[Fiction] The Snake of Dume

By Adam R. Levine

When people think of Malibu, they usually imagine the beach: sun-bronzed bodies lying on starched sand, convertibles careening on the PCH, The Beach Boys crackling from an old radio. But what makes Malibu so breathtaking are the mountains. The coast quickly grows into cliffs, and five minutes inland from the shore are majestic hills, green and brown and at times black where the fires have scorched the earth. Quiet vineyards; fruit stands along the wide, curving, dust-spewing roads. Steep slopes and crevices where it’s easy to lose things. There are so many lost things at the foot of each mountain.

Cam didn’t want to lose the chance at a promotion. He’d worked so hard since he joined the company, and three years out of college he deserved to be recognized. As he opened the wooden gate with his fob, the October air rippled his dark-brown hair. The Santa Anas were just starting to stir from their sleep, rustling the hedges on Grayfox Street and bobbing the palm fronds. The offshore winds would be ideal. Another hour until sunset. Most people had probably thrown in the towel already, planning to venture out tomorrow, when the forecast was good. Cam normally preferred to surf in the early morning, but today had been a total mindfuck. Wes had hijacked the analytics presentation, talking with his smarmy smile—one that curled at the ends, dimpled his cheeks, and showed off his perfect white teeth. He had boasted about research that he hadn’t done, taking the credit for it. Cam had seen the way that his bosses looked at Wes: head tilted, eyebrows up, fingers around their chins, vigorous nods. He’d seen the way that they’d tacitly designated him the ringleader. But Cam had done all the work. He’d been the one to suggest the new graphs, to run the revenue numbers of the studio’s latest films, to identify the trend among neo-noirs and thrillers. He deserved that promotion, damn it. Wes was a pretty face, a smile in a suit where no one wore smiles or suits. It wasn’t right. Cam sat in the swivel chair in his cubicle, feeling stuck to the seat, staring out the window and watching as the rows of windows of the next Century City skyscraper multiplied, squares upon squares upon rectangles— he traced the different angular shapes with his eyes, trying to suppress his indignation. He  needed to get away from the concrete, the sidewalks, the smell of recycled air and poorly made coffee. He needed the salt-stinging air, the undulations of bracing ocean, the feeling of movement, of being almost airborne, far away from land. He needed to surf.

As Cam reached the stairs, he looked over the bluff to the rocky beach below.

Surprisingly, there weren’t many people in the water. Even though it was a public beach, Little Dume was surrounded by private property, so most people had to walk from Big Dume, or even park at Paradise Cove. Cam’s father owned a house nearby, so he had a key to the locals’ path that led directly down to the beach. He spotted a few familiar faces, and a few people were paddling out. The sun was kissing the horizon, transforming into a luminous burnt orange. There were layers of deep blue in the sky. It looked like a wave, white-tipped where the clouds were hovering. In another hour it would be dark. A hawk circled above, watching the shadows across the sand.

Cam climbed down the stairs, clutching his twin fin under his arm as he passed through the gate. It was nearing low tide. Dropping his stuff in his usual spot, he paddled out, feeling the Santa Anas tickle the hairs on his neck and bringing the smell of brine and moss with it. The water was much warmer than he’d anticipated. It felt good, cleansing after a disgusting day, and he tried to make himself let go of his disappointment, tried to slough it off with each stroke. Cam watched the right-hand point break—the conditions were pretty good. Got to love autumn in Malibu. Now that he was closer, he could make out the heads of people treading water and waiting in line: two young men in wet suits, probably thirty-something; a local older woman with short black hair; a tan man roughly his age with a fleshy face; a husky man in his fifties; and a group of bleach-blonde teenagers who were shouting at each other and laughing. The local waved to him; Cam tried to smile, but he wasn’t in the mood to socialize. All he wanted was one good wave—a chance to feel that high that all surfers get when they’re aloft—and he’d be on his way back home.

