"Have a nice flight, writer-man. Come back and see me, you bastard." I knew right then and there that he found the penny. But by that time, I was already boarding my flight to Montgomery, thank God.
5.
I found my seat on the plane, seat 8A by the window. Janet had really pulled it off. She was really sweet to do it for me too. I felt awful for what I said to her about looking like Janet from Three's Company but I quickly got over it. I wouldn't be seeing her for a while so I figured there was no reason to mull over it like a sad bastard. There was definitely no time for feeling like a sad bastard. I lifted one of my bags to the overhead compartment and lo and behold, it didn't fit into the space. I'm sure you know what I mean, right? Your carry-on luggage never fits into those goddamn compartments; they're always too small for any normal-size carry-on bag. They're big enough for a shoebox but that's about it. But who carries a bag the size of a fucking shoebox? Nobody, that's who. I made my bags fit though. I crumpled the corners of the bags and pressed and shoved them in there. I was sure my pens and business cards were ruined but I didn't care. I got my bags in those small fucking compartments. Watching the other passengers struggle with their bags brought a smile to my face. At least I got mine in there. I could sit and relax and write Janet a poem, watching the other sad bastards struggle with their bags, too concerned with the contents of their luggage to shove them in the small compartments like they should. I didn't care about my stuff, it could be ruined to hell for all I cared. I really didn't care. I got my trusty pen and paper and shoved my backpack under my seat. I was done holding onto it like my life depended on it. I was on the plane now and there was nothing more I could do about it. Fear of flying be damned!
I had my pen and paper ready because great writers are always prepared to write down their thoughts, no matter where they are or where they are going. It's true. A great writer has to be ready to write ideas at the drop of a fucking hat. An idea could come at any minute, like an idea for my next novel or something. I had to be ready. But to tell you the truth, not many great ideas would just pop in my head from nowhere. I usually get bits and pieces of ideas first before I get the whole great idea. I'm pretty prepared for it by the time it comes. I had bits and pieces come through today so I knew it was coming. So I decided to keep my pen and paper on my lap, ready for that moment.
The flight attendant came by and tried to help the other sad bastards who couldn't get their bags in their overhead compartments. She'd smile at them while she helped, even though I was pretty sure she thought they were all fucking idiots except for me, of course. I could deal with my luggage on my own. I tried to get her attention because I needed a glass of water so I could take this relaxation pill. I wanted nothing more than to relax and enjoy this flight. This would probably be the only down-time I would have for the next couple of weeks. I thought maybe the secret bar hand signal would work. But it didn't. I was waving my finger around like a fucking idiot. I probably looked like I had Tourette Syndrome and that's why she ignored me. Nothing I did got her attention. So I just decided to speak up.
"Miss? Can you bring me a glass of water? I have some medication I must take before the plane takes off and it's imperative that I do so." I couldn't believe I said the word imperative. I'm such a blabbing idiot. That's not a word you say, that's a word you write down. I must have been in my writer's frame of mind, for Janet's poem, of course.
"Sure. Give me a moment, please. I'm helping the other passengers," she replied with a sugary yet robotic response. The airline company must have trained her to talk that way, kind of nice, kind of business-like, kind of ambiguous. It wasn't very appealing. She was kind of sexy in a Barbie doll kind of way but her voice ruined it for me. She was really beautiful but that voice, that voice made her ugly to me. Has that ever happened to you? Have you ever seen someone who was empirically attractive but there was something about them that made them ugly to you? That's how she was, empirically pretty but ugly.
No matter, she returned shortly with a paper cup of water. She flashed me a fake, sugary smile when she gave it to me.
"Thank you, miss," I said, giving her a fake smile in return. But she couldn't tell it was fake. I can make pretty good fake smiles.
She started staring at me instead of walking away to help the other sad bastards with their carry-on bags. She tilted her head and got a good look too. She was staring up a storm and I didn't know what to say. When a woman stares at you, it's not like when a man stares at you. With a man, you can stare back with a what-the-fuck-you-looking-at kind of stare. You can't do that with a woman; it's not polite. Besides, if she wasn't so ugly to me, I might have been turned on a bit. It's kind of nice when a woman stares at you, at least when an attractive one does. It's true.
