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Nation of Airports 01.03
Michael's friend Walt Wisniewski rented a chalet in Lake Tahoe, high up Kingsbury Grade on the lake's south shore. Even without the car's navigation screen Michael would have found it. April was off-season, and many homes were vacant. Walt's was one of the few houses fully lit, visible from halfway down the grade, a party in full swing.
Walt once worked at a Silicon Valley database company whose stock had exploded in the 1990's. Walt had retired from professional work in his mid-thirties, a year before the market turned, now lived to play. Before Tahoe he had spent two years in Sydney. "I'll miss the golf and the diving," he had told Michael by e-mail over Christmas. "But I can still windsurf, and I need better runs than those little mountains in Victoria."
Cars lined the road a good distance from the house, but following Walt's instructions Michael pulled into the driveway. Several people sat on the front steps drinking from red plastic cups. A handwritten sign, propped on a lawn chair, blocked the parking space nearest them: PARKING FOR MICHAEL ARCHER ONLY. Michael turned off the headlights and rolled down his window. "Do you need my ID?" he asked. The night air was cold.
"Nah, Walt described you," one woman said, standing. She moved the chair and came up to the car. "He's been asking about you every fifteen minutes. He called you twice."
"Phone's off. Can't talk and drive in the mountains. I'm Michael."
"Tammy," she said. "Hey." She stuck her hand out pointedly and he felt awkward shaking it through the car window. She was a head shorter than Michael and girlishly pretty, blue eyes and sun-brown skin, wavy dyed-burgundy hair to her shoulders. "Walt's inside."
The party was crowded but mellow, the guests mostly late-twenties, neatly dressed and clearly locals. Surf music from a small stereo fought with blender noise from the kitchen. It was all so grown-up. Michael had half-expected a cheap-beer rager from his ski-bum days.
"Archer!" Walt shouted from behind him, and above, on a loft. He took long strides down the stairs and soon had Michael in a bear hug. He had lost weight but he was still imposing. "Good to see you," Walt said, his speaking voice hardly quieter. His shaved head, which Michael had only seen in e-mailed photos, had tanned to smooth cork brown. He wore jeans and a yellow mesh soccer shirt. "You were telling me you'd be here at seven?"
"I got out late and traffic sucked," Michael said. "I drove like a madman once I got on 50. It's great to see you too. You look good."
"Never thought a Polak could get this tan, did you?" A man needed heft to take charge in life. Walt had heft. Michael often worried he would age without gravitas, desiccate like a mummy prince. Tammy from the driveway joined them, tugging Walt's sleeve. She had good proportions, broad shoulders and wide hips. "Michael, this is Tammy," Walt said.
"We met," said Tammy. Michael smiled.
"Didn't I tell you he was cute?" Tammy elbowed Walt, spilling her drink on her hand.
"Thanks for guarding my spot," Michael said.
"Sure," Tammy said. "Nice car."
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