In Castaic, I get off the interstate and pull into the parking lot of a convenience store. There’s an ice-filled cooler in the back seat which I swiped from Bo’s garage. I point it out to Kara and tell her we should go in, pick out drinks and food for lunch.

We walk through the gravely parking lot. The sun is bright and hot.

Inside the store, it’s cool and smoky.

I pick out two pimento cheese sandwiches from the freezer and a six-pack of soda. At the register, I wait for Kara. The clerk is an old man. He smokes an unfiltered cigarette and just stares at me, like he knows who I am and could give a shit. You’ve got to respect that.

Kara sets a tuna sandwich and a pint of vanilla ice cream on the counter and I pay for everything with warm, soft cash.

We walk back out into the noonday heat and stow everything in the cooler.

As I put the key into the ignition, Kara touches my arm.

“Jim, I have to tell you, I’m having a tough time getting past the whole celebrity thing.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, I was doing fine until this morning. But all my friends from last night’s party called, and it’s not their fault, but they were just making such a huge deal out of our date today. I wish I didn’t even know who you were. Do you know what I mean? I’m just afraid it’s coloring this experience for me.”

“You think about things a lot, don’t you?”

She smiles and touches my arm again. “Often to my own detriment.” I love it when she touches my arm.

“I’ve just had maybe the best idea ever,” I say, and it’s true. I have a terrific one.

“What?”

“I’m not Jim Jansen.”

“Huh?”

“I’m not Jim Jansen anymore.”

“Well, who are you?”

“Call me Lance.”

“Lance?” She giggles. “Why?”

“I’m serious.”

“I’m not going to call you Lance.”

“What’s wrong with Lance?”

“It’s not your name.”

“Pretend it is.”

“This is too weird.”

“Weirder than spending a day with the James Jansen?”

She tilts her head in thought, and I glimpse myself in the reflection of her sunglasses: khaki pants, white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. I’ve borrowed my brother’s leather sandals. I smile at my reflection and Kara thinks I’ve smiled at her.

“What?” she says.

“So what’s my name?”

“Lance, I guess.”

“You don’t like it?”

“You just don’t look like a Lance. What’s your last name going to be?”

“Dunkquist.”

She guffaws. “Lance Dunkquist?”

“Lance Blue Dunkquist.”

She punches my arm very flirtatiously and laughs.

“I know it’s a stupid name,” I say.

“Well, start the car, Lance Blue Dunkquist, and let’s get to wherever we’re going.”

Interstate 5 climbs above four thousand feet and the air turns cooler.

At Tejon Pass, we pull onto the shoulder and have our picture taken by an elderly couple on a Sunday drive up from Santa Barbara. I introduce myself as Lance. They are sweet old folks. The kind that make the prospect of old age not quite so horrifying. When we’re back in the Hummer and driving along the winding, secondary road, I tell Kara how seeing an old couple like that makes me look forward to getting older, and she looks at me like I’ve uttered a great truth or something. She holds my hand. I think we’re having one of those moments, and I guess the point of life is having as many of them as you can. This is my second. It feels even better than the first.

We park at the end of a national forest road at the foot of Mt. Pinos. It’s a few minutes past one. Most of the picnic tables are occupied by families. They’re a beautiful thing when you’re with someone like Kara. If I were alone and feeling like myself, I would hate them.

Since the cooler is small and equipped with a shoulder strap, I lift it from the back seat and ask Kara to carry the blanket.

We set out up a hiking trail that meanders through the conifers.

Clouds obscure the sun.

The air turns even cooler.

No one’s on the trail.

We walk side by side.

The path climbs and climbs.

After an hour, we reach a meadow strewn with boulders and patches of old snow near the summit. Kara says that this would be a lovely spot to stop, and I agree. We’re both a little winded, a little sweaty.

I follow Kara off the trail, and she finds a level plane of grass and spreads the blanket. We remove our footwear and stroll barefooted through the warm grass. Then we sit down on the blanket, and I open the cooler. Plunging my hand into the ice, I emerge with two cans of cola and our sandwiches. The high altitude has created pressure inside the bag of potato chips.

We’re hungry from the hike, and we eat in silence. The sandwich tastes good. I love pimento cheese, even though I’m not exactly sure what it is.

I’m so happy. If you knew me at all, you could tell.

We pass the pint of ice cream back and forth. It’s soft and cold and gone in no time.

I stretch out on the blanket and put on my shades because the sun is directly overhead. Kara wipes her mouth on her navy tank top (I forgot to bring napkins) and then she crawls over to me and cuddles up with her head on my shoulder, her hand on my chest.

Says, “This is so nice. Not at all what I thought today would be like.”

“What’d you expect?”

“I was afraid you would try to blow my mind. I sort of thought we’d be flying up to San Francisco or down to Mexico. This is so…understated. You couldn’t have planned it any better.”

“You know a lot about me, but I don’t even know one thing about you,” I tell her as I begin running my fingers through her hair. “Except where you live and that one of your friends is getting married soon.”

“I’m a grad student,” she says. She stretches one of her legs over mine. “I’m in the art history program at UCLA. Which means I’ll be teaching the rest of my life.”

“What’s your favorite painting?”

“I don’t have one. I can’t enjoy them anymore. All I see is technique. Color. Brushstrokes. I see the artist. His life. What else was happening in the world while he created the work. I see what everyone else has written about it. I see other paintings that knock him off. That he knocks off. I see everything but the work itself. By the time I’ve finished my dissertation, I’ll know everything about renaissance period work, except how to be moved by it.”

“What was your favorite painting when you could still feel?”

She sits up on one elbow. Our faces are inches apart. She has very pink, perfect lips. “I don’t remember. But I’m sure someone ruined it for me.” She smiles and takes off my sunglasses.

We keep talking. About small things mostly. She doesn’t ask me anything about being famous, and this is a relief, because I wouldn’t feel much up to discussing it. She tells me about her roommate, Colleen, and the cat named Slick who inhabits their apartment (in violation of the lease). While she’s talking, I try thinking of what I might tell her about my life. I can’t really come up with anything, so I just keep asking her questions.

After awhile, she puts her head back on my shoulder.

The breeze is constant.

We close our eyes and sleep.

I wake before Kara. The only sound is wind rustling the grass blades. I stare at her face. The mountains. The pines. Bakersfield to the north and the trace of the San Andreas Fault, cutting through these hills. To the west, far, far beyond, the sky blue meets a deeper blue, and I wonder, Is that the sea?

I look back into Kara’s face. I kiss her forehead, her left cheek, right cheek. Her eyes open. We kiss open-mouthed for a long time.

As evening rolls in from the east, we drive down out of the hills into warmer air. LA looks beautiful in the distance. Lights winking on in the evening haze. It’s not such an indifferent place if you know what you’re doing.