"I recognize your face from somewhere. Should I know who you are?" she asked. I was completely flabbergasted. She absolutely floored me. All of a sudden, she wasn't so ugly anymore.
"Yes, you should. My novel, THE RISE AND FALL OF A TITAN, will be in book stores in a few weeks. You must have seen my preview in Time Magazine."
"No, I don't think that's it. I'm not much of a reader. What was your name again?" Damn, the name business again. I was getting kind of tired of saying it.
"Simon Burchwood. My name is Simon Burchwood," I said. I was going to give her a business card but I decided to save it. I can't just hand them out to anyone.
"I'll think of it, where I saw your face that is. I'll let you know when I think of it."
"Please do that, miss."
She returned to the sad bastards as I popped the pill in my mouth and drained it down my throat with one large gulp of water. I reclined my seat and enjoyed the luxury and space of the first-class seating.
I closed my eyes and my mind drifted toward the future. I imagined the small auditorium above the Barnes & Noble flagship store in New York where I was going to read chapters from my new book. I imagined the adoring crowd of three hundred or so fans, maybe four hundred, listening intently to my every word. The cheers and applause they will give after I finish reading the samples from my new novel; the very book they surely will have read before I arrive. They will laugh in the right places, sigh at the poignant social commentary, and applaud at the satisfying conclusions. I will sign hundreds of autographs and shake hundreds of hands. I will surely be followed by dozens of fans after the reading to the bar across the street. They will buy me drinks and give kind words of support. They will ask about the next book, the one that is already stirring restlessly in my mind. They will ask what inspires me to write, where I find that inspiration, what makes me do it every day. They will ask me about Edward Norton, the movie star, and wonder how we ever became friends. They will place me on that pedestal that I cherish, the one that has been elusive for so long. Soon, I hope, my name will be in the headlines of every newspaper across the country. I don't know how that will happen but I can only hope. You have to have dreams to really live, you know. If you don't have any dreams, you might as well be dead. You might as well be a dead, sad, no-dreaming bastard.
This little fantasy made me really happy, for once. It was the one bright, shining moment of the day. But it wouldn't last long. My flight companion made his presence known as soon as he sat down. He started barking at the flight attendant, all rude and boisterous. He sounded like a real jerk.
"Hey sweet cheeks, get me a beer, will ya?" he commanded. And to my surprise, off she went, fast as hell too. She was ready to serve him.
I looked over to discover a punk rock kid, no older than twenty or twenty one, pierced in every orifice, tattooed all over his goddamn body, clad in black leather and denim, sitting in the seat next to me. He smelled of beer and cigarettes and arrogance and Aquanet and youth. His hair looked like it had been styled with a box of firecrackers. It was sticking up all over the goddamn place. He looked like a fucking peacock except with the tail on his head. Actually, he looked like a goddamn idiot. Once he saw me staring at him, he extended his hand to me like he wanted me t
o shake it. I knew if we greeted each other that he probably wouldn't leave me alone for the rest of the flight. I just wanted to relax, you know, not talk to some punk kid who looked like an exploding peacock ass-head. But he was so goddamn nice to me. He really wanted to meet me. It's true.
"Grant's the name. Rockstar's my game. Nice to meet you. Are you a computer programmer?"
"What's that?" I asked. He talked all fast and slurry like he was on speed or something. He must have been on drugs. You'd have to be on drugs to look like that, to be in the company of normal people looking like that. If my dad saw me dressed like that, he would have kicked my ass (no exaggeration there). He would have put his foot right in my ass. Literally. I had a hard time understanding him so I asked again. "Say that again?"
"You look like a computer programmer, with the Izod shirt and pressed khaki pants and the smelly Polo cologne. I'm from Austin and there are two kinds of people from Austin, weirdos like me and computer geeks like you."
"I'm from Austin too but I'm not a computer programmer. I'm a writer." I thought that would impress him. Man, was I wrong.
