Erik, my fellow TA in “Introduction to European History”, is one of those people who looks exactly like what he is – a reef beef.  He’s 6’4” and 10% body fat and tanned down to his internal organs.  His official residence is a shortboard off Malibu, although he made the pro tour in wakeboarding, not surfing.  He plays beach volleyball when the surf is dead and there’s no speedboat to tow him.  Maybe that sounds like a decent athletic curriculum vitae, but it’s shitty preparation for the pickup basketball games at UCLA.  Here the courts are loaded with more talent than you’ll find in some college athletic conferences.  That’s why Erik collapses on the grass next to me, panting and shell-shocked.  “Shit…did we…get schooled,” he gasps, staring up at the sky through sweaty blond hair.  A girl pedaling a bike almost crashes into a hedge, she’s so busy gawking at his six pack and low-rider beach shorts.

You’d never guess that he’s a Ph.D. student obsessed with Eastern European peasant rebellions.  Never in a million years.

I raise my head to look past my hightops at the basketball court.  The same undergrads who were kicking our asses are embroiled in a tougher game.  “You see…that one kid…dunk?” I half-groan, half-pant.

“Yeah…right over you!  About…twenty…times!” Erik laughs.

Suddenly a shadow falls across us.  “You nancies up for another game?” asks Professor Giggs.  He’s a wiry fortysomething Englishman with a visiting appointment in Religious Studies, of all things.  The midnight blue t-shirt he’s wearing proclaims OXFORD UNIVERSITY DIVINITY SCHOOL.  His Rec-Specs are pushed up on his forehead, just below his spray of prematurely gray hair.  He’s not panting.  He may not even be sweating.

“Fuck you…Cedric,” Erik says good-naturedly.  “We’re busy…dying here.”

That’s more than I can manage.  I just flip Giggs off.  My arm sloshes with lactic acid.

“Cheers, ladies – I mean laddies,” he winks, messing with his English accent.  Then he trots off to find better teammates.

For a while we just lay there, catching our breath, letting the grass prickle our bare backs and limbs.  Above us are wispy clouds and the bright smog of another postcard day in LA.  We pass a ribbed bottle of Evian back and forth until it’s empty.

“I’m rehydrated enough for beer.”  Erik levers himself into a sitting position and squints at me.  “What about you?”

“I better leave before traffic picks up.”  Even on a Sunday afternoon traffic is a bitch.

He shakes his head, sprinkling me with sweat.  “What is it with you and living off-campus?  Staying here is easier, dude.  It’s cheaper and there’s no commute.”

“I like having to leave.  Then grad school feels like a job, not a prison term.”  I check Erik for a reaction, and get a brief grin.  “Anyway, I’m moving to Tijuana in a couple weeks.”

“I can think of worse places to do your dissertation research.”

“I can think of better ones.  You’re going to Prague, right?”

Someplace distant seems to descend over his vision.  “Oh yeah.  Prague rocks the living fudgebowl.  I’ll probably never come back.”

“I know the feeling,” I say, meaning every syllable.  In fact I’m ready to drive home to Koreatown and never come back.  A muted ringing begins to emanate from my backpack.

“I’ll let you get that.  Later, dude.”  Erik taps my fist in goodbye and struggles to his feet, knees popping.  His shadow recedes in the direction of graduate housing.

My cellphone’s caller ID is reporting a strange number.  Area code 970.  “Nick here,” I growl.

“Hi.  It’s me.  I’m in a place called Grand Junction, Colorado.”  Nooshin’s voice is a brave tremble.  “How are you doing?  Nick?”

Her location is an inexplicable surprise.  “Me?  I’m, uh – forget about me.  How the hell are you?  What are you doing in Grand Junction?  Is everything okay?”

“Oh, not really.  But it doesn’t matter.”

“So what’s in Grand Junction?  Besides you?”

“It’s just a stop.  I’m going to San Diego again, but flying was too expensive.  So I took the bus.  You know, one of those big Greyhound things?  It’s my first time ever.”  She laughs tiredly.  “I thought it would be more like flying.  Like, in a couple hours you’re there.  But the stupid bus broke down, and now I won’t get to San Diego until midnight.”

“I thought you were broke.  Did your family send you money for bus fare?”

“Well…”  The word drags into a miserable silence.  She doesn’t want to confess to me.

“That’s alright.  You don’t need to tell me.”

“No, it’s just…”  Nooshin sighs.  “I’m ashamed.”

“Ashamed – of what?”

“I pawned my wedding ring.  Do you know what an insult that is to Saman, to his whole family?”

I try to put the blame where it belongs.  “Saman didn’t give you a choice.  It’s the dude’s own goddamn fault.  You hear me?  His fault, not yours.”

“I guess so,” she says, unconvinced.

“But still, you’re coming back to SoCal.  I’m glad – if you’re glad,” I quickly add.

“Yeah.  I’m glad.”  But the bravery is gone from her voice.  Only the trembling is left.  “I just hope my family is glad too.  Especially my sister.  I’m kind of running away to her place without telling her.  For, like, the second time.”

“Sounds like the drama isn’t over.”

“It’s probably just beginning.”

The conversation is too heavy to continue.  Nooshin drifts someplace else – deeper into her miserable circumstances, maybe.  I’ve got my ears pricked up.  Past the staccato dribbles of the basketball court I can hear the slowing hum of I-405.  My commute is getting worse every minute.

“I still have that surprise waiting for you,” I remind her.

“The dayhike in LA?  That surprise?”

“If I tell you, it wouldn’t be a surprise, now would it?”

“I was afraid you wouldn’t want to see me again.”  But she says it brightly, feeling reassured.

“Of course I want to see you again.  I need more Nooshin time.  And you need more Nick time.  We’ve only hung out, what?  Twice?”

“Yeah.  That day in Tijuana, and when we hiked Canyon Sin Nombre.”  A significant pause.  “Do you think it’s weird that we’ve only seen each other face-to-face twice?”

Her question is full of emotional undertow.  How the hell do you explain this connection, really?  A distant coincidence of friendship.  Opposites that attracted and keep on attracting.  Or maybe we’re just two lonely people wounded deep inside.

Lacking an answer, I play for laughs.  “Three times.  It would’ve been three times – except you stood me up.  My fragile ego is still bruised.”

“Yeah right,” Nooshin giggles.  “When do you and your fragile ego want to spring this surprise on me?”

“Well, this week is finals.  I’ll need the weekend to grade.  How about early next week?”

“It’s a plan,” she smiles into the phone.

There’s a commotion in the background, kids shouting, voices raised in goodbyes.  The bus must be preparing to leave.  She rouses herself to continue the journey into her own private unknown.  The same way I rouse myself for the commute home.  I-405 is slowing into a honking gridlock of noxious tailpipe haze.  Eight miles of parking lot here I come.