Malibu Motel

by Chaunceton Bird

  One of the many reasons I enjoy these rallies so much is that it allows us to inspire kids. Take these kids in Baker, for example. Every day they probably lay around in the desert sand methed out of their minds looking for UFOs with no end (or beginning?) in sight. But then, when Ferraris, Porsches, Maybachs, and Bentleys roll into their baked city, suddenly these kids see something to aspire to. As a mechanic, exposure to high-end luxury cars inspired me to play the lottery; maybe I can inspire the next generation to do the same.

  The cars in the rally surround the gas station like a camel caravan at a watering hole. I’d be surprised if the place had any premium fuel left after we’re all tanked up. Riley and I arrive with just enough time to fill up and set off with the last group of cars. The rest of the rally has already set out for Vegas. But there’s no rush. A rally isn’t a race, it’s fundamentally a road party. With the sun setting at our backs we set off for the city of sin.

  Las Vegas, the world’s greatest pinball machine. The marvel of millions of flashing bulbs and the orchestra of slot machines, car horns, and electric bells create an atmosphere of sensory ecstasy. The roads are lined with palm trees and hookers. The sidewalks are bustling with tourists and street performers. And the gutters are cluttered with cans, cups, leaflets, and drunks. Unfortunately, city officials have done a lot in recent years to “clean up” Vegas. Apparently the government thinks they can run a city better than the mafia. But, that said, there is still plenty of real Vegas left for a good time.

  With my luck, a trip to Vegas is a fun-filled payday. I have a Midas touch when it comes to slots and craps tables. On a bad night I’ll break even. On a good night I’ll triple my money and get laid.

  Riley and I decide to stop by the hotel and check in before meeting up with the rest of the crew at Tao—the club where tonight’s festivities are taking place. We pull into the reception area of the Palms Resort and toss the keys to a lucky valet (chauffeurs will handle the driving for the rest of the night). Bellhops take care of the few bags we brought, and, after a brief visit at reception, we go to the room to spruce up for the evening.

  Our suite is Penthouse B (not that B is any less luxurious than A, I just prefer B).

  “Everything look alright?” the concierge asks after showing us around the suite.

  “Everything looks splendid,” Riley says without breaking eye contact with the concierge. During the tour of the penthouse, I could tell Riley was already making plans with the concierge. I can’t say I disagreed; the concierge was a fine specimen.

  “Superb. In that case, I’ll leave you two to your room. Please don’t hesitate to ask for anything, we are at your beck and call. Just pick up the phone, say ‘concierge,’ and tell us what you’d like.”

  “And what if the concierge is what we’d like?” Riley says, looking the concierge from top to toe and adding as much sauce as possible to the question.

  This concierge gave enough of a blush to signal flattery, but not so much as to suggest that the proposal was offensive. “Well,” the concierge replied, “when you say ‘concierge’ into the phone, the resort concierge is automatically put on the line, then from there we handle the request.”

  Yeah right. This concierge knew what Riley meant. But a little banter never hurt anyone. I figure I’ll back up Riley on this one.

  “I think you know what we meant,” I say, “what if we want you? All of you. And maybe a few of your friends. Do we simply pick up the phone, say ‘concierge,’ and make our request?”

  In the pause that followed, you could tell the concierge was thinking about hiding behind something like, “I am flattered by your offer, but as a concierge for the Palms Resort, I am obligated to decline those types of offers from our guests.” But, instead, said, “I get off at 2:00 a.m., is that past your bedtime?”

  “Absolutely not. By that time we should have a few more open-minded friends up here and plenty of everything you could ever want.”

  “Great, see you in a few hours.”

  This is one of the small bonuses of money. Not that I couldn’t have seduced the concierge with my wit and stunning physique alone, but that concierge knows that I have more to offer than just great sex. Obviously I’m rich, which means that I travel with enough cocaine to fuel a small regiment through several nights of heavy partying. It also means that I’m well-connected, that I share my winnings generously, and that hard liquors and fine wines will be flowing like the Colorado River. Not to mention free rides in exotic cars, free gambling, and free five-star food and rooms. The concierge knows the score.

