epically, spectacularly late.
It wasn't that he'd slept in, no; in fact, he'd gotten up early, just after dawn, and taken a seat out on the Hightide's stern deck. Nick and Cody weren't up yet; despite their military background, the two of them tended to be late risers. Murray didn't mind. He'd sat on the padded bench seat and watched daylight fall over the water, taking in the slow, mindful way the quiet marina approached the morning.
He'd gotten on the road by nine, enjoying having missed rush hour and in fact, continuing to miss it all the way back up through the Bay Area. Along the way, he cheerfully ignored the calm, pleading and then ever more frantic texts from his capable if easily excited executive assistant, until finally turning the phone off entirely as he passed through Sunnyvale. He made it into San Francisco at just after eleven.
At eleven-thirty, Murray was one hour overdue for a meeting at Charlene's therapist's office, to discuss some more of the issues she was having with their marriage. But at eleven-thirty, the same time he was supposed to be confessing his spousal sins, Murray was seated in a small, dark cafe with copper fixtures, just off the N Judah line, waiting for his breakfast.
The evening with Nick and Cody had given him a lot to think about, and he'd been up most of the night. Luckily, a life in research had made Murray no stranger to sleep deprivation and besides which, he felt better than he had in months. No, years. He was looking forward to seeing his wife for the first time in months, certainly. After all, he now knew what problem they were trying to solve.
The waiter appeared at his elbow with a grease-specked heavy ceramic plate, garnished with an assortment of wild greens native only to Bay Area eateries. There were several slices of artisanal bread, heavily buttered, with small pots of jam nestled close by. And in the middle of the plate, sat two absolutely perfect poached eggs.
Murray grinned.
After breakfast, he walked the rest of the way to Charlene's lab at the university. It was the type of freezing cold summer day that tourists never expect to find in San Francisco, and locals routinely dress for.
Despite the heavy corduroy jacket (which he'd worn on his first official date with Charlene), Murray felt the ocean mist brushing past and through him. He breathed it in gladly as he traipsed the few remaining blocks.
As he walked, he noticed his surroundings with fresh eyes and a glad heart. The tiny mom 'n' pop hardware store, the Ethiopian restaurant they'd never made time to try, the chic boutique that was so abstract and hip that the only thing in the window was a stuffed armadillo, dyed blue and laying on its side in the middle of an oversized place setting. It was no longer important what the armadillo meant, or the place setting, or the store itself.
The sun began to burn off the morning's mist, and Murray turned and began the steep walk up the hill to the main campus.
As he climbed, he dialed his wife's cellphone number and was unsurprised by the barrage of anger she directed at him upon answering. At the top of the hill, he looked around, hoping to spot her in the milling crowds. The therapist she'd chosen was also part of the university, in order that she spend as little time away from work as possible. Effiency. That was Charlene in a nutshell.
After a tense exchange of directions, Murray spotted her standing impatiently on the steps of the student union. He slowed his pace, enjoying watching her before she had a chance to see him. If he squinted, he could still see Miss King Harbor, the frightened, fragile, determined young girl she'd been the first time he met her, back when she needed the services of the Riptide Detective Agency. Now, twenty years later, Dr. Charlene Weston, Director of the San Francisco University Magnetic Imaging Facility bore little resemblance to the beautiful physics undergrad who'd sobbed in Murray's arms, and giggled while he taught her how to fish. Charlene wore a tailored suit under her lab coat, and her hair was pulled back in a severe chignon. The hairstyle did little to undercut her natural beauty, but the same could not be said of the dark bags under her eyes.
Murray stopped a few feet away and waited for her to notice him. Which she did, in short order, the phone still at her ear. "Murray! Where have you been? We were supposed to be at Dr Chang's an hour ago! What happened?"
Murray smiled shyly. "Hi Charlene. I missed you too. I--I..." He took a deep breath and pulled a folded packet of papers from one pocket of his jacket. "Charlene, I guess I just didn't feel like Dr Chang was helping us all that much." He looked up. "But I think this will. Charlene..."
She threw reached for the papers exasperatedly, flicking through them quickly with a practiced eye. Her mouth dropped open and she looked up at Murray as if seeing him for the first time. "Oh Murray, no, don't do this."
Murray smiled. "I love you, Charlene." He stepped up close and gave her a shy peck on the cheek while she stood frozen, staring unbelieving at the divorce papers.
Then with one last look, Murray turned and headed west, past the university, past Charlene, and off towards the water.