“There’s a class for people who are new to computers coming up at the Y,” Miles says, lifting his mug (aka “sugar with a splash of coffee”) to his lips.

I don’t have time to counter this bit of snideness before he adds, “Wait. Was that—was that the real Mary Clarkson trying to FaceTime you?”

The image attached to her screen name is a faux-retro photograph from an old issue of Interview magazine. She’s got curlers in her hair, a bright red mouth, and a joint dangling from her lips. The song starts up again, with an added notification: Contrary, Quite would like to FaceTime. This time I mute the call and hang up simultaneously.

“Hmm?” I feign ignorance.

“Mary Clarkson. Undersea. Mary Clarkson!”

“Maybe.” Don’t you wish you’d been nicer to me before, so you could ask me about her?

“And you just . . . you just . . . you hung up on Mary Clarkson.”

“I’m texting her instead. Volume control, remember?”

I always forget that for dudes of a “certain age” (such as Clifford), Mary as the brave, feminist Duchess Quinnley of Undersea and her brief, forced mermaiding is everything golden and good from their childhoods. She was those guys’ first crush, and for some of them, their first, well . . . “self-love.” I wonder if that’s true of Miles. He looks younger than Clifford, though. He’s in way better shape, that’s for sure. Cutting remarks burn a lot of calories.

Confession time: I’ve never seen Undersea. It’s actually the reason I got the job as Mary’s assistant.

The temp agency I signed with after graduating from Santa Monica City College sent me on a mystery assignment to an anonymous female writer who lived above Studio City on Mulholland. I had no idea who she’d be or what she was looking for. I recognized her when she (and Frank) opened the door, but not the way a fan would. Just a vague thought of, “Oh. It’s her. Huh.”

A standard résumé scan and work history interview commenced. At the end, she said, “Now for the most important question. What is the name of the home planet of the Sworkas?”

“Uh . . .” This wasn’t something I could fudge my way out of. I was pretty certain the Sworkas were a loathed component of the fandom, cutesy and high-pitched. I seemed to remember they resembled dolphins, but as to the name of their planet, I hadn’t a clue. If I’d known Mary Clarkson was the person I’d be meeting, I’d have downloaded Undersea and prepared myself. Ah well, guess it wasn’t meant to be.

I looked up with a shrug. “Planet Merchandising?”

She grinned at me and it happened that quick: My life changed.