The Meteoric Rise of Simon Burchwood

by Scott Semegran

  "Open the glove box," he said, pointing to the small door in the dash. "Open it up and tell me what's inside."

  "What?"

  "You heard me. Open it up and tell me what's inside. Anything valuable?"

  I popped open the glove box to find a pile of papers, proof of insurance, the title to the car, receipts for repairs, and some travelers' checks. Mick noticed the checks and dropped a vinyl bank-bag in my lap.

  "Put the travelers' checks in the bag," he said, lighting a cigarette and taking a deep drag. "And the insurance papers too."

  I placed them in the bag. The smoke from his cigarette and the smell of the gasoline was mixing inside my nose and making me a little light-headed. I turned to ask him if he could stop smoking at least until I got out of the Nazi-mobile, fearing that the cherry on his goddamn cigarette could ignite the gasoline fumes inside the car, and blow us to smithereens. But I didn't say anything, for some reason, I didn't say a goddamn word. I noticed that Mick was wearing an ear-piece, something like you see in the movies, when Secret Service agents are monitoring the movements of a president or senator or some shit like that. I could tell he was listening to somebody, because he would occasionally get that look on his face, that blank look someone has like when they are listening on the telephone. After noticing the ear-piece, I also noticed that he would say ten-four under his breath, quietly and discreetly, every once and a while. He was obviously getting direction from someone, somewhere, his manager or supervisor. I was pretty sure his manager wasn't telling him to snoop in people's glove boxes for valuables to steal. It's true.

  "Is there any change in the ashtray?" he asked.

  I pulled open the ash tray and he saw that it was full of quarters, dimes, and nickels. He nodded his head, so I pulled out the tray and poured the coins in the bank-bag.

  "And how about in here?" he asked, tapping on the arm console between our seats.

  I opened the console and he saw a pack of smokes and a Zippo lighter and a pair of Ray-Ban sunglasses and a radar detector and a cell phone. He took the smokes and left the rest.

  "Thanks but I don't need any of that shit," he said, slipping the smokes in his pocket and closing the console.

  As we ascended the ramp to the street level, he stopped the Nazi-mobile behind a row of cars waiting to park in the circular drive in front of the hotel entrance. I decided right then and there that it was time to get out of that traffic jam and walk the rest of the way. I had had about enough of Mick and his gasoline emitting Nazi-mobile and his death-defying cigarette smoking and his goddamn stealing and all. He really made me sick to my stomach, or maybe it was the fumes I was breathing. But no matter, I wanted to get out as fast as possible.

  "Thanks for the lift but I think I'll get out now," I said, going for the door handle. But before I could open the door, he locked the power-locks. The door wouldn't open, and then he placed his goddamn hand on my shoulder.

  "You can't get out now," he said, serious as all hell.

  "Why not?" I asked.

  "Safety hazard," he said, smiling back at me.

  "Safety hazard?"

  "It's the rules, buddy."

  "The rules? What rules?"

  "Hotel rules. No one walks on the ramp."

  I sat back in my seat, resigned that I was going to have to sit in there a little longer, suck in more fumes and smoke, probably die of asphyxiation or lethal combustion, or be arrested as an accomplice to this thief, or some shit like that. It's true. He took his hand off my shoulder and finished his cigarette and flicked the butt out the window. Someone said something to him in his ear-piece and he got still and quiet, that blank look returning to his face again. He turned and looked at me, really looked at me, listening to someone saying something or describing something, then he said ten-four. He sure was quiet after that, and he didn't ask me to look in any more compartments for coins or valuables or any goddamn documents, and it made me a little nervous and all. So I decided to ask him a question, something to break the silence.

  "I hope you don't mind me asking you something..."

  "Go for it," he said, lighting another cigarette.

  "Do you know a bellboy named Carl?"

  "Sure do."

  "So there is a Carl that works here?"

  "Yep."

  "That's what I thought. The girl at the front desk said..."

  "Don't listen to that bitch," Mick said, exhaling a huge plume of smoke my way. "She's a liar, for sure."