The sun streaked the rippling water, sparkling golden and white. The sound of the waves crashing on the sand was like white noise, and for a few minutes Cam managed to forget about promotions, about Wes, about anything land-borne. He watched the surfers ahead of him catch waves. One of the teenagers struggled to get up and fell into the water, her fish swallowed by the cresting water. When it was his turn, Cam geared himself up, faced the shore, and started to paddle.

It was a gorgeous wave, the best one he’d seen in weeks. It was almost held in suspension, like time was slowing down. Cam let the wave carry him as he got solidly to his feet. He had a good stretch ahead of him. Suddenly, the tan, fleshy-faced man appeared out of nowhere on his side, cutting him off. In a moment they would collide. Cam instinctively pivoted, turning back.

He watched the other guy running away with his stolen wave, riding it on a banana-yellow longboard until he wiped out thirty feet away. Cam cursed aloud; turning back to the other surfers, he looked to see if anyone else had witnessed the flagrant drop-in. A few people shouted, but he couldn’t make out what they were saying, if they were even responding to him. Livid, with blood suddenly gushing through his muscles, he paddled ferociously towards the other man who was smiling with big teeth and heading into the beach. Cam caught up with him as they were in standing-depth.

“Hey!” he cried. “Hey, what the fuck?”

The man didn’t turn around at first but kept walking, picking up his yellow longboard. “Hey you, asshole. That was my wave.”

The man turned around and flashed a grin at Cam. “Sorry, dude?”

Cam’s voice grew louder even though he was now standing closer to him, dripping on the beach. “You stole my wave. I was waiting in line for that one.”

The guy kept grinning at him, water droplets falling from his dirty blonde sideburns. He was slightly out of breath. He shrugged. “I had right of way.”

“You stole it, you snake. You dropped in and stole it.”

The other guy brushed him off with his hand and started to walk away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, man,” he murmured.

Cam ran to intercept him. “Bullshit. You’re a fucking snake. You knew exactly what you were doing.” He dropped his twin fin on the sand, almost tripping the other surfer. The other man laughed—a sneering, high-pitched laugh that escaped from his teeth in a clenched smile— and kept walking. “What’s your problem?”

“Right of way, man,” the other man repeated. He reached a towel and bag on the dark sand, bent over to open it and started whistling. Cam stared back at the ocean. The sun was now partly hidden—by the time he paddled back out, it would be too dark to see the waves. He’d missed his chance.

“You could have killed me. Don’t you ever fucking come back here, d’you understand?” Cam was shouting. A few people passed by, gawking at them.

The man toweled off his head. “Cool your jets, man. You’re not the boss here.”

“I’ll carve a snake into your fucking skull if I see you here again.” Cam was shaking as he uttered the threat. He didn’t even realize that his wet hands were fists. The man laughed again.

Cam picked up his board and walked over to where he’d left his gear. He was seeing red. He dried off, watching the other guy carefully. Who did this guy think he was? There were rules for a reason. Sure, they were unspoken, but if people like him didn’t enforce them then what would stop shitheads like him from stealing waves all the time? Cam had been surfing for a while now—his father paid for lessons when he was in high school and college—and he gravitated to the ocean. He liked how different it was from the corporate world—a world of cutthroat power grabs, elitist maneuvering, golf weekends and drinks on patios. Surfing was egalitarian, inclusive, an ecstatic release. It was all about respect: respecting the water, respecting nature, respecting others. But then you got assholes like this guy—people who only cared about themselves, didn’t follow the code, didn’t respect the rules. Cam’s heart felt like a buoy tossed over turbulent waves. He was still struggling to catch his breath, as though he’d only just come up for air.

As Cam collected his gear, he gave one final glance at the snake, who was sitting on the beach, arms across his knees, hair spiked from drying it, sunglasses on. All he’d wanted was one good wave—one fleeting moment of triumph. He stomped towards the private gate, the sand gritty between his toes. Throwing his sandals on, he used the fob to enter and started to climb the stairs. Rummaging in his bag for his phone, he looked at the screen. No missed calls, but one text message—from Brianna, his coworker. “Wes got it.” A sinking feeling in his stomach gutted him, and he stood still for a moment, staring out across the bluff at the horizon. The sun was gone, leaving pink and golden streaks in its wake. The wind sent goosebumps down his arms, chilling him to the bone. He tossed the phone in his bag and made his way up the stairs again.

