Malibu Motel

by Chaunceton Bird

  “Tonight we’re going to learn why they call this city the City of Angels.”

  If I have had a better night in my life, I do not remember it. The night I won the lottery was outstanding, but this is a whole ‘nother category of joy. Jamie and I talk about my past, my present, and our future. For the first time in my life, I feel a real connection. This must be what love feels like. Real love, not love for a parent or a dog or a child. Like wealth, there are varying levels of love. Real, adult to adult, passionate, lust-filled, trusting love is what we have. Real love has finally arrived in my life. And it’s all thanks to the greatest match-maker of all: money.

  We dine on steak that tastes like it was prepared by God himself. The wine hardly tastes sour, our desserts are delicately sweet, and the Louis XIII cognac polishes off the meal with a remarkable richness.

  After dinner we go shopping for swimsuits and clothes for my weekend at the Ritz. Then we go back to the hotel and head to the rooftop pool. The glittering lights of LA completely surround the Ritz Carlton, but the sounds of the city barely make it past the glass walls surrounding the pool. We relax on the patio furniture for a while and talk about socialites who don’t deserve their money, then step into the pool. Hotel pools are usually too cold, but the temperature of this water is perfect. Probably the exact temperature of my pool.

  In the pool, and later in the hot tub, we can’t keep our hands off each other. Jamie and I tug at each other’s swimsuits, but refrain from getting too carried away in front of the other guests. We curse the transparency of water. The second time Jamie’s hand slips below my waistline we know it’s time to put on our robes and get to the room.

  Jamie’s robe drops in the elevator, and mine falls somewhere in the hallway. Had we left the room key at the pool, we likely would have fucked right there in the hall. Luckily that isn’t the case and we make it inside just in time. Our swimsuits are the last pieces of cloth blocking the expressway to ecstasy. Jamie tears my swimsuit off with an almost feral ferocity. The time for foreplay passed along with our self-control back in the elevator, and we are well on our way before we hit the bed. When we finally fuck, my toes are pointing so hard I get charlie horses in both calves. Our fingers dig like claws into each other’s backs. Our skin wets with sweat and our bodies clap to our dance. We gasp, groan, and scream, vocalizing our savagery. Barbarians didn’t fuck this hard. Jamie’s stamina rivals mine. After several orgasms we sense each other closing in on the final climax. Jamie is on top. We cling tighter, thrust harder, and yell louder. Speed and movement give way to rigid tension as every muscle flexes. A few tremors move through us in the final seconds of rapture. Jamie collapses onto me and we lay on the bed, hearts thumping.

  As we lay, other than our panting and a few “hoooly fuck”s under our breath, it’s quiet. Then we hear the elevator bell ring and laughter down the hall. Exhausted, I crawl to the end of the bed and look toward the door. Light from the hallway shines through the room’s entryway. My sprawling robe is holding the door open.

  5

  The Los Angeles Ritz Carlton is an oasis inside of an oasis. Which is always how I’ve thought of my house, but being in the heart of LA in this kind of comfort is a special experience. In Malibu it’s easy to forget how rich you are because everybody else is just as rich. But downtown, you are constantly reminded of your status by the ever-present froth of homeless riffraff. With Jamie back in the office for the weekend, I have some time to explore the city alone. And, as if I didn’t already feel like I was on top of the world, the denizens of Los Angeles remind me just how high above them I am.

  It’s best not to look directly at them, but sometimes it’s hard to resist the unwholesome urge to stare at these vermin. Especially when they’re yelling things like “Thazz it! Puzzy gawd dammit! Whad I tell ya ‘bout dem bagel shoez!? Huh!? I says Brenda would—ya hear me!?—Brenda gon’ be drivin’ south t’morrow! Repent! Only through Lawrd gawd Jayzuz can ya enter inta paradise! Caaaaamel’s eye!” And they gesture like possessed Italians: fingers snapping, arms flailing, head twisting and twitching, eyes rolling every which way (and not always in unison), and a slouched crooked walk on the brink of collapse. Their hair usually looks like something pulled out of a shower drain. Their dirt-caked clothing probably has entire communities of undiscovered plant and animal life. Oh and the smell—medieval stenches that could kill canaries.