  After changing clothes and relaxing in the suite, Riley and I replenish our bloodstreams with more coke and bounce down to the casino. Cue the Tom Jones.

  Golden elevator doors swing open and Riley and I step into the array of the gambler’s fray. No windows, no clocks, and no clear way out. Clouds of tobacco smoke filled with the lightening of jackpots. I take it all in. The rhythm of the machines, the hope of their operators. Dealers in their uniforms, pit bosses in their suits, servers in their skimpy outfits. Clinking coins cascade into trays; mini waterfalls of metal money. Ringing slots, beeping games, and singing Elvises. Dice bounce across tables, balls spin around wheels, and cards are dealt. But it’s not a passive experience. The gambler can be in control. Those that allow themselves to be acted upon in this place lose money, those of us who act upon, make money. See the symbolism? It’s as if all of life were packed into one stimulating simulated room.

  While Riley and I pull the levers on a few slot machines (word to the wise, the loose machines are always in areas of high foot traffic), I check my Green Mountain app. It’s nice to know that even if I have a rare bout of bad luck, I’ll still be making thousands of dollars an hour. But the app glitches and shuts off every time I try and open it. I’ll restart my phone later.

  One of Riley’s machines goes wild and coughs up a few hundred bucks in the clinking clanking clatter of the gambler’s victory.

  “What’s the deal? Thought you guys weren’t going to make it!” Tim yells over the thumping music.

  “Yeah we were a little late getting to the hotel, we had to stop at my place on our way out of town,” I half-shout.

  “Oh yeah? Everything alright?” Tim is bouncing with the music and his eyes are half closed. His drink is sloshing over the edges of the glass, down his hand, and trickling toward his seventy thousand dollar Patek Philippe, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

  “Yeah I think so, just some car stuff, you know how that goes.”

  “Oh definitely. Well hey, now is the time to forget about the bullshit. Rodney is already sloshed as fuck, and he’s buying shots for everybody. Here,” Tim hands me his drink, “get started with this. Have you had some coke lately? You feeling alright?”

  “Yeah Tim, seriously I’m good. Honestly, I’ve never been better.”

  Tim probably didn’t catch that. He was bobbing off into the crowd toward the bar. Tao always puts on a good show when the Bullrun is in town, and tonight is no different. The DJ tonight is somebody famous (DJ Ex-Scratch) and the crowd is turned up. Confetti cannons keep blasting paper into the air (and our drinks), and fog from the smoke machines amplify the effect of the countless strobe lights and lasers. The music is loud enough to hear with your chest. If a pilgrim from the 1500s discovered time travel and teleported into this room at this time, they would instantly explode. It would be a goddamn mess. Riley and I indulge in a dab of ecstasy and plenty of alcohol at the club, then recruit the best looking people to join us in our penthouse. At the penthouse things get a little wild, but not too wild. Enough wild not to get my deposit back, but not so wild as to be banned from future stays. The concierge shows up with a few friends just after 2:30 a.m. and we give them the best night of their lives. At one point, we recreate sex on the beach but with cocaine instead of sand.

  The next morning (well, early afternoon) we need a few gallons of coffee to get up and running, then we repeat the same routine every night for two weeks. So
metimes the parties are more eventful (meaning more drugs, liquor, sex, and property damage), and some nights they are more relaxing (maybe just some weed, lounging, and sex in hot tubs and saunas). Riley and I meet lots of new friends along the way, some of which may become future business associates, most of which will probably just be one-night stands.

  The Lamborghini handles the rally like the champion that it is. We were only pulled over once on the entire rally, and it was for going 158 mph in a 65 mph zone. I couldn’t help myself. It was on a stretch of desert road through Utah that probably hadn’t seen a car in decades and needed some excitement (as a side note, the goal was 200 mph, and I had plenty of road left to make it happen). The cop was cool about it though, saying something like, “Well I can’t say as I blame ya, shoot, if I had me a vehicle as fine as this here specimen I may be tempted from time to time to see what she was capable of.” The cop made it clear that he could give me a reckless driving citation, tow my car, and even jail me. But, with good ol’ fashioned coaxing the officer showed me some friendly western hospitality and only gave me a ticket for 30 mph over and sent us on our way.