At the top, where the path began to hug the cliffside and level, he turned his head to look down at Little Dume. To his surprise, in the semidarkness, he saw the yellow longboard ascending the stairs. Cam scowled. How did this snake, this piece of garbage get access to the private path? Had he snuck in behind him somehow, without Cam noticing? It didn’t seem likely, given how far behind he was…but he couldn’t believe that someone who would brazenly break a major rule of surfing would also have exclusive access to the beach. It was wrong.

Cam turned. Ahead of him was a tree with sandy rocks next to it. He crouched behind it, dropping his stuff so that he could lean his hands on the bark. Listening, he heard the faint creaking of wood through the whips of wind. Then he could make out a shrill whistle, louder as the man drew nearer. Cam suddenly realized how cold he was—despite the festival weather, his still-wet skin tightened under the Santa Ana gusts.

A head crested the hill. Cam watched as the snake came into full view. His sunglasses were hanging from his neck, and he was whistling something unfamiliar. As he passed the tree, Cam stood up and slid behind him. “Hey, you snake,” he said, his voice gruffer than he’d ever heard it. The man twisted, surprised. His eyes were wide until they registered the face, and then his open mouth slipped into that shit-eating grin. He didn’t say anything.

“How did you get up here? Were you following me?”

The man laughed. “It’s a pathway. People walk on it. Doesn’t mean I’m following you.”

“Yeah, but this is private property. How did you unlock the gate?”

“Same as you. I got a key.” “Show me.”

The man scoffed, then turned to keep walking up the path. Cam stomped over to block

him.

“Get out of my way.” The man’s voice hardened, but his smile didn’t change. It was laughing at him; the dimples, the curls at the end, the absurdly white teeth… Suddenly, Cam grabbed the man’s bag and threw it on the ground. The longboard dropped and they were at each other, arms entangled, Cam’s hand shoved into his face, the man’s muscular leg kicking at him. Cam kneed him in the crotch and the man gasped drily, bending over to recover. As he tried to catch his breath, Cam opened the bag, ransacking it for the fob. Suddenly a blow landed on his head. Cam staggered, shielding himself with his arms while feeling the blood in his head throb. He picked up the longboard and swung it at his rival like a bat. There was a loud thud as the board hit bone; the man didn’t see it coming; he fell backwards. Staggering up, he tried to swat away Cam’s next swing, but it landed against his abdomen. Tripping backwards over a rock, he lost his footing and slipped in the dusty gravel, plunging down the side of the bluff. Cam watched, clutching the board, as the man rolled over rocks sticking out like shark fins. When his head cracked against the crag, he fell lifeless the rest of the way into the shimmering rocks below. Cam could barely make him out in the deadening, darkening night.

Cam heard whooshing and couldn’t distinguish wind from waves. He felt his breathing quicken. For a few seconds, he didn’t register that he was standing on the cliffside, staring down at a body. There was simply a body, its head cracked like the shell of an egg, the fibula sticking out of the skin like a tent pole rupturing tarp. But then suddenly he became aware of himself again, the silty sand against his toes, the strings of his swimsuit flapping against him. And the gravity of the situation descended upon him like the gathering darkness.

