In the nearby studios, where several beaches surrounded them, people wandered back and forth. Billy was drinking water; everything moved at a dizzying pace, and he wished the next date wouldn't be with a girl who could barely articulate a word—or perhaps one who would stop denying what existed and simply sit down to enjoy it. If you entered a contest, went through interviews, and lived waiting for that moment, why not just enjoy it the way everyone else does? What do you do when someone refuses to give a real date and simply escapes everything ordinary? The rule works in reverse for anyone willing to play along so the illusion doesn't end there. What is painful is that when women expect to be known for who they are, they should allow it—and not let prejudice or fear dominate them in Billy's eyes. How can he get to know them when they don't allow it themselves? That was the problem.
At first, some television series were being filmed in small studios; the beach was closed. It was used for other angles, then shut down again. One of the most famous spots was there: Pirates of the Caribbean had been filmed in Los Palos Verdes, along coastal areas halfway up the cliffs; he could see some of those massive shapes that would later become iconic scenes in cinema.
He took a deep breath; his body needed some sun.
—I'd like to shoot a video on the beach.—Billy commented, seeing everything tied to music as almost a natural continuation.
He put on a special suit that clung to his skin, uncomfortable in every way. His feet hurt, and he wished he could surf, like when he was younger—something that wouldn't leave his body itching. The salty sea brought him a certain calm as he was photographed from every angle, almost from every side at once. His blog had already become what people called a kind of social network, shaping reality through someone who showed life on his own terms. His posts were widely viewed and grew every day: from recommended activities to great restaurants, books he had read, and photos drifting into modeling.
His ash-blond hair was slicked back; his bright green eyes made for striking photos he would later use. Not far away, tourists passed by carrying boards; a surf competition would start in the mid-afternoon. He wanted to be there. But the gap in skill made him hesitate; fortunately, they had a very famous instructor—one who filled his basket with money. Kelly Slater would arrive in about an hour. Billy didn't know he was famous; he only saw someone incredibly good at riding the waves. Billy glanced sideways, watching everything move.
—The girl is arriving.—one of the camera operators commented.
Billy's team stepped back. The simplicity of her profile was stunning. Without even realizing it—and without applying moisturizer or sunscreen—her skin glowed under the assault of the sun.
—No problem.—replied the guy who now seemed to want nothing more than to lie down in the shade.
—When I'm done, I want to talk a bit with Michael Ocklars,—Billy said.—About his next house, the next three months. I want to live on this beach, on this beach where only the wind and the waves call to me—playing in the water every day and seeing myself in the mirror, climbing great waves.
He breathed in the air flowing from every direction. Now he needed to feel free enough to leave life behind, to return to the corridors of New York and fall in love again with the streets, the night, and the food that filled those places—though everything ultimately fit into something simple.
The girl was a charming brunette with straight hair and blue eyes. With an appealing mix of youth and sweetness, she had agreed to a beach date. Billy watched her walk in a white dress and a light robe that subtly framed the best of her curves. He couldn't stop noticing the restless way they both moved. She lowered her head slightly; she was tall, perhaps just a bit shorter than him. She took a breath and added a greeting. Billy, resting in the shade beneath an umbrella, invited her to sit; he wanted to watch the waves a little longer before daring to go in. He spotted the man who was a fish in the water, moving like a shark, broad shoulders, a board under his arm, carrying two boards in a row. The date lasted forty-five to sixty minutes, but sometimes Billy stretched it just to keep the activity going.
—Look at the waves.—Billy said to the girl. Her profile shifted; he saw her bright eyes.
—You think it's real.—Billy continued.—We're going to have more fun than any other day.—
She nodded. The beach was filled with popular songs, some mixed with Billy's, the two of them were surfing long enough. Later, they would eat something simple on the beach, and that would be it. It was the unspoken rule of life that everything should blend: Billy's hands on her hips, the masculine presence, the mischievous smile. Even the boldest tended to surrender to the ease with which he handled everything—from an awkward applause to his way of stepping aside.
…
Billy finished three beach dates. He was tired of eating fruit. The afternoon stretched on—unlike other states, countries, latitudes… Here, the sun lasted as long as he wanted it to.
—Record this.—Billy said.—Unlike the original, he turned it into a sharp, slow song; with his way of singing, he improved any piece. His voice was magnificent, taking something good and turning it into an illusion of words. The muse ran across his lips.
A guitar in his hands.
Sweater Weather (The Neighbourhood)
🎶🎵🎶🎵🎶🎵🎶🎵
And all I am is a man
I want the world in my hands
I hate the beach
But I stand in California with my toes in the sand
Use the sleeves of my sweater
Let's have an adventure
Head in the clouds but my gravity centered
Touch my neck and I'll touch yours
You in those little high waisted shorts, oh
Oh, she knows what I think about
And what I think about
One love, two mouths
One love, one house
No shirt, no blouse
Just us, you find out
Nothing that I wouldn't wanna tell you about, no
'Cause it's too cold
For you here
And now, so let me hold
Both your hands in the holes of my sweater
🎶🎵🎶🎵🎶🎵🎶🎵
The beach hushed its cameras; it carefully recorded Billy's song against the shoreline. Takes resumed; his mouth stopped, adjusted, and repeated certain frames. Creating live and direct lets people see the boy's skill in action. His acoustic guitar danced; it was easy to fit something with a beginning and an end. Billy operated from the living pulse of songs that came to him as fast as two verses in the air.
🎶🎵🎶🎵🎶🎵🎶🎵
And if I may just take your breath away
I don't mind if there's not much to say
Sometimes the silence guides a mind
To move to a place so far away
The goosebumps start to raise
The minute that my left hand meets your waist
And then I watch your face
Put my finger on your tongue 'cause you love to taste, yeah
These hearts adore, everyone the other beats hardest for
Inside this place is warm
Outside it starts to pour
Coming down
One love, two mouths
One love, one house
No shirt, no blouse
Just us, you find out
Nothing that I wouldn't wanna tell you about, no, no, no
'Cause it's too cold
For you here
And now, so let me hold
Both your hands in the holes of my sweater
'Cause it's too cold
For you here
And now, so let me hold
Both your hands in the holes of my sweater
🎶🎵🎶🎵🎶🎵🎶🎵
A quick strum, building harmony with fingers racing a thousand miles an hour—each touch a final vibration of meaning. Every word was caught by the vibrato of his voice, now composing a melody and powerfully anointing the entire beach stage, delighting himself.
The cameras now captured every part of him; they needed every take for the reality show to land as a true explosion. Billy had no idea the rights were moving from Warner to MTV, and that it would become one of the most-watched series among teenage girls worldwide. Every feature, every simplicity—filled with a dominance that seemed to come so naturally—his strong body, his way of practicing a sport. It was pure delight for anyone who tried to deny it: every girl would fall, envy would forge mid-level stars in some places, rumors of him being romantic, sweet, and sensual spreading through schools—whispers about the god he was.
🎶🎵🎶🎵🎶🎵🎶🎵
Whoa, whoa, whoa
Whoa, whoa, whoa
Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa
Whoa, whoa
Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa
Whoa, whoa
'Cause it's too cold
For you here
And now, so let me hold
Both your hands in the holes of my sweater
It's too cold
For you here
And now, let me hold
Both your hands in the holes of my sweater
And it's too cold, it's too cold
The holes of my sweater
🎶🎵🎶🎵🎶🎵🎶🎵}
...