Fiction
Paperback 323 pages
Price $16.95
Santa Cruz’n Press
By Fred Reiss
Illustrated by John Severson
Fred Reiss is a talk show host and news personality
in San Jose, California. He performed as
an insult comedian for twelve years. He has
performed on national television and radio.
He worked as a journalist for seven years
in Connecticut. Twenty years ago, Reiss contracted
testicular cancer (He lost a testicle to
cancer, which means he is down to only five.).
After his cancer experience Reiss vowed to
move to California, do stand-up comedy, and
surf. He quit his job as a reporter and did
just that. In the water, his surfing is better
than the worst, and worse than the best.
Illustrated by John Severson
John Severson, founder of Surfer Magazine and artist, illustrated the novel with
26 soulful drawings.
About the novel
It’s 1999. The Dot-Comers of Silicon Valley are buying their way into
the Santa Cruz, California lifestyle. The Dot Comers are raising property values,
driving out the locals, and ruining surf spots. There is only one force left
to stop them: a surfer, a dog, and a van. But when the surfer falls in love
with a Dot-Com girl, things get gnarly.
Points the novel takes on:
• Silicon Valley destroyed the soul of Santa
Cruz
• Why surfing is now a status symbol of cool
among the rich
• How women surfers are more aggressive and
rude than men
• Shows that the proliferation of surf classes
and the greed of instructors has ruined surf spots
Surf.Com
Sample From Chapter One
THEY CAME FROM SILICON VALLEY. The dot-comers arrived at Bings the same way
they downloaded the surf spots, the streets, and the shops of Santa Cruz.
Suddenly, rudely, and in groups. The rapid pace of their invasive half conversations
was blaring, cocky, intense, tightly clipped, and more focused than it needed
to be. And God were these dot-comers loud! The static gibbering of their
high-tech
voices drowned out the yow-ing cries of seagulls, the damp barking of seals
under the municipal wharf, and the waves slapping against the pier’s
pilings. At least thirty-five dot-comers sat on long wooden benches, which
were positioned around several wooden tables, draped with red-and-white checkered
cloths. Each table setting had plates filled with a three-egg omelet, toast,
along with huge side orders of bacon, sausage, or tofu. But the food was getting
cold. Instead of eating, the dot-comers sat with their backs to the tables,
and hunched over laptops on metal folding chairs in front of them. My patented
stinkeye hardened on these trannies. Most were embedded in their twenties,
obviously single—and probably not by choice. The guys were dumpy dorks
or wiry geeks, and the women were attractive, but only when they were compared
to the guys. The dot-comers even looked uncomfortable within themselves—they
rubbed their chins, pulled at the skin around their eyes, rapidly moved one
leg up and down, or squirmed in chairs, as if they were trying to work their
way out of their own flesh. Just about all of them had that soft-white bulb
office tan. Laminated company badges were clipped like hunting permits on their
belts or pockets. They yammered on cell phones, headsets, and only took a break
from clicking their keyboards to check beepers and palm pilots for incoming
calls or e-mails. Their hand-held devices might have been communicating online,
but for people who took pride in their networking skills, none of the dot-comers
looked like they were connecting with one another or the world around them.
I couldn’t tell if they were talking to themselves, speaking on a telephone
headset, having a conversation with the person across from them, or babbling
incoherently to an imaginary playmate...
“
It’s all about perceived value.”
“
IPO—”
“
An eBay secretary got rich on her stock options. A secretary! She didn’t
know until she got back from vacation.”
“
HTML—”
“ I bet this gets the business up to four million and a deal to sell to
Microsoft for twelve.”
“
TCP/IP—”
“ Pre-emptive multi-tasking is duplicating traffic...”
“
JAVA—”
“ A Boulder Creek guy sold his Loans.Com domain name for over a million
dollars.”
“ Oh that's so Q-4! So Q-4.”
“ Hold down the option key and hit restart.”
I wished I could hold down the option key on them and hit restart. Q-4. HTML.
JAVA IPO. TCP/IP. All I thought was B-F-D: Big Fucking Deal. It was nauseating.
I swear, if aliens came to this planet, I would volunteer to be a slave trader.
I ordered my breakfast from a new menu that displayed computer graphics of
surfers riding waves around the point breaks of increased food prices. The
$3.99 special was now $6.99 and no longer came with a choice of bacon or
sausage. The print was difficult to read because the fonts were several different
sizes
and colors (Sometimes the same color type was positioned on a digital illustration
of a similar color and completely disappeared.). I absently spun my Dad’s
gold ring on the finger above my right thumb and waited for Shiloh to bring
me my Pepsi. It was a Tuesday. I planned to start it quietly on the outside
deck of Bings, a well-run dump at the end of the wharf on the Westside of town.
I usually powered down a “Locals Only” breakfast special with a
cold Pepsi, then did my surf check at Pleasure Point, and—if the waves
were good—I’d get a session in, and possibly, open my surf shop
before noon. Unfortunately, there was nothing quiet about the start of this
day. Quiet just wasn’t happening. The broadband of dot-comers overran
my place and made it their own. They had some catered deal with a bar set-up.
There were posts with silver metal poles topped with flying-saucer shaped hooded
heaters positioned all around to remove the morning chill. They even had a
massage table to give body-toneless geeks neck or shoulder rubs. I knew the
masseuse, her name was Zoof, but she looked busy so I didn’t bother her.
The geek she rubbed was face down with his head within an oval, sponge cradle
that extended beyond the edge of the table. He watched a DVD-movie on his laptop,
which was placed on the floor. His cell phone beeped on a small table near
him. Without moving his head, he asked, “Can you get that?” Positioned
on the wharf railing, behind Zoof’s set-up, was a one-foot high plastic
windmill. The device blew a steady stream of tiny bubbles between revolving
blades. I slightly suspected the machine produced bubbles by sucking out
the air and replacing it with an atmosphere only the dot-comers could breathe.
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