"Well, that went pretty well, I must say," Jason said, sitting down next to me on the balcony. "You got to practice your reading and threw a party all in one night. Not bad, not bad." It seemed that Jason had the last of the keg beer and he was sipping from his cup like it was the Holy Grail or some shit like that. He was making these loud slurping sounds as he drank his beer. With each sip, the urge to slap him grew inside of me.
"Yeah, it was OK. I'm ready to get some sleep. Tomorrow's my big day," I said, getting up from my chair.
"Anything else I can do for you?" Jason asked, a small vile of white powder in his hand. He set his beer down and tapped a small mound of the powder onto his driver's license. With a rolled-up dollar bill, he snorted the pile of dust like a human vacuum.
"I see you got your wish."
"Yes, I sure did."
I left Jason on the balcony with his beer and his cocaine and climbed into my bed. I climbed in fully clothed and dirty as hell. I was too tired to wash up or put on my pajamas (weird, huh?). All I could think about was sleep. I closed my eyes and listened to the night breeze come in from the balcony. The sounds of the city quietly lulled me to sleep.
23.
I know you won't believe it but I took the most glorious crap of all time this morning. It's true. I practically sprinted to the bathroom, grabbing the first magazine I could find, and it slid out faster than a greasy, intercontinental ballistic missile. And when I mean glorious, I mean it was absolutely glorious. It was one of those craps that made you feel like you actually accomplished something when you were done. It took a lot out of me. I was a little sweaty and pretty fatigued by the time the first log came out but it was worth it. Anyway, as I sat in there, I read the copy of People Magazine I picked up on the way in. It was this year's issue of the best and worst dressed celebrities, with pictures of television and movie stars at various red-carpet events gracing the cover. And wouldn't you know it but there was a picture of Edward Norton and Selma Hayek on the cover. They were a celebrity couple that I truly admired. Not only had they made some of the best movies of my generation, but they actually reminded me of Jessica and myself. It's true. Edward is brilliant, intense, intelligent, and goofy-looking. And so am I. And Selma is beautiful, graceful, fiery, and Mexican. And so is Jessica. It was like we were the same couple but in alternate, parallel universes. I flipped through the magazine, looking for the article with the picture of our twin couple, when I heard a loud banging at the door. I mean, it was loud as all hell. And normally, I would have pinched the loaf, wrapped a towel around my waist, and quickly informed the visitor that I was taking a dump and to kindly wait or come back. But since this particular dump was so glorious and satisfying, I decided to let Jason answer it. But for some reason, he didn't. I mean, they started banging loud as hell again and I couldn't understand how Jason couldn't hear it. He must have been passed out cold, what, with all the beer and cocaine and cheeseburgers and French fries and vanilla Cokes he gorged himself with last night. Maybe his body shut down or something. But I wasn't going to get up. I just wouldn't do it.
"Jason?! Get the door, would you?! I'm in the bathroom!" I screamed. "Jason? Are you going to get it?"
But the banging continued. Frustrated, I went for the toilet paper but wouldn't you know it, it was gone. An empty paper roll hung there, useless, depleted. I grabbed a goddamn towel and wrapped it around my waist and went for the door. When I opened it, ready to bark at whoever it was, there was nobody there. But they left behind a tray at the foot of the door, covered with a stainless-steel dome lid, left by room service no doubt. I looked around for any onlookers (I was practically naked as a goddamn jaybird), picked up the tray, and slammed the door shut.
I wanted to finish my crap but it was useless. It's time had passed, unfortunately, because once you interrupt the flow of a glorious crap, it's over, the glory is gone. Since there wasn't any toilet paper, I decided right then and there that I would jump in the shower and rinse myself off. I paid close attention to my ass, scrubbing it thoroughly with a wash cloth. When I was done, I threw the stinking goddamn wash cloth away. There was just no point in keeping it anymore. It's true. No amount of bleach and detergent would restore it to its original, fresh and absorbent state.
