At the bar in bare feet.

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure Johnny Depp wouldn’t be all that into hanging out with me.”

“Why not? He seems like a pretty cool guy.”

“Oh, very cool. That’s not the issue. I mean, no doubt I’d like to hang out with him, but I just don’t get the sense that he’d be very interested in me. Which, in turn, would make it a lot less fun to hang out with him.”

“I think you’re selling yourself short.”

It was a nice thing to say, but in truth, he really didn’t think he was. The sun leaned down and pressed its forehead into the fringe of palm trees across the bay. His shirt stuck to his back a little in the heat, and they watched the waves, always optimistic that the swell might be picking up.

“I have pleats in my jeans.”

This was also true. He didn’t like the pleats; he knew that they weren’t cool. But he didn’t do his own laundry and really hadn’t worked up the nerve to give his cleaning lady more strict instruction with regard to how his factory distressed jeans lost much of their appeal when pressed with an iron. Plus he didn’t speak Spanish.

He took a sip of his margarita. Little white wisps of smoke rose out of his glass as the humid air met the drink’s little whipped frozen peaks.

“If he got a chance to know you, he’d like you. I like hanging out with you.”

The bartender touched his new mustache lightly; he hadn’t shaved during his week off and was trying it out. The reviews had been positive so far. Being Mexican, the mustache was entirely without insouciant irony.

“Thanks, but who’s kidding who? I wouldn’t even get into the Viper Room.”