  ***

  Unfortunately for me, the glorious crap from this morning, the one that was unceremoniously disturbed, awoke like a dormant Phoenix from a sleepy volcano. It reared its ugly head and sent an unpleasant burning sensation straight from my gut to the back of my trousers. It was all I could do to keep the fiery turd from exploding, clinching my stomach with one arm and my knees with the other arm. It was a pretty goddamn inconvenient time for it to return, considering that I was sitting in a Nazi-mobile with Mick the valet, waiting in a stalled line of cars to exit the underground parking garage, without a toilet in sight. I was feeling pretty miserable. It's true.

  "You all right?" he asked. "You don't look so hot."

  "I have to go to the bathroom," I said, a little desperate.

  "Did you eat at Crumpet's?" he asked, chuckling. "That food they serve will kill you, I swear. Five-star my ass."

  "Can you let me out? I really have to go."

  "Just one more second. Can you wait a second?" he asked. I nodded.

  The traffic jam finally moved and Mick pulled the car into the circular drive in front of the entrance to the hotel. The grand goddamn spectacle continued, just like when we arrived the day before, valets and bellboys whisking here and there, assisting newly-arrived guests with their cars and luggage. I kind of expected Samuel the Giant to be waiting there for me, his limo parked with the air conditioner on inside, but he wasn't. Mick parked the Nazi-mobile at the first available space and I lunged for the door handle. The fiery turd wasn't going to wait too much longer, and it sent me an acidy warning of its intentions to evacuate my bowels as soon as possible.

  "I gotta go," I said.

  "Mr. Duncan will escort you from here," Mick said, lighting another cigarette.

  "Mr. Who? Tell him I don't need an escort. I can get to my room by myself."

  I opened the car door and stepped out, right in front of this Mr. Duncan that Mick was talking about, a seven-foot tower of black suit and black tie and black skin, standing on the curb waiting for me. I looked up at him and he looked at me and I immediately made my way around him, but he wasn't having it. He placed his goddamn hand on my chest and I knew, right then and there, that I wasn't going to get to a bathroom as fast as I needed to. It's true.

  "The front office needs to have a word with you immediately, Mr. Burchwood. Will you follow me?" Mr. Duncan said. He was tall as all hell. He could play center for the Utah Jazz or the Atlanta Hawks or some crappy basketball team like that, since I wasn't too sure just how athletic he was. But he was tall enough to play, even if he couldn't dribble the goddamn ball. When you're that tall, you really don't need to know how to dribble, just look at Shaquille O'Neal. It's true.

  "I hate to have to tell you this, Mr. Duncan, since I don't know you all that well. But I really have to go to the bathroom. I know that's really personal and all but it's true," I said. Then I leaned toward him a little and whispered. "I have to take a dump, really bad."

  "Will you come with me to the front office if I let you go to the bathroom first?"

  I nodded.

  "Then follow me."

  ***

  It was just as glorious as this morning, the crap that is, except for one thing: Mr. Duncan was waiting in the bathroom with me. He wasn't in the stall with me, but he was in the bathroom, waiting, listening, standing right outside of my stall door. If I didn't have to go so bad, I probably wouldn't have gone at all, since I don't like anyone in the vicinity when I'm taking a dump. I like my privacy. It's just one of those thin
gs. It's true. When I worked at TechForce, I used to go to the farthest bathroom on the top floor, the one least likely to be used because of its distant proximity to the majority of the workers. That was my favorite and most private bathroom in the entire building.

  Anyway, my dump took no effort at all. After its thunderous evacuation, I sat there comfortably, waiting for the remainder of it. I could hear Mr. Duncan tapping on the tile floor with his shoe, a heavy Florsheim-model with a stiff sole, newly purchased and not yet broken in. It was so quiet in there that the sound of his shoe tapping the tile floor sounded like a ball-peen hammer hitting a nail through a sheet of steel. It was that loud and sharp. And the sound, becoming louder and louder the more I concentrated on it, started to drive me mad, what, with its deafening echo and gut-clinching intensity. He really made me nervous, standing there tapping his feet and not saying a word. It about drove me crazy.

  "You might want to hurry up in there," he said.

  "I could be in here for a while," I said. "You know how these things go sometimes."

  "You ate at Crumpet's, I guess?" he asked.

  "Yes, I did."