As I got dressed, I realized I was right about Jason. He was passed out, snoring up a storm and wheezing all over the goddamn place. He laid there like a lump of shit, the sheets and the comforter disheveled at the end of the bed, drool draining from the side of his mouth onto his pillow. He was a sight to see. I finished getting dressed and left him there, undisturbed.
Room service had left breakfast for me in that covered tray, though I wasn't quite sure who ordered it because I most certainly didn't. It was a pathetic excuse for a goddamn breakfast too, with crusty, cold scrambled eggs, limp wheat toast, and warm orange juice. Right then and there, I decided to go downstairs and get a decent breakfast, one that would keep me through most of the day, since it was an important day indeed. Besides, the room was an absolute disaster from the reading and party last night. There was no way I was going to enjoy a good breakfast there, in the middle of a goddamn mess. Now Jason, he was used to living like that, so I'm sure he was comfortable as hell. But me, I just couldn't take it. So I left Jason there and went downstairs for a decent meal.
***
I asked the nice lady behind the counter in the lobby if the hotel restaurant was still serving breakfast, and she said they were, though it was close to being over since it was so late in the morning and all. She was such a nice young woman, kind and courteous. I looked around for Carl but I didn't see him. He was off somewhere, probably hustling someone else, trying to get them to order hookers or buy drugs or some shit like that. It's true.
"Is Carl around?" I asked. She looked at me kind of funny.
"I don't know of any Carl. Are you sure that is his name?"
"He told me his name was Carl. He helped us with our bags last night."
"Maybe you heard his name wrong because I'm not aware of a Carl that works here. Sorry sir," she said, smiling sweetly.
She asked me if there was anything else she could help me with but I said no. I thought it was strange that she didn't know who Carl was. But I didn't dwell on it. I was hungry and my stomach was ruling the moment. So I walked across the goddamn grand lobby to the restaurant, a snazzy place called Crumpet's.
Inside, the restaurant was posh as hell, velvety reds and dark woods and goddamn leather chairs everywhere, just like the lobby. Potted palm trees lined the walls, placed symmetrically from each other, framing the views of each window to the shimmering pool outside. The restaurant was practically empty, with a few patrons here and there and the remnants of a busy staff mulling around with little to do. I wasn't used to this kind of place but it was something I knew I could easily get used to. I sat down at an empty table with a pretty good view of the pool and waited to be served, laying my napkin across my lap to prepare myself.
***
For some reason, I thought about that picture of Edward Norton and Selma Hayek on the cover of People Magazine and I thought about how nice it would be if I was actually in the back of a limousine with my wife Jessica and how great it would be if we were on our way to the Oscars or the Emmys or some shit like that. It was a fantastic thought. It really was. The only thing I would have done differently was wear a different color tie. The tie Edward was wearing was the worst shade of purple. Personally, I would have worn a black tie. You can never go wrong with black. Black is classic. It's true.
I snapped out of my goddamn fantasy when I realized I had been sitting at the table for over fifteen minutes, and no one had acknowledged my presence, not even with a smile or a simple hello. My stomach was grumbling loud as hell, and I couldn't think of anything else until I put some food in it. There wasn't a single waiter in sight, but I noticed some busboys lurking in a corner, behind the buffet area, looking bored and disinterested and unprofessional. I waved my arms, back and forth, to get their at
tention. When one finally noticed me, he looked at me and then quickly looked away, as if I didn't exist. I decided, right then and there, that I wasn't going to be overlooked anymore, that I wasn't going to be ignored anymore, because this was much too important of a day for me to tolerate this shit anymore. So I stood up, throwing my cloth napkin on the table with a loud thud (to show my annoyance and frustration, no doubt), and made my way over to the busboys, weaving through the maze of tables and chairs. They eventually saw me coming, and in an attempt to rectify their lack of professionalism, began straightening their bowties and adjusting their aprons. I was really going to let them have it.
