The Common Lawyer by Mark Gimenez

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