"Wow, even worse. I've never met a writer before. I always imagined writers to wear argyle sweaters and smoke honey tobacco in large wood pipes and smell like mothballs. You don't seem to fit that bill. You don't smell like mothballs. You're very uptight though, I can tell."
"For your information, I am not uptight. I was just relaxing for the trip. I will be reading from my new book at the Barnes & Noble flagship store in New York."
"Big deal! I'm playing in front of ten thousand people in Atlanta tomorrow night."
I knew the ante had been raised. We were getting ready to go fisticuffs over our cultural significance and I wasn't going to lose out to a punk rock kid with peacock hair. I was prepared to raise the ante as well.
"Well, I have an essay about my new book in Time Magazine."
"Well, I'm on the cover of The Rolling Stone!" Grant sing-songed like the chorus of the Dr. Hook song. He pulled a copy of the magazine from inside his coat and flaunted it like he just won the lottery or something. What a cocky bastard he was! And for sure, there he was, in vivid promotional colors, on the cover of Rolling Stone Magazine with his band The Assholes (how appropriate). The very magazine that promoted the genius of Hunter S. Thompson on its cover. The magazine that touched the pulse of American pop culture.
"This is the death of my career!" Grant screamed. He dropped the magazine on the floor like it was a stinking, hot turd. "Rolling Stone sucks! Waitress! Where's my beer?!"
The flight attendant arrived, beer and napkin in hand, with a big, bright smile on her face. It wasn't the fake, sugary smile she gave me earlier. It was a real, genuine smile. She knew who this asshole was and wanted to meet him. I was just some schmuck writer who was demanding water.
"I'm such a big fan," she gushed to the punk rock brat. "Can I have your autograph?"
"You want me to sign your tits?" he asked. And he was very serious about his answer too. He didn't laugh or chuckle after he said it, as if he was being sly or coy. He said it straight-faced as if he was requested to do that on a daily basis by all of his fans. No one asked me to sign their tits, not even my wife. Something would definitely have to be done about that, something very soon.
"No, I don't think my husband would like that. But you can sign this paper for me." She leaned over Grant and grabbed my pad of paper straight off my lap, without even asking. What the hell was that all about?! Doesn't she know that you never grab a writer's pad of paper without asking? What if I had an idea to write down at that very moment? She then extended her hand for my pen as well. And what was I to do? I just gave it to her. It's not like I had any paper to write on anyway. I was really beginning to hate Grant. He was getting on my goddamn nerves. She was gushing all over him too. It was pretty fucking pathetic. "Sign it to Susan. That's me," she whispered to Grant, her cleavage flashing from the top of her blouse like a goddamn neon sign or something. He couldn't keep his eyes off her breasts. They were the size of basketballs.
Grant scribbled on my pad of paper: I'll fuck your brains out. Call my cell 512-555-5309... your idol - Grant, singer of the infamous Assholes!
The flight attendant giggled after reading the note. She was so excited about it, she practically exploded. Her head turned all red and puffy with excitement. It was like he just gave her the secret to the fucking universe or something. She tore the piece of paper off and threw the pad and pen on my lap, just tossed it there like I wouldn't mind. I was beginning to fume inside. I really wanted to punch the both of them out, hit them both square in their noses. I stuck my tainted pen and paper in my backpack and picked up the copy of Rolling Stone. I examined the cover, the perfect photograph of Grant and his band, the bright typeface, the unusual but appealing layout, the eye-catching headline: Would you buy a CD from an Asshole? You betcha! Grant kept smiling like a goddamn bastard. I really did want to punch him in the face. It would have made me feel so much better.
"You think this is cool, huh?" Grant asked, jabbing at the magazine in my hand. I slowly pulled the magazine out of reach of his sarcastic finger. Grant continued blabbing. He was pretty good at blabbing, I could tell. "This is shit! It's just like Kurt Cobain said when they interviewed him, Corporate magazines suck!"
