I met Zooey earlier this summer, at the best bar in downtown
HB, Gallagher’s—an Irish pub and restaurant with brown
wood and a halo of televisions, an internet jukebox that hangs
on the wall by the bathroom, and a small stage in the back
corner for music and stand-up comedy. Gallagher’s is off
Main Street and Pacific Coast Highway, a hundred yards from
the HB pier. I can still smell the beer and whiskey, and their
delicious roast beef wafting over the patio’s Plexiglas wall, and
into the lurid streets of Surf City.
One Friday night a couple of months ago, Zooey appeared
out of nowhere.
She was outside on the patio, at a roundtable with her legs
stretched out. Her black, high-top Chuck Taylors rested on
another chair, despite the place being crowded. Her hair was
still bright red, not yet faded to pink, and cut just above her
View original post 327 more words