Cam turned, squinting down both ends of the path. No one was in sight. Should he call someone? Nine-one-one, the police, his father? Tell him that the man tripped and fell, that it was an accident? Was it an accident? Panicking, he suddenly kicked the man’s longboard down the cliff. It flipped after hitting a ridge, almost gliding on the air until it landed with a splash twenty feet from the corpse. It was getting harder to see the two objects on the beach below. He tossed the man’s bag over the edge, not even bothering to see where it fell. Cam rushed over to where he left his gear behind the tree. He took his phone out of the pocket, started to dial 911. Before he initiated the call, he looked back down the path. The man was certainly dead. No one had seen the altercation. There was a surveillance camera at the private gate on Grayfox Street, owned by one of the neighbors. If he exited at the top, they would know that he had taken the pathway near the time of death. There was no camera at the beach gate. He could return to Little Dume, hoping that the other surfers had since left, and walk the long way along the beach at low tide.

Cam turned his phone flashlight on. There were footmarks on the path from the skirmish. His first impulse was to take his towel and wipe them away, but he realized that it would seem more suspicious if there were no footprints in the area where someone fell. Nothing seemed identifying—his sandals left no distinct impressions. He wanted to get away from the area before anyone else came, but paranoia that he had left something unfinished, a detail unnoticed rooted him to the spot. But it would take forever to inspect the area in the blueback night. He checked that he had his wallet, his phone, his board, and bag. It was better to flee the scene as soon as possible.

He walked briskly to the foot of the stairs and peered down. He couldn’t see any movement from the beach below. He tried to slink along the banister, hoping that he wouldn’t draw any attention to himself. The wind, rustling tufts of grass along the bluff, deafened the creaks of each wooden step as he made his way down. Reaching the bottom, he noticed that the beach was deserted, the other surfers gone. Had it been so long? Nervous that his luck would change at any moment, he slipped his sandals off and started running along the beach, hugging the cliff, until he realized that his running would appear suspicious. He was safe now—anyone seeing him wouldn’t know that he had come from the pathway. He stopped, his hands gripping the board while he caught his breath. For a moment, the image of the cracked head and marionette-like limbs flashed in his mind, and the shock of it all took hold of him. He almost fell, but the sound of someone approaching made him flinch. When he looked up, there was no one there. It had just been the waves.

Cam started walking towards Paradise Cove. He tried to plan his next step. How would he get to his parked car? The walk would be interminable, but an Uber would be problematic; the driver would remember taking someone from the beach to the top of the cliff, and it would be recorded in their system. Hitch a ride? Cam thought it was ridiculous. He could call his father—perhaps he would be able to pick him up and drop him off without asking questions.

Taking out his phone as he trudged through the sand, he dialed his father’s cell. “So, you did it?” His father’s voice was gravelly on the other end, like he’d just smoked one of his Cubans. The question caught Cam off guard. How could he have known?

“Did what?”

“You got the promotion? You said your office would be making a decision today or tomorrow.”

“Oh—yeah, no. I mean, yes—any day now, but no—haven’t found out yet.” This was the first time that he’d heard his voice since he’d attacked a man to his death, and he was surprised at how normal it sounded; smooth, measured. The wind was crackling through the speaker as he held it to his ears. “Hey, any chance that you’re home? I’m at Paradise Cove and I need a ride.”

“You went surfing? Figured you’d be at work until late, what with the presentation.” There was a pause. “Where’s your car?”

“I parked on Grayfox, but I lost my fob—probably dropped it in the sand by accident before I paddled out.”

“Ah, Cameron—you gotta be careful. We try to keep that path as secure as possible.” “I know, Dad—sorry. My mistake.” He stopped for a minute, needing to give his legs a

rest. “Can you pick me up at the parking lot and take me to my car?”

“It’s a bit inconvenient—can’t you just call an Uber or something?”

“I’ve got all my gear with me. And I was thinking I could crash at your place tonight.

Work’s been—the promotion’s been really getting to me. My head’s spinning.” He wasn’t lying. “Damn it.” There was a pause, a silence filled by the gusts across the ocean. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

#

There was a hefty morning fog. It draped over the mountains like smoke. It eddied around the crumbling rocks, curled its fingers into the fronds of palm trees. It hovered like a bad dream.