I was completely flabbergasted, almost at a loss for words. Well almost. He had stumbled upon one of the greatest marketing tools of pop culture and he wanted to wipe his ass with it. I was astounded. I really was.
"This is like finding the Holy Grail. This is like landing on the moon. You've made it. The world knows you've made it. Millions of people would do anything to be in your position right now, including me. You're famous. And there is nothing more important to the career of an artist than being famous. You are known. You are somebody."
"And you're getting on my nerves. All I care about are two things, getting laid and getting drunk. That's it! To a punk rocker, this is death. I've lost all my credibility back home. My core fans think I've sold out. I didn't ask for this. We didn't seek it out. It found us. And I wish it would just go away!"
Holy shit! This kid was lost, completely lost. And a fucking idiot too. He had absolutely no idea how good he had it. He really didn't.
"No, no, you don't. You've made it. This guarantees that you will be paid to be creative, that you won't have to struggle, that you won't have to sacrifice your art by having to work a real job," I said. But I knew he wasn't listening to me, which was obvious.
"I think we're just going to ride this short wave and burn out. We'll get laid, get drunk, finish the tour, then go back to Austin and disappear. That's what we want. We don't want all of this bullshit. It's not real. It means nothing."
"You're crazy," I told him before turning to the window. He was making my stomach hurt, what, with all his talking and nonsense and bad hair and beer breath. I watched the other planes on the runway lineup to take off. "You're absolutely insane. I waited over ten years to get where you've gotten in, what, a few months?"
The pilot announced that all the sad bastards needed to fasten their seatbelts as the plane crept backwards toward the runway. I rechecked my belt, giving it a small tug to make sure it was fastened really good. One thing I knew for sure, no matter what, if this plane did go down in a fiery ball, at least my seatbelt would be securely fastened. That's the one thing I did have control over. I knew where the exits were too. I knew no one actually read those little cardboard manuals about getting off a wrecked plane and breathing through those goddamn oxygen masks if they popped down but I did. I had them memorized. Everyone else just pulled out the puke bag and laughed because it was a puke bag. Who cares about a fucking puke bag? If I had to hurl, I'd do it right on the floor (with no cares about it too).
I looked over to see if Grant had fastened his seatbelt but he didn't even have the goddamn thing secured. What a crazy, sad bastard he was. As the plane started to rev its engines, Grant raised his knees to his chest, placing his hands on
his feet, rocking in his seat like a stupid chimpanzee. I tried to ignore him but he kept rocking back and forth, hitting my elbow with his tattooed elbow. I closed my eyes and wished he'd disappear but it didn't help. He was still there, rocking back and forth like a crazy bastard. For a moment, I wished that the staring cabbie or nice Janet or the crazy bartender were sitting next to me, anyone besides this punk kid and his arrogant smell. He was driving me up the wall.
"You want to see crazy?" Grant asked, rocking back and forth like a sad bastard chimpanzee.
As the plane picked up speed to take flight, a blunt pain from the pit of my stomach startled me. I placed my hand over my gut and felt it grumble. It was pretty strange for my stomach to be upset. Usually, it was as strong as a goddamn battleship. But it was pretty pissed off at me at that moment. The pain quickly grew in magnitude as the plane shot down the runway.
"You want to be a rockstar like me?" Grant screamed. He was screaming all over the goddamn place like a madman. All of a sudden, the scary bartender didn't seem so scary anymore. "You want to be on the cover of The Rolling Stone?!"
And in an instant, my head felt as if it had swollen to twice its size and a case of beer had been flushed into my veins. I dropped my heavy head to my knees and covered it with both of my arms. I felt drunk as a skunk and all I could think about was that pill the scary bartender gave me. It didn't relax me. It was doing the exact opposite. It was scaring the shit out of me. I knew, right then and there, that I should have given him a better tip. I knew that for sure.
The plane accelerated at full speed down the runway, no way of stopping it, like a rocket, tipping its nose toward the sky. Grant jumped to his feet, flailing his arms like a stupid, crazy chimpanzee.
The Meteoric Rise of Simon Burchwood Page 4