  Throughout the rally the Lamborghini garnered plenty of attention, but there was a Bugatti Chiron and a Porsche 918 that always drew larger crowds. Which is understandable, I guess. Both of those cars cost around two or three million dollars, whereas my humble Lambo costs just over half a million. Any person with a bit of scratch can afford a Lamborghini, but owning a Bugatti takes real wealth. And people with real wealth know that. I’ve known for a while that it was time to upgrade into a higher class of vehicle—a higher class of existence—but my recent financial misfortunes have made it difficult. It’s not as simple as just selling all your cars and buying a Bugatti. If a Bugatti is the only car you own, it sends a clear signal that you are stretching to look wealthier than you are. I have to keep my collection at the size that it is and add a Bugatti.

  I have discussed this and other financial goals with Jamie, and we are on track to be making that sort of money in a few years. I’ll finally be able to have a home in the French Riviera and a yacht with which to get there.

  The Bullrun Rally comes to a close at the same place it started: Los Angeles. On the final day Mario Andretti chooses to drive Tim’s Lamborghini; likely because by the end of the rally they’re best buds. There is one final night of partying (this time with champagne instead of vodka) and an awards ceremony, then we all return to our regular routines. The next morning I drop Riley off at the Empire Apartments and we say goodbye with a quickie. When I get home, my Aston Martin is not in my driveway. I’ll call Gabby tomorrow. I’ll probably sleep for a few days straight. Then it’s time to get back to business. The rally has stoked my burning need to become truly wealthy. My days of making money from little startup businesses and side projects are behind me.

  In the past few months Green Mountain has done everything Jamie said it would. Steady returns of nearly ten percent a month, no losses, and low administrative fees. After I’m rested up I’m going to sell my equity in all the businesses and go all in with Green Mountain.

  4

  Jamie doesn’t answer. I leave a message saying that I’m ready to go all in. A few seconds later Jamie calls back and apologizes for missing my call.

  “So, you’re ready to take it to the next level?” Jamie asks.

  “Definitely. My days of mediocre wealth are numbered. I’m ready to join the ranks of the truly rich. This week I’m going to have my businesses buy me out and I’m going to slide all my chips across the table, so to speak.”

  “Well, that sounds great, Caish. This is exciting. But, I do just want to caution you against jumping into anything one hundred percent. We do recommend diversification and cash reserves in case the worse were to happen. We can work out the details in person, but let’s plan on investing the new money into various Green Mountain accounts. We have lots of options.”

  “Yeah, sounds good. Either way, I trust your judgment. Diversify it in whatever way you think is best,” I say.

  There is a brief pause on Jamie’s side.

  “So how much new money are we talking about here, Caish?” Jamie asks.

  “I think I’ll do the other ten million that I have from mortgaging the house, and I can probably get a couple million from my business equity. I’ll also sell a few more things around the house that I don’t need, and that might be another million or so. I haven’t sat down with a calculator and figured it all out yet, I just called you first so it could be on your radar.”

  “Very good, Caish. Very exciting. How about you get the money together, then swing down to my office and we’ll take care of all the details. No rush. I’ll provide you with all the information you’ll need on your new investment portfolio when the money is transferred and diversified.”

  “Bitchin’. I look forward to it.”

  “Oh, and Caish, how about dinner afterwards? On me,” Jamie adds. I can feel my heartbeat in my ears. I almost choke on my elation.

  “That’s, er, you... I thought you’d never ask! Yeah, let’s definitely plan on it,” I manage.

  “Great, I look forward to seeing you. Just give me a couple days’ notice before you swing down. It’s a busy time and I don’t want to keep you waiting.”

  “Perfect. Okay thanks Jamie, see you soon!”

