She stood forlornly by the side of California Highway 1. Her tiny Dell Latitude with the sunroof had its nose in a ditch. Smoke was pouring from the engine. She had a cell phone in her hand and that frustrated "no bars" look on her face.

The tall man braked his truck. "Need help?" There was not much traffic here, and the types who came by might get the wrong idea from her outfit, a tight, long skirt and tiny, barely decent top. She wore no jacket.

She glided up to his window. "Yes, please! I need to get out of here. Can you take me to the city? I have a post to deliver," she said, waving a sheaf of papers. "Not that anyone really cares," she added softly.

"Hop in, I’ll give you a ride."

The girl got into the passenger seat and he got a better look at her. She was between 30 and 100, it was impossible to tell, and not bad to look at. She had an unusual but not unpleasant scent, like kelp. Her hair was long, dark, and slightly damp. Her shiny shoes pointed oddly left and right from under her skirt. He thought she must be a neophyte to be wearing those shoes in this country.

"What’s your name?" he asked.

"Sirena," she replied. "Sirenita for short."

"That sounds longer."

"It’s how we do where I come from--your short name is longer." He found the contradiction intriguing.

They pulled away onto the highway. Suddenly, the peace was shattered by the roar of unmuffled motorcycles, as a pack of outlaw bikers poured into the highway from a side road. The menacing pack surrounded the truck, the noise deafening. The tall man tensed. He had no fight with the bikers. They must be after the girl. He was a tough, brave guy but he didn’t fancy taking on this mean-looking bunch. Who was this chick and what had she gotten him into?

A motorcyclist crowded near the truck and the biker turned his head to look at the mysterious woman in the passenger seat--and looked right through her. The biker gestured and the motorcycle gang roared past, leaving the truck in pastoral quiet again.

"Friends of yours?" the tall man inquired.

"Not really." She did not explain.

"Where did you say you were from?" he asked.

"I didn’t say," she responded.

The tall man glanced at his rear view mirror. A truck was gaining on them. He slowed to let the it pass, but it stayed on their tail, closing the gap. It was a black, chromed-out truck on enormous tires, and it was riding his bumper close enough to tap it. Highway 1 winds over cliffs overlooking the Pacific Ocean, not terrain for playing bumper cars. The girl from nowhere tensed besides him, and he thought to himself, "It can’t be coincidence. This chick is trouble."

The tall man floored the gas, bracing for a dangerous chase around the curves of the state highway, but the truck didn’t follow. He was starting to get mad. This girl had some explaining to do.

"Ok, you need to tell me what’s going on, or you can get out right here!"

The damp girl hung her head. "People have been ignoring me all day," she admitted. Well, that explained it.

The handsome face hardened, and he said, "We’ll see about that." She looked forlornly at him but asked no questions.

He turned off the highway onto a dirt road at the end of which stood a rambling roadhouse. In front were parked all kinds of vehicles--beaters, economy cars, trucks, motorcycles. There was even a horse. He skidded into a space at the end, turned to the girl and said in cold voice, "Come on."

He strode to the roadhouse, and she followed more slowly, her walk oddly mincing yet undulating in her impractical shoes. He pushed the door open, and she followed him through. She gasped and tried to back out again, but he held her shoulder in an iron grip. The room fell quiet and one by one, the drinkers looked up. They sat in cliques or alone, with laptops and red pens. Some held great works of literature in their hands, and the looks they gave her over their reading glasses made it clear they did not appreciate being disturbed. The blond bartender sidled to one side, resting her hand on the sawed-off she kept under the counter. It was a writer bar! The girl with the funny feet grew cold with fear.

The tall man zeroed in on a frightening specimen of a writer, a big biker with an eye patch and what appeared to be a dead parrot on his shoulder. The tall man walked up to the brigand and slapped the girl’s manuscript on the bar in front of him. "Read this, motherfucker!" he challenged. The biker half rose, glaring. A bearded writer in sunglasses sitting at a nearby table picked up his laptop, ready to heave it at the first sign of a bar fight. The crowd watched tensely. The biker slowly unlocked his gaze from the tall man and looked at the piece in front of him.

The biker read. He smiled. He snorted, "What an idiot!" He laughed out loud. Other writers left their tables and looked over his shoulder. They passed the story around. Someone said, "Come here, babe. Let me buy you a drink." Sirenita slid shyly to the bar.

"Bartender, gimme a rate with a comment back!" called a new friend, who bore a charming resemblance to an owl. "They brew their own comments here," she explained. The new girl had a lot to learn.

Sirenita and her protector stayed for hours, then the tall man said, "We gotta go now if I’m going to take you home." They said good night. The tall man held the intoxicated girl’s arm as she undulated absurdly in the direction of the truck.

"Where do you live?" he asked, hoping she could remember that much in her condition.

"Out by the beach. Just drive, I’ll show you." He turned his truck toward Highway 1.

After a while, she pointed to a turn-out where he could park. He helped her down the steep path to the rocky beach. Why this beach? There were no houses near this lonely cove. Maybe she needed a walk to clear her head. He was willing to be patient a while longer.

The moon shone on the strip of beach, casting deep shadows next to the big tumbled rocks and lighting up the breakers that rolled on the shore. She turned to him and said, "How can I ever thank you enough? You took on all those writers, for a woman you don’t even know. You’re my hero."

"All in a day’s work," he answered, embarrassed to have his kindness pointed out to him.

"If you ever want me, I’ll be here. Just follow the singing." She moved away from him, heading for a rock large enough to change behind. She stopped and turned.

"You never told me your name."

"It’s Nanatehay."

"How unusual. What does it mean?"

"It means, ‘he who lost his credit cards and doesn’t give a damn.'"

She smiled and nodded, as though to say, "That fits." She asked no more questions, just slid behind the rock. A moment later, he heard a splash. Running behind the rock, he found her tight skirt and tiny top, but no sign of the shiny shoes. He understood that he was not to wait for her. He returned to his truck. The smell of kelp lingered. On the passenger seat was a shiny scale.

Happy Birthday!