by Paul Carr
‘AUSSIE, AUSSIE, AUSSIE!’
Apparently not everyone was concerned about looking like a twat. The guy standing at the bar had been shouting those same three words – over and over again – the whole time we’d been eating. He was doing shots of some kind of clear spirit, each one punctuated with the same irritating war cry. An Australian, obviously. We might have told him to shut up had he not been so gigantic – well over six feet tall with enormous arms and a huge barrel chest, squeezed into a skin-tight t-shirt.
He was still going strong when Michael and I decided to leave and head to meet the hairdressers. Unfortunately there was no way to get out of the restaurant without walking past the bar.
‘Hey, fellas,’ shouted the Australian as we tried to creep by. We ignored him and carried on walking.
‘Hey, fellas!’ louder this time. Sigh. We stopped and turned around.
‘You guys wanna do tequila suicides?’
I sighed – Australians – and started walking again, putting my laurel wreath on my head as I went. We had a toga party to get to. But Michael couldn’t help himself.
‘What are tequila suicides?’ he asked, genuinely curious. I admit I was wondering the same thing but had decided it was unwise to ask.
‘That’s the spirit, mate! Barman! Three tequilas, and slice up some more lemons! What’s your name, mate?’ He grabbed Michael’s hand, crushing it on purpose. Michael smiled through the pain and introduced himself.
‘Nice to meet you, Mikey, I’m Jonesy – and a tequila suicide is like this …’ The Australian grabbed a slice of lemon from the bar, tilted his head back and opened his eyes wide.
‘First, you squirt the lemon in your eye.’ He did so, without even wincing. I winced for him.
‘Then,’ – he picked up a drinking straw and a salt shaker, pouring a line of salt on to the bar – ‘you snort the salt …’
Snnniiiiiffff …
Jesus Christ.
‘And then … you drink the tequila.’
‘AUSSIE, AUSSIE, AUSSIE!’
Slam.
‘Now, come on, Michael – your turn. Might help you grow some balls.’
Michael smiled again. ‘Maybe later.’
308
Two hours later and the toga party was in full thrust. As anticipated, we’d almost been turned away at the door by the two burly security guards hired to keep the likes of us well away from these poor, impressionable girls. But Sandi and Mandy had spotted us and dragged us inside. ‘Come on! Janet is dying* to meet you.’
We followed Mandy and Sandi to the buffet table and free bar where Janet – an older women wearing what was clearly a professionally made toga, rented for the occasion – was standing with a group of other tutors. They looked like serious people; we’d have to bring our A-game, as Americans might say.
And how the lies flowed.
No, we didn’t know much about hair ourselves – our friend Robert took care of that side of things – we were more the business people; the brains who kept everything on track. ‘He cuts hair, we cut costs,’ I joked and we all laughed. Seriously, where was this shit coming from? And it got worse.
‘Paul and I would love to visit your school,’ I heard Michael saying.
And then I was nodding: ‘A guest lecture? We could definitely do that, couldn’t we, Michael?’
‘Oh, definitely.’
‘This coming April? Perfect.’
Sandi and Mandy were standing a couple of feet away, lapping it up. We finished talking to Janet and got her business card – which I’ve carried in my wallet ever since, just to prove to myself and anyone else that it really happened – and promised to call to arrange the lecture. Then, after promising Mandy and Sandi that we wouldn’t leave without them – as if – we’d grabbed a couple of ridiculous Hawaiian cocktail things and headed towards the dance floor.
‘So,’ said Michael, ‘what do you think about the road trip idea now? This could be us every night in LA and San Diego. Blagging our way into parties at night and working hard all day.’
Frankly, at this stage of the evening I couldn’t have given less of a shit about work. I’d figure that out later. All I could think about were the possibilities this party had shown me; how ridiculous life could be with a little bit of effort. Thanks to our ability to lie convincingly, but basically harmlessly, Michael and I were drinking free booze in Las Vegas, surrounded by hundreds of beautiful girls dressed only in bedsheets. We were the only straight men in the room. There was a very real chance I’d be taking either Mandy or Sandi back to my spa bath tonight: in the room that was costing me the exact same as my flat in London. Why the hell would I ever want to go back to that life?
If it wasn’t for the fact that the Hawaiian punch was my first drink of the day – I’d been too hungover until then – I’d think it was the booze talking. But it wasn’t. This was a totally sober epiphany.
What if I didn’t ever go back? What if I stopped thinking of this as a one-year experiment with a neatly defined goal at the end and just made it my life? Living in hotels, blagging my way into adventures and supporting myself with freelance gigs? If tonight was anything to go by, I’d hardly be short of things to write about: surely at least one editor would be interested in the story of me, Michael and a few hundred girls in togas?
I’d been telling myself that I had to cut down on drinking and figure out my life before I was thirty – but why? I remembered Michael’s earlier allusion to Hunter S. Thompson. Like most young ego-driven writers, I’m a ridiculous gonzo fanboy, but the fact remained that Thompson – and writers like him – had shown the world that it was entirely possible to spend your whole life drinking and partying and having ridiculous adventures and yet still somehow survive. Hell, when Thompson shot himself he was nearly seventy.
