Was that asking too much from life?
Andy parked the Huffy at the Bicycle Pit-Stop, stuffed his coat and tie into the backpack, and hung the pack on the handlebars. He walked past the outdoor patio that featured a man-made stream coursing through the slate surface and entered the food court through sliding glass doors. He proceeded directly to the breakfast taco counter and ordered his usual from Team Member Brad (a fifteen-year member sporting a white chef's coat, a green Whole Foods cap, clear sterile gloves, and a $500,000 net worth from his company stock options): scrambled eggs, bacon, cheese, and refried beans on wheat tortillas with enough salsa to clear out his sinuses.
" Dos."
"You need one for Max?"
"He's lunching at Guero's today."
And by now napping on Guero's front porch. Andy took the tacos from Team Member Brad, stepped past the Gelato counter to the day2day juice bar, and ordered a Jumping Grasshopper smoothie from Team Member Charlene: wheat grass, lemon, lime, apple juice, pineapple, banana, and fat-free plain yogurt, his personal added ingredient. Breakfast tacos and a smoothie: his version of a power lunch for under $10. He returned to the Gelato bar and sat on a stool with his back to the counter.
Whole Foods had been created as an alternative to the corporate grocery stores of America; the original name was "Safer Way" and back then the little store had catered to the hippies of Austin, like Andy's mother, who wanted whole, organic, non-corporate food. Fast forward thirty years and Whole Foods was now much more than an alternative grocery store for hippies. It was an alternative lifestyle. A way of life.
And its customers lived the life.
They were young and fit, hip and organic, green and liberal, educated and employed. But mostly fit. Men and women, but Andy didn't come for the men. He came for the women. Young, incredibly fit women. Lean and toned, muscular and tanned, the hard female bodies of Austin worked out at Gold's Gym and hung out at Whole Foods, their awesome anatomies tightly encased in segmented polyurethane, a magnificent long-chain synthetic polymer fiber known as Spandex. Tube tops, tank tops, short-shorts, leggings- God, the Spandex. These girls did not put personal ads in the Chronicle. They came to Whole Foods.
Whole Foods girls were the finest and fittest females in Austin, Texas.
Looking at the girls now, Andy Prescott was again moved to offer a silent thanks to Joseph C. Shivers, the DuPont scientist who had invented Spandex in 1959. He had dedicated an entire decade of his life for the betterment of mankind. Or at least man.
Andy finished off one taco, sucked down half the smoothie, and then dove into the second taco. He loved to sit right there in the food court and girl watch, but there was one distinct downside: spotting a law school classmate who had done better. Which is to say, any law school classmate. Like Richard Olson. Rich. Which he was. Pale-skinned and soft-bodied, he looked like the tax lawyer he was. Rich was talking to two girls, who were hanging on his every word and sidling close like cats rubbing against his leg- two Whole Foods girls flirting with Rich Olson, the bastard. Andy shook his head.
What does he have that I don't?
But Andy knew the answer to his own question: a steady income. Rich had graduated at the top of their class. Four years with the biggest firm in Austin and the guy's making $250,000, driving a Porsche, living in a downtown loft, and dating beautiful girls.
Andy sucked hard on the smoothie straw and felt the heat of jealousy building inside him when a lovely vision passed a few feet in front of him. She was blonde, lean, and fit. She was wearing Spandex, but not much. She was twenty-five years old. She was Suzie.
"Hi, Suzie."
She stopped, spun around, and assumed a perfect pose… until she saw it was just him. The pose evaporated like spit on the hot sidewalk.
"Oh. Hi, Andy."
Suzie was the kind of girl whose engine was always idling, just waiting to be shifted into gear by a stud. Which is to say, not by Andy. He had never come close to touching her gearbox, but he never quit reaching for the stick shift. He said, "I'm free tonight."
"I'm not. Free. I'm a very expensive date."
"Jeez, Suzie, you sound like a Dallas girl."
"Andy, Austin girls are no less superficial than Dallas girls. We're just in better shape."
Suzie was in extremely good shape. She was awesome. She looked like an airbrushed model in a magazine, but without the flaws. She was a top-of-the-line Whole Foods girl. She was digging in her waist pack. She was pulling out a familiar-looking piece of paper. She was holding it out to Andy.
"Andy, I got a speeding ticket. Fourth one this year. Can you take care of this for me?"
"Sure… for a hundred bucks. I'm not free either."
Suzie snatched the ticket out of his hand and stormed off.
He still had his pride. Well, sort of.
Andy rode the Huffy north across Sixth Street to a large L-shaped building on the corner that housed Anthropologie, a women's clothing store, BookPeople, an independent bookstore that had achieved cult status in Austin, and Recreational Equipment Inc. He wasn't there for the blouses or the books; he was there for the bikes. He parked and went inside REI.
He stopped just inside the door and gazed around like a kid in a candy store. REI housed all of Andy's dreams, except Suzie and the Slammer. Every manner of extreme sports gear stood on the floor or sat on the shelves or hung from the ceiling or on the walls-for running, hiking, climbing, skiing, snowboarding, canoeing, kayaking, and biking. This was not your father's sporting goods store.
Unless your father snowboarded down Mt. Kilimanjaro.
REI didn't sell sporting goods; it enabled outdoor adventure. You want to climb Mt. Everest or kayak Niagara Falls or hammer Death Road in Bolivia, this is your store. You want to play hard and get dirty, push yourself to the extreme, find out what you're made of, come on in. You want to play a friendly round of golf at the country club or a spirited game of badminton in the backyard, go somewhere else. REI sold extreme gear for extreme athletes, for people who wanted to live life, not watch it on TV. Like Andy. He was admiring the new mountain bikes hanging from the ceiling just out of his reach when he heard a familiar voice.
"Dude, you get the number?"
Wayne. In his green REI employee vest.
"What number?"
"The number of the train that hit you."
Wayne laughed. He was funny like that.
"Seeing your face and that Huffy you rode up on-you steal that from a kid? — I'm gonna take a wild guess and say you crashed another bike."
"Yep."
"Three months, that's gotta be some kind of record. What happened this time?"
Andy gave Wayne a brief recap of the old ladies and his ride down the ravine. By the time he had finished, Wayne was shaking his head.
"Dude, you're pushing that Samson theory."
Wayne was the bike man at REI. He repaired bikes in the bike shop and sold bikes on the floor. He had sold Andy every one of his bikes; this one would make six. Or was it seven?
"Don't ever cut that hair." Wayne slapped Andy on the shoulder. "Come on, let's see what trade-ins I've got."
They walked under the new bikes that Andy coveted even more than Suzie-the Novara Method 2.0… the Marin Rift Zone XC Quad… the Cannondale Prophet… the Stumpjumper-top-of-the-line trail bikes that he had about as much chance of riding as he did Suzie.
"Andy," Wayne said, "I wish you were rich. You buy more bikes each year than my Dellionaires."
"Dellionaires" were employees of Dell Computer-founded in Austin by Michael Dell, another college dropout-who had become millionaires on their company stock. Their spending habits were legendary in Austin.
"Difference is, you buy cheap bikes. Speaking of which, check this one out. She's another Schwinn hardtail, but your butt's used to that. I was gonna upgrade some of the components, sell it for four-fifty, but I'll let you have it for four."