  I’m not sure what I’m more excited about, making tens of millions of dollars, or supper and sex with Jamie. We haven’t seen each other in months, and I long for Jamie in a way I normally don’t feel toward other people. Usually if I don’t get what I want out of somebody, I just go to a party, club, or roadside and get it from somebody else. It’s similar to a gas station running out of Marlboros so you buy Pall Malls instead. But with Jamie there’s something different. I don’t think it’s just sex appeal; Jamie may be among the most attractive people I’ve ever seen (and can fuck like a young lion), but I can get great sex from physically perfect eighteen and nineteen year olds any time I want. And it can’t be the money: I’ve never been to Jamie’s house, and we haven’t been on any trips together, so I only have vague ideas of Jamie’s worth. Whatever the reason, I can’t wait for our date.

  My office is one of my favorite rooms in my house. It’s a corner room facing the ocean on the second story of my house. Natural light floods the room through the skylights and the glass walls. The walls that aren’t glass are stark eggshell white, and the floor is a grayish hardwood. The furniture in the room is all mid-century modern. My desk is a modern obsidian-top desk with silver legs, my chair is custom built by Fiorano Furnishers using the best black Italian leather, and my shelving and cabinets are a charcoal colored wood behind a lightly frosted glass layer. I flew in Tosca Giacosa (one of the world’s most renowned interior decorators) from New York to design and decorate the house, and this room was also her favorite. As a business oriented individual I knew I would spend lots of time in this room, so I was scrupulous. The final touch was an Eames lounge chair. As with all the rooms in my house that face the ocean, the glass walls open up to the deck that runs half the length of the house.

  After plenty of coffee, I settle down in the office, light a cigarette, and get to work. My phone calls start with APParatus and Bambooze and throughout the day I work my way down to SomethingSmart and Whimbley’s. Most of the companies understand. As if they were waiting for the day this call would come. Others, like Canberra Organics, are quite upset. Whatever, if they can’t make it without my money, they don’t deserve to make it. Anybody can run a business and become successful. If they have failed to make money (which virtually all of them do) it is because of their own lack of effort. My attorney, Gabby, handles the paperwork associated with wrapping up my business investments. She tells me that it will only take a few weeks to take care of everything.

  I call Mindy and tell her she was wrong about Green Mountain. In spite of my newly acquired wealth, she still tells me it’s a bad idea. This is what a college education gets you.

  Through
out the rest of the week I spend most of my time in my office. All day I’m on the phone and computer lining up sales and consignments. I’m well-connected and I’ve been hustling since my broke days, so I get top dollar for everything I sell. The next week I drive to dealers, jewelers, brokers, and even pawners to sell gold, jewelry, antiques, clothes, sports memorabilia, art, shoes, and other valuables I find around the house. Near the end of the month my bank accounts are looking healthier than they have in years.

  From the equity in my seventeen businesses I earn two million. I make another three-and-a-half million selling art (but not the Pollock), and four million from selling nine of my cars. I make about two million from my stash of diamonds and jewelry. Selling furniture, antiques, and a few bars of gold brings in another one-and-half million. Add that to the other ten million that I have from mortgaging my house, and that brings my total new cash to almost twenty-three million dollars. Adding my initial Green Mountain investment, plus the interest I’ve earned on that so far, and my total investment will be almost thirty-five million dollars.

  That will leave me two million in the bank. I can pay my mortgage and living expenses with the interest I make from Green Mountain, and everything else I have is paid off. After I get this money to Jamie, I’ll sit back and watch my wealth, power, and status grow. This is how rich people make money. Working is for the poor. It won’t be long now until problems are a thing of the past for me. True, even the wealthy have mishaps that no amount of money will prevent. Wine doesn’t care how expensive your carpet is, and nails puncture the tires of Ferraris and Fords alike. Plus, some problems can’t be stamped out; relationship drama, illness, and aging are here to stay (“wealth can’t buy health” in the words of Pusha T). But even then, would you rather be sad and dying in a grimy shack in the heart of Mexico City, or in a villa in Monte Carlo? Fact is, money is power against adversity. A bastion against Hopelessness. Obviously people can be happy without achieving great wealth. But wealthless happiness is delicate, fickle, and prone to annihilation at the first signs of strife. Happiness backed by greenbacks is impervious to life’s costly trivialities. But I digress.