What was it he always said? ‘Buy the ticket, take the ride’?
Michael was still waiting for me to answer his question. ‘So? LA? Shall we go?’
‘What a ridiculous question,’ I said. ‘Of course we shall.’
309
We bumped fists – the ironic post-Obama handshake – necked our ridiculous drinks and trod carefully across the dance floor towards the door, all too aware that one misplaced step could trigger a wardrobe malfunction of epic proportions.
We could quite happily have stayed in that room all night – all week, even – but Mandy and Sandi were ready to leave and we didn’t want to let them out of our sights. All being well, we’d see the rest of these amazing girls in April when we visited the Paul Mitchell school in San Diego to deliver our acclaimed lecture (with Power Points) on the Business of Hair. The fact that our lecture didn’t exist and that neither Michael nor I knew the first thing about opening a hair salon was a trivial detail.
‘I mean,’ I said, as we walked past the bouncer, who was busy explaining to a giant Australian drunk that he wasn’t his ‘mate’, ‘it’s only hair. How much can there be to know about hair?’
‘Well, exactly – that’s what Wikipedia’s for, right?’
310
‘Good morning, gentlemen.’
Ten a.m., and the parking valet outside the Mandalay Bay Hotel was grinning, as well he might. The jet-black Mustang convertible that Michael had rented earlier that morning, using my credit card, was a beast of a car – with gleaming chrome wheels and a V8 engine. None of that power would be much use in Los Angeles traffic, of course, but that problem was six hours and an entire desert away. Right now, all I cared about was that I was about to get behind the wheel of a car that made me drool.
With a satisfying clunk of the release mechanism and a whir of hydraulics, the roof of the Mustang slid back. Michael threw his duffel bag into the back, tipped the valet the last of his poker winnings and leapt, Dukes of Hazzard-style, into the passenger seat beside me. I tried to do the same thing, but hadn’t bargained for the steering wheel.
Now we just had to locate Michelle. She was supposed to meet us outside the hotel at 9.30, but was alread
y half an hour late. We called her mobile, and her room at the Excalibur, but there was no answer at either. We were just starting to get worried, when finally she emerged, blinking at the sunshine, hair pulled under a baseball cap that we’d never seen before, pulling her suitcase along behind her. She was clearly wearing last night’s clothes. And a huge grin.
‘Good night, dear?’ I asked as she scrambled over Michael’s bag into the car’s tiny back seat, wedging her suitcase in beside her.
‘Oh my GOD yes!’
‘You didn’t seem to be in your room when we called earlier,’ Michael said, with a smile.
Michelle’s grin broadened. ‘I met someone last night. He was amazing!’
‘We probably don’t need to hear the details,’ said Michael, trying to figure out how to get some music out of the satellite radio.
But Michelle couldn’t help herself. ‘Oh my God, babes, I’m not kidding, he was so hot. And he had these amazing arms. He just picked me up and threw me around the bed like a rag doll. It was the best sex I’ve ever had. I think he was Australian – Nikki and I met him in the hotel bar. You won’t believe what he was drinking
… He put this line of salt on the bar and … what?’
With a screech of expensive tyres, I gunned the Mustang out on to the Strip, Michael gripping the armrest with both hands.
‘You have driven on the right before, haven’t you?’ he yelled, with only a hint of panic.
‘The right? Oh, yeah – shit – thanks.’ Even when lurching across four lanes of traffic to avoid a head-on collision with a stretched Humvee, the Mustang V8 handles like a dream.
After only a couple of wrong turnings and a misunderstanding involving a stop light and some more oncoming traffic, we were soon heading towards Interstate 15, on the correct side of the road. In a few hours we’d be in Los Angeles. The City of Angels – where every day a dozen dreams are realised and a thousand are shattered; where every cab driver has a screenplay on the passenger seat and all the waiters are just ‘resting’; where even the dorky girls are ten feet tall and where they sell casting couches in Ikea.
And where I’d decided to open up the throttle on my new life as a permanent, hotel-dwelling nomad. A man bouncing from adventure to adventure, supporting himself through a combination of writing gigs and bullshit. A man with no responsibilities, just a determination never to get stuck in a rut again.
A man without a plan.
Ticket bought, let the ride begin.
Chapter 400
What the Hell Was I Doing, Drinking in LA?
FADE IN …
VO
‘We were somewhere outside Barstow, on the edge of the desert, when I pulled over to update my Facebook status. I remember Michael saying something like “you really are a dork, you know that? I’m going into the gas station shop to buy some root beer and a pack of Junior Mints.”’
OPENING CREDITS – A MONTAGE OF SCENES FROM A ROAD TRIP
A rented black convertible Mustang tears along a desert road. PAUL is driving, MICHAEL is in the passenger seat while MICHELLE sleeps on the back seat, a ridiculous grin on her face. For some reason.
They arrive in LA, three hours late, after sitting in ten miles of traffic outside the city. MICHAEL leaves the car and walks into his luxury hotel in downtown LA, paid for by the company he’s meeting in town. The hotel has no more vacancies.