  "That's unfortunate."

  He began tapping his shoe again and I thought it pretty ridiculous that I had this seven-foot guy standing outside my toilet stall tapping his feet, asking me where I ate this morning, and I had no idea what it was he wanted with me. Normally, I wouldn't have spoken to him in the bathroom, what, going against bathroom etiquette and all. I mean, you never talk to someone in the bathroom unless it is a goddamn emergency, like there being no toilet paper or paper ass hats or a newspaper to read. But I figured I had at least another ten minutes to burn, sitting on the toilet waiting for my movement to stop, so I went against protocol.

  "You mind telling me what the front desk wants with me?" I asked. His shoe-tapping stopped.

  "Something about your credit card..."

  "About my credit card?"

  "...and your friend."

  "What about my credit card?"

  "I'm not supposed to be talking to you about this, Mr. Burchwood."

  "Was my card declined?" I asked. Those bastards, those fucking bastards at the credit card company! I had a feeling something like this was going to happen. I mean, you plan and plan things but something always happens to throw a wrench in your best-made plans. I guess bringing Jason along was my goddamn wrench. I didn't budget bringing him along initially but I didn't think it would hurt. I didn't think I would go over my limits anyway.

  I quickly pulled about three feet of toilet paper off the roll and wrapped it around my hand. I decided right then and there that I was going to call the credit card company and straighten this matter out myself, whatever it was. There was no way in hell that I was going to have a problem today, on this day, the most important day of all my days so far in my life. I began thoroughly wiping myself.

  "But that's the least of your worries," Mr. Duncan said. "I hope you have a good lawyer."

  "What do you mean?" I asked. "Whatever it is, it's probably just a simple mistake. I mean, I know I ride my card balance pretty close to the limit sometimes but..."

  "When was the last time you spoke to your travel buddy?" he asked, his shoe-tapping starting up again.

  "Last night. He was sleeping when I came down for breakfast this morning. Why?"

  "Because he might be sleeping for a long time, a very long time."

  ***

  Turns out that Jason overdosed this morning, brought on by the massive amount of cocaine and alcohol he ingested last night while I was sleeping. That's right: overdosed. It's true. Sometime after I left for breakfast, the cleaning lady entered our room and found him in bed, and she thought he was dead. He wasn't dead but he was pretty close, stiff as a board and cold as a fish. She rummaged around, trying to wake him to let him know that she had to clean the room, and when he didn't move or make a sound, she got a closer look. The sight of him made her scream, attracting the other cleaning ladies on the floor, all of them running in our room to see what the goddamn commotion was. And to think, I asked Jason to come along with me to New York because I felt sorry for him, because I needed someone to help me out and all. More than ever, I was really sorry I brought the goddamn pig with me. He was more of a burden to me and my trip than anything else. I wished I had left him and his goddamn problems back in Montgomery, where he belonged. I decided right then and there that he and his goddamn wife deserved each other. It's true. They were both a goddamn mess. Their marriage was a perfect goddamn disaster.

  All I could think about was getting the hell out of the hotel, getting as far away from Jason as possible, getting to the Barnes & Noble flagship store, and finishing what I had come to New York for in the first place. I mean, Jason obviously didn't need me anyway, finding consolation with his drugs and his booze and his goddamn depression. He was the ultimate sad bastard. And like I said before, there was no time on this trip for sad bastards. It's true. I had my fans and the media and bookstore employees and important publishing-industry people waiting for me, counting on me, looking forward to my appearance. I wiped my ass and zipped up my pants.

  Mr. Duncan escorted me out of the bathroom, walking close by me as he led me to the front office, no doubt. He was imposingly tall and lanky, his arms and legs freakishly long, like the limbs of a giant goddamn praying mantis. He walked in a cumbersome fashion, slow and deliberate. And even though I knew I was out of shape, a little pudgy and all, I had a feeling that I could outrun him. For some reason, I thought if I could just get out to the street and run up the busy sidewalk, that I could lose him. There would be no way he could find me. And he didn't know that I was supposed to be at Barnes & Noble; he didn't know who I was or where I needed to be or anything. He didn't know a goddamn thing about me. If I could just get to the bookstore, I could wait there until this evening, until it was time for my appearance. I was more than positive that they would accommodate me, surely supplying coffee and sweet rolls on gratis. I was sure of it. I decided, right then and there, that it was time for me to go.