Cam woke up in the guest room, the room that used to be his when he split time between his dad’s and mom’s. It had been redecorated after he left for college, and the space that had once felt so personal was neutralized. Where was home now? His one-bedroom apartment in Brentwood? His cubicle at the office? Sometimes it felt like he was more at home in the ocean than anywhere else.

A dead body. For a split second, before becoming fully conscious, it felt like the lingering image from a nightmare, one that stays imprinted in the eyelids upon waking. But then he remembered the smile. The doughy chin. The yellow longboard. And a rush of nausea came over him.

He ran to the bathroom, becoming sick when he fell to the tiled floor. After rinsing his mouth out and washing away the sweat that had formed on the ends of his bangs, he walked into the kitchen. His dad must have left early for work. There was a note on the counter: “Don’t eat the eggs in the fridge.” Cam’s head started to hurt—he realized that he hadn’t eaten anything when he had arrived the night before, had merely emailed his boss that he’d be late to work and shuffled to bed, dazed and disoriented.

The doorbell made him flinch, almost causing him to drop the carton of O.J. He peered around the column in the kitchen, noticing a silhouette in the glass, standing still. Not the mailman, then. Must be one of Dad’s friends. Best thing would be to ignore it—it wouldn’t be for him, and he wasn’t fully dressed. He decided to wait, making no noise until the visitor left.

But the bell rang again, and then there was a vigorous knocking. Cam approached the door and shouted, “Who is it?”

The voice was sharp, reverberating in the doorway. “Mya Nuñez, LA County Sheriff ’s Department. Can you open the door?”

The wave of nausea hit Cam again. He placed his hands against the door to stop himself from falling. He didn’t want to open it, but refusing would only look more suspicious. An existential fear suddenly gripped him like adrenaline, and he unlocked the door. He wasn’t prepared for the brightness of the sun cutting through the fog on this side of the house, and he had to raise his hand to see the officer on the doorstep. At first she was just a shadow, but then he could make out the ponytail, the crow’s feet near the alert brown eyes, the brawny shoulders. He also noticed another officer standing by the parked police SUV, hands on his hips, head cocked.

“Morning, sir. Are you David DePaul?” The officer peered into the hallway behind Cam, assessing who was home.

“No—that’s my father.”

“I see. What’s your name then, son?”

“I’m Cam.” Maybe the formal name would make her think he respected their authority? “Cameron. Cameron DePaul.”

“Hi Cameron. We’re investigating a suspicious death nearby and we wanted to ask you a few questions.”

“Oh, wow.” Cam raised his eyebrows, then looked down at the welcome mat to avoid the officer’s eyes. “That’s terrible.” There was a pause, and Cam looked up to see if she was going to say anything. Instead, Nuñez looked at him intensely, almost defiantly. He couldn’t take the silence. “Um, my dad went out a few hours ago. I actually just woke up. He’ll probably be back this afternoon. You could catch him then.”

“We wanted to ask you a few questions,” Nuñez repeated. “May we come inside?”

Cam knew that they had no right to enter—he knew he should refuse. What would his father say when he came home? “Uh—could we just talk right here?” He swallowed. “I don’t live here anymore, and I’d rather not let you inside without my dad’s permission. I wasn’t even going to answer the door, honestly.”

“Well, I’m glad you did.” Nuñez flashed him a warm smile. “That’s fine, we understand.

It would just be more comfortable inside.” Her walkie-talkie made a few clicking noises as she reached into her jacket and pulled out a notepad. “A surfer’s body was found this morning near Little Dume. It was taken by the tide, but we found gear still lodged in the rocks along the cove. We’re interviewing locals to see if anyone knows anything.” She sniffled, staring at Cam. A few seconds passed.

“Oh, wow,” he repeated. “Poor guy.”

The officer sniffled again, then looked down at her notebook. “Yes—the deceased was male. How did you know?”

Cam felt his lungs shake. “Oh, I…it was just a guess. I suppose I hear ‘surfer’ and immediately think ‘man.’ Totally sexist. Same way I think of men when I hear ‘doctor’ or ‘policeman’…” He stopped, catching himself too late. Nuñez looked up at him, squinted, and after a second she flashed a scornful smile. “I’m sorry,” he muttered. “That was…I’m not sexist, I swear. Anyways, I wish I could help. As I said, I don’t live here—I just stayed the night at my dad’s.”