PAUL and MICHELLE drive around for another hour before, battered by tiredness, PAUL insists they check into the next hotel they see: the Super 8 Motel. The Hollywood sign can be seen in the distance.
INT. HOTEL ROOM – NIGHT
PAUL and MICHELLE sit in their hotel room. It’s like the inside of every motel room you’ve ever seen: two double beds with faded topsheets, a small bathroom with a bare light bulb. The wifi is broken. Paul is hunched over, trying to check his email on his phone while Michelle eats the yoghurt that she insisted PAUL stop to buy even though she knew he was fucking exhausted and just wanted a beer.
PAUL
The good news is the Guardian replied to my pitch. They’re interested in a piece about the tech industry in LA if I can find a good angle. I was thinking I might write it in the style of a screenplay.
MICHELLE
Why, babe?
PAUL
Because we’re in Hollywood. It’ll be funny.
MICHELLE
Or just annoying. People will think you’re trying to be clever, like Douglas Coupland or someone like that. ‘Ooh, look how I play with the format and break through the fourth wall. Look at my pop-culture references that maybe three people will get …’
PAUL
Douglas Coupland? Fuck off. I’m nothing like Douglas Coupland.
MICHELLE
I’m sorry, babe, you’re right. You’re nothing like Douglas Coupland. People have heard of Douglas Coupland. Douglas Coupland has sold millions of books. Doug …
PAUL
Fuck offfff.
MICHELLE
So in this screenplay of yours, will you be mentioning the ridiculous stripe of sunburn across your forehead? I think that would add … what’s the word you use? Colour.
PAUL looks up from his phone and we see he has a thick stripe of sunburn running, like an angry red sweatband, across the top of his forehead. He does look ridiculous.
PAUL
It’s not funny. How was I supposed to know the sun was burning me over the top of the windscreen?
MICHELLE
The car has no roof, babe. And we were driving through the desert. At noon. What did you think was going to happen? You should have asked to borrow my baseball cap.
PAUL
Technically, it’s still Jonesy’s baseball cap. Anyway, I need a beer. You coming?
PAUL picks up the baseball cap, pulls it over his burnt forehead and heads for the door.
MICHELLE
No thanks, babe – early night for me.
PAUL
Suit yourself. The less time I spend in this shithole the better. Still, at least it only cost us sixty dollars a night. Fifteen quid each. I’m back on budget.
SLAM. PAUL closes the door behind him.
MICHELLE
(Shouting through the door):
Nice exposition, babe.
PAUL (OS)
Fuck off.
FADE OUT.
401
I called Michael. It went straight to voicemail; either his meeting had run very late, or he had decided to crash early too. Lightweights, both of them. Ah well, I’d just find a bar, text him the address and see if he turned up. I walked the length of the street – something unheard of in LA – but could only find one place that looked like a bar; literally a hole in the wall with an old Mexican man selling beer to patrons sitting on plastic stools. I decided instead to rely on the old taxi driver recommendation trick. I hailed the next cab that passed and hopped in the back. The clock on the dashboard said 11p.m.
‘Hi, I’m looking for somewhere to get a drink – something not too touristy. Where do people go around here?’
The cab driver looked at me through the rear-view mirror. ‘What you like? You like girls?’
‘Not if I have to pay for them. I just want a bar that stays open late.’
‘Everywhere shuts at two a.m. – California licensing laws. But I know a good place.’
We drove for ten minutes, although I couldn’t say in what direction. I was too busy looking at Trip Advisor on my phone, hoping to find a better hotel for the next night. At one point we turned on to the freeway, which worried me slightly – either that I was being kidnapped or that his ‘good place’ was in a different state – but before long we were back on a residential street, pulling up outside what seemed to be a closed bar. Just a black door and a window containing a broken neon light spelling out the word Coors.
‘Here?’
‘Here!’
I paid the driver – $20 including the tip – and pushed open the black door. The bar was empty – just me, a super-cut
e blonde girl cleaning glasses and one other guy, wearing a faded blue t-shirt and a beanie hat, sitting at the far end of the bar. I sat at the other end – near the door – and ordered a rum and Diet Coke. I’d just have one drink then I’d text Michael.
The cute bartender came back with my drink. ‘Six dollars.’ I gave her a ten and slid my change back across the bar as a tip. She picked it up and dropped it in a tip jar, at which point the guy at the other end of the bar drummed his hands, hard, against the bar. A sort of mini-drum roll – like he was celebrating my having left a four-dollar tip. Weird.
I finished my first drink inadvisably fast. I was thirsty, and tired. I ordered another, and then another. Every time I ordered, and left the obligatory tip, the guy in the beanie did his little celebratory drum roll. It wasn’t so much annoying as incongruous. Why the drumming? Why only when I tipped? And why wasn’t the girl behind the bar telling him to stop being so fucking annoying? Judging by the attention he was paying her, the guy in the beanie hat would do anything the cute blonde girl told him to do. I ordered another one-drink round – I still hadn’t texted Michael – and headed down the bar.