"Hey!" I said, sternly. "Can't you see I'm sitting over there?! Doesn't anyone work around here?! I'm hungry and I expect to be served, by someone!"
They looked at me like I was from Mars, which really pissed me off. It's true. But before I could say anything else, one of them opened his goddamn mouth.
"Breakfast is over, sir. It's been over for a little while. All the waiters have gone home until lunch."
"And when is lunch?" I asked.
"Noon."
It was ten thirty and I was starving and angry and all sorts of pissed off, but you can't argue with that. I mean, what am I going to do, change their serving hours? It seemed hopeless, and I was still hungry and feeling defeated. It's true.
"But you can finish the breakfast buffet. We weren't going to clear it away for a few more minutes," said the other busboy.
He pointed to the buffet tables and I noticed that there still was some breakfast food there. At closer inspection, it was in no better shape than the breakfast delivered by room service earlier, cold, limp, uninviting. My stomach grumbled uncontrollably, loud as all hell. The busboy noticed when I covered my stomach, and looked to have sympathy for my situation.
"Maybe I can see if the chef will cook something up for you. Would that be OK?" he asked.
I nodded. He indicated that I take my seat and the two busboys disappeared through the door to the kitchen. I sat down at my table and reset the cloth napkin on my lap and, glancing outside at the glistening pool, waited for the chef to hopefully make me some breakfast, something, anything edible. My day, it seemed, was getting off to a little better start, very little anyway. It's true.
***
As I waited for my breakfast, I strategically planned my day. I would need to call my publisher, call my accountant, fix the Barnes & Noble bookstore dilemma, smack the hell out of Jason (drug intervention maybe?), take a nap at some point, eat a good breakfast, finish taking a dump (hopefully), get more toilet paper from room service (a top priority), take another shower, call Samuel the Giant to prepare the limo, etc. It was all coming together, with a lot of effort, of course, but it was worth it. I can't think of a time when I didn't want to be a famous writer. It seemed, at least as far as I could remember, the focus of all my dreams. It's true.
As I sat there waiting for some breakfast, staring out at some kids playing and splashing in the pool (what are Sammie and Jessie doing right now?), I thought about when I was in college, a few months before graduation. I had been studying literature and preparing myself to receive a degree in English and I knew, more than anything, that what I wanted to do was to write novels and be famous. I had considered, rather briefly, doing something more practical, like teaching English to high school brats or writing technical copy or some shit like that, something my father pushed me towards. See, my father was a goddamn practical kind of man, or to be more frank, not one to reach for his dreams. I had learned from my mother that he was accepted to a prestigious art school out of high school but his parents refused to pay for something ridiculous like going to art school, so he ended up joining the military because the government was going to pay for his college, as a form of protest against his parents stubbornness, I guess. Well, the military wasn't going to pay for something ridiculous like going to art school either, so they sent him to an engineering school to learn about technical drafting or mechanical engineering or some practical shit like that, and he found himself in a practical career with practical goals and he was practically content. And I truly believe that he wanted me to make the practical choice as well, like he did, finishing college and settling into a practical goddamn career. I knew this because he asked me a few months before graduation what my degree was going to be. And when I told him English, he said he thought I was going for a Business degree or an Economics degree or some type of useful degree, even though I had been telling him throughout college that I was getting an English degree, proof that he hadn't listened to a goddamn word I had said at all. But ultimately, my father was never really a very happy person, a sad bastard that let the military-life wear on him, wear him down, and though he never mentioned anything of the sort to me, I knew, deep in my heart, that he truly was disappointed with his practical choice, and that he wished he'd attended art school instead. It was pretty obvious to me. He was never allowed or encouraged to follow his dreams, so why should I? There is nothing more painful than regret after all those practical years pass you by.