“So, you weren’t anywhere near the beach yesterday?” There was a glint in the brown eyes; she knew he had been there. How, though? A neighbor’s camera? A witness—one of the other surfers? He saw the other officer looking at his Audi, parked outside by the garage door. Had his car been seen? It wasn’t worth the risk of outright lying if she knew that he had been there.

“Yes, I surfed yesterday—but only briefly. I was probably there for an hour or so, not long, so there’s a good chance I didn’t see him.”

“An hour or so? Is that usual? I mean, I don’t surf, but it seems like a lot of effort to get suited up and trek over to a secluded beach for only an hour or so.” She turned to her partner. “Don’t you think, Jamie? You surf.”

“The waves weren’t great. And I got there too late,” Cam said, cutting in before the other officer could respond.

“That’s funny. Everyone we’ve interviewed so far said the waves were perfect. Those Santa Ana winds.” Nuñez glared at him. He remained silent. “Approximately when were you in the vicinity of Little Dume?”

“Right before sunset. I drove there from work.” “Can you be a little more precise?”

“I wasn’t really paying attention. Maybe 5:00 to 6:30?” He cleared his throat. “What happened? I mean, how did he die?”

“We’re not releasing that information just yet, Mr. DePaul.” “But—was it an accident? Like, did he drown?”

“As I said, we’re not releasing any information about the cause of death yet.” She pulled out a photo from her pocket and handed it to Cam. A man, wearing a hiker’s backpack, was standing in a forest. He was standing like he owned it. His smile made Cam’s bile start to rise, the blood start to rush into his hands. “Do you recognize this man?”

Cam kept staring at that slimy, shit-eating grin, and the image of him stealing the wave, his wave, flashed before him. He consciously tried to control his voice before he spoke. “I’m not sure. I didn’t really look at anyone closely.” He returned the photo, suddenly disgusted by even the touch of the glossy paper.

Nuñez smiled at him. “That’s very interesting.” She looked at her partner and then back at Cam. “We watched the footage of the camera near the private access gate.”

Cam swallowed. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She looked at her notepad. “And we saw you take the pathway down at 4:56. But you didn’t come back up.”

Cam started biting his lip. He looked at Jamie, the other officer, trying to read his facial expression. “Yeah, that’s right.”

“Why? I mean, you must have parked by the gate. So, it would’ve made sense to come back that way. Why didn’t you?”

Perhaps it was Nuñez’s smile—the ends beginning to curl, the dimples starting to form. Perhaps it was the nausea, which had started to wash over him again. Perhaps it was the lack of will to lie creatively. Something in him gave way, like a sandcastle crumbling from within.

As they escorted Cam into the utility vehicle, his phone rang. He picked it up. “Cam!” screamed Brianna. “You’ll never guess—”

“I can’t talk right now,” Cam said, Nuñez motioning him to give up the phone. “No, wait—you need to hear this. I was wrong—Wes didn’t get the promotion.

Apparently, we overheard them talking about something different—a new project that they’re assigning to him. No, it was you! You got the promotion!”

The phone slithered out of his fingers.

 #

When people think of Malibu, they usually think of the beach: surfers parking cars along California one, saline-washed shells and whipping sails, bungalows hunched along the coast, an enthralling blue that bleeds into the sky. But what makes Malibu so breathtaking are the mountains. They stand triumphantly, watching over the beaches like solemn judges. They bask in the sun, sublime. And down below, at the foot of each one, are so many lost things.

Adam R. Levine’s work has appeared in The Missouri Review, The Westchester Review, Bacopa Literary Review, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, and elsewhere. He earned his master’s degree from the Middlebury Bread Loaf School of English. Adam lives in Los Angeles with his wife, two sons, and dog.