  So I kneeled down and pretended that I was tying my shoe, right in the middle of the lobby. It was a busy morning for some reason, and there were dozens of patrons checking out and dozens of bellboys assisting them while they were checking out. I peeked up a bit to see if Mr. Duncan was watching me, and thankfully, he wasn't. He was gesturing to an acquaintance of his across the lobby, another employee or someone to that effect, about meeting for lunch or some shit like that. And after a second or two, I leapt up and ran as fast as I could, out the sliding front door, across the busy circular drive, past Mick the valet and his thieving valet buddies, to the busy New York sidewalk. I ran as fast as I could, sure that Mr. Duncan was right behind me, and I pushed the pedestrians aside, the lazy bastards. I found out quickly that New Yorkers weren't very cooperative, especially if you were trying to go in a direction that was against the flow of where they were going. In fact, the last thing you want to do is antagonize a group of New Yorkers, because once they heard Mr. Duncan's pleas to stop me, stop me they did.

  The next thing I knew, I was forced to the ground, like an avalanche of flesh had toppled on top of me. The last thing I remember was looking at a lady's high-heel shoes, red and shiny like the paint job on a brand new car. Her feet were literally inches from my nose and her skin was white like porcelain, so white that they were slightly transparent.

  And then there was darkness, cold and still, like I was asleep. When I opened my eyes again, my head heavy and my neck limp and sore, I was in jail. It's true. I was in a goddamn jail.

  24.

  I told the jail guard that I wasn't going to talk to anyone until I talked to my lawyer first. Little did he know that I didn't have my own criminal lawyer (he was an entertainment lawyer) but that didn't matter. His name was Ira Lowenstein and he could make lots of things happen. He looked over my contract with the publisher before my deal went down. He was a really great lawyer and I trusted him. You know, I was alwa
ys told to get a Jewish lawyer because they are the best. It's true. They are the best. I demanded my one phone call and the guard let me use the phone. It was a goddamn payphone so I had to make a collect call. I called up Ira's office and he answered. He was always answering the phone because he didn't have a secretary. He always told me he was too cheap to hire any help. He was a really cheap bastard. He charged me for everything. And I knew he was going to charge me for the collect call I made to him. So I made it short and sweet.

  "Ira, you gotta help me out. I'm in jail in New York. Can you help me?" I pleaded, whispering into the phone. I was really paranoid for some reason. I was shaking all over the goddamn place.

  "I'll be up there as soon as I can," he told me and then he hung up. Ira was a cheap bastard but I knew he'd help me, even if it meant charging me for the airline ticket he used to get up here.

  After I got off the phone, the guard pulled me into a small room where he took my fingerprints and a photo of me (for the mug shot which will appear on CNN tomorrow, no doubt). He then pulled me into a different room and uncuffed me. He ordered me to take off my goddamn clothes. I put on my orange jumpsuit and washed the ink off my hands and then he cuffed me again. He put the cuffs on tight as hell too. He led me up some stairs and down a hall lined with cell doors. The cell doors were a lot different than I imagined jail cell doors to look like. I mean, they weren't made of bars with prisoners hanging on inside with tin cups in their hands banging for food, like in the movies. They were solid metal doors with one tiny window about the size of a matchbox at eye-level. That's it. And it was quiet as hell. I didn't hear a goddamn thing. The guard took me to the last door in the hall. He pressed me against the wall as he unlocked the door. And then he threw me in and slammed the door behind me.

  Both of the bunks were occupied so I sat on the floor. The cell was small as hell and obviously only made for two people. But today, it was filled with three of us. I sat next to the toilet on the floor as I listened to my other goddamn roommates sleep and snore the morning away. One of them, the guy on the top, was snoring loud as hell, just like Jason did. I mean, he sounded exactly like him, the lazy bastard. It was all just too much to handle. It's true. I closed my eyes and I wondered how I would explain all of this to my publisher. And I wondered, in the broad scheme of things, if this would effect my book launch.