One time, when I was an impressionably young teenager, my father sat me down and told me that he wanted to give me his insight into life. He said, "Son, life is nothing but a series of disappointments. Sure, there are moments of happiness here and there, there are times when things are good, or seem good. But they are brief. Your life will always swing down, the good times never last, and the only thing that is a sure thing is disappointment. Someone or something will always let you down. Don't ever forget that." And he smiled at me after he said this, like it was a goddamn gem of knowledge or something. I remember thinking to myself, that's a pretty goddamn depressing thing to say to a kid, especially an optimistic kid like myself. But I never took him serious, even at thirteen or fourteen or however old I was at the time. It's true.
I wasn't going to let my father discourage me. Even though I had a difficult time finding a publisher, and I had to find a practical job at TechForce to pay the bills while my writing career flourished (I had to feed and clothe the kids, you know), I continued to chase my dream. Sorry, dad, but I had to go for it. Even back then, I knew I had to go for it, forgetting to be practical, always striving for my dream, my dream to be famous. There's nothing more in this world that I wanted. It's true.
***
I was snapped out of my daze by the hotel chef. He appeared from nowhere, stealthily sneaking behind me, then dropping the plate of breakfast on the table. It scared the shit out of me, literally, and I thought I might have to rinse myself off again in the shower after this fright. My poor boxer shorts were being tested to their limits. It's true.
"I'd like to remind you that breakfast ends promptly at ten o'clock," said the chef, devilishly. He was a menacingly tall fellow with a bald head and a pointy, black goatee. He had one of those heavy, thick, Eastern European beards, the kind that are as thick and dense as a dark rain forest, the kind with the stubble that reappears ten minutes after you shave it. Something wasn't quite right about the color of his beard, though, as well as the color of his eyebrows. They were so black, as pitch as the black of the darkness in a cavern, that it was unnatural. Maybe he colored his beard and eyebrows that shade of black. He did have some freckles perched on his nose, the remnants of his natural hair color, no doubt, maybe it was red at one point. With the combination of pitch black hair and red freckles, he looked like El Diablo himself, in the flesh. "But I wouldn't want to tarnish our excellent reputation for five star, quality service, would I?"
"I guess not," I said, cautiously. He looked like he wanted to gut me, then prod me with metal pokers and sauté me in olive oil and pesto, I could see it in his red goddamn eyes. One thing I learned a long time ago is to never, and I mean never, fuck with a person serving you food. You never know what they could have done to your food on the way to your table. He looked serious as all hell, too. It's true. "But I appreciate it. It's an important day for me and I was pretty hungry. This will sustain me until dinner,
no doubt."
"You're welcome," he said, walking off abruptly, to chastise a busboy or yell at the wait staff or to conjure Satan through a séance.
But what a chef he was. He had cooked me up a beautiful omelet with sautéed red onions, mushrooms, and honey ham, served with hash-browned red potatoes, and crispy turkey bacon, garnished with a lemon wedge and parsley, and a croissant with apple butter. A feast for a king. It's true. My stomach was grateful. I grabbed my fork and knife and dug in, and the very second the first bite hit my stomach, the grumbling and the tension disappeared. I was beginning to feel like a new man, ready to conquer the day ahead. And then El Diablo reappeared. He sat down at my table, still uninvited.
"I must apologize," he said, rubbing his forehead nervously with his hand. "I don't know what got into me. But for all its worth, I'm sorry for snapping at you. It was rude and very unprofessional of me." He genuinely looked sorry. I could see it on his face. He looked like a really sad bastard, for sure, a devilishly sad bastard. He extended his hand to me for a shake. "I'm having a bad morning. Will you accept my apology?"
I decided it wouldn't hurt to shake his hand, since he did make me breakfast on the fly and all, even though he was freaking me out with his goddamn bald head and dense pointy goatee and his fiery red eyes. I grabbed his hand and shook it and immediately noticed the immense amount of heat his hand was generating. It was hot as hell, literally.
"Apology accepted," I said, releasing his hot hand, trying to finish chewing the food in my mouth as quickly as possible.
"It's hot in the kitchen," he said, blowing into his cupped, hot hands. "It's like a big oven in there."
The Meteoric Rise of Simon Burchwood Page 21