  I don’t understand why LA puts up with this shit. Why not just send them all to Baker? Give them a free ticket to the desert and teach them to farm the land. Let them be self-sufficient out there. I heard there are over fifty thousand homeless people in Los Angeles alone. That’s more than the total population of most cities. Fifty thousand vagrants crawling through the streets, bringing violence, filth, and drugs—and not the good kind—to all who happen to work or live in their path. Their march is slow, like a glacier of trash, tarps, and shopping carts moving through canyons of buildings. And it’s completely hopeless. When Reagan cut funding for California’s mental hospitals the state drained the bedlam out of the institutions and into the gutters. So there’s nothing to be done except to ship them out. It’s either that, or let the city’s foundation continue to rot. If I haven’t already moved to Monaco in a few years maybe I’ll become mayor and clean this place out.

  I get back to the hotel around two or three in the afternoon. The day’s shopping has exhausted me. I eat gourmet room service and relax by the pool, then go to the spa for a full body massage. The therapist asks if I have any soreness or tight spots, then gets to work.

  I put my face into the strange donut pillow and just before I close my eyes I notice a tile mosaic on the floor. It’s a detailed mosaic of the earth. It’s detailed enough to have wispy clouds and different shades of green and brown. I’m right over China. This must be what God’s view is like. Actually, this is surely exactly what it’s like to be God. Angels probably give pretty good massages. God. What a weird guy. Some say God is angry at the world and that things are worse now than they’ve ever been. These are the same type of people who claim money can’t buy happiness. I can see where they’re coming from. God never helped me, I’ve had to work for everything I have. I earned it myself. Truth is (and I am sure there are statistics to support this) the world is better now than it has ever been. The standard of living around the world is higher now than ever before. Just check Facebook for proof of that. We’re doing great. Old ladies complain that the decline in society’s morals is evidence that the apocalypse is at our doorstep. They forget that selling sex is the oldest profession in the world. If anything, society’s morals are improving; everybody is always clamoring to donate to some bullshit relief fund or feed-the-poor program. Sure, maybe climate change will wipe us all out in a few years, but I doubt it. The world isn’t ending anytime soon. And I know a lot of religious people can’t stomach that, because they’re positive that Jesus is going to descend from the clouds and they’ll never have to die and they can tell all their friends, “see you bunch a sinners, I told you I was right about Jesus saving me and not you.” But Jesus is only coming if the world is ending, so these people point to every flake of bad news as evidence that the world is ending and that Jesus is coming and avoid acknowledging all the good news that outweighs the bad ten to one. Bunch of short-sighted, narrow-minded zealots that would give anything to have their prophecies come true, but wouldn’t pay a dime for the truth.

  “Is that too much pressure?”

  The massage therapist’s elbow is making circling motions in my lower back.

  “Ah... no, that’s just right.”

  After an hour or so, while the therapist is massaging my legs, I slip into a dreamless sleep. The therapist wakes me up with “Caish, we’re all done. Would you like to relax in here for a little while?”

  “No thanks, I’ll get going. Phew, I must have slipped off there. That was very relaxing.”

  “Don’t worry about it, you’re not the first.” Then, as the therapist is walking out the doo
r, “There is coffee, water, and snacks in the lounge. Have a wonderful day, we hope to see you again soon.”

  I take my time putting my robe back on, then check out the lounge. While sipping on the Ritz’s exceptionally brewed coffee, I browse the colorful—heavy on the yellow—pamphlets advertising attractions for tourists. It’s fun to see how tourists experience my city. Trips to Santa Catalina Island, whale watching, swimming with dolphins, jet ski rentals, bus tours, celebrity tours, and all the other activities you’d expect. There are even biplane tours.

  “Perfect for the traveler looking for the thrill of a lifetime!” the pamphlet tells me. “Get a bird’s-eye view from an open cockpit of Los Angeles, Laguna Beach, Hollywood, Malibu, and more! Day and night tours available, call ahead for available times and booking.” Why not? I fly all the time, but I’ve never flown in a biplane. The wind in my hair and the divine view of my city sounds like the perfect way to spend my evening. I take the pamphlet back to my room. After a steamy shower that may have lasted an hour, I call the number on the pamphlet and set up a ride for tonight’s Sunset Special.

  I tan by the pool for an hour then freshen up for my first biplane ride. Jamie had my car delivered back to my house, so I take a cab to Fullerton Airport. The tour company’s little tin shack hardly hides the yellow biplane parked behind it. My insides braid themselves into a knot of nerves at the first sight of that old bird. There’s a yellow banner on the side of the shack with the words “Fly LA By Plane” in bold cheesy letters. Before I can fly I have to go through the rigmarole that lawyers have created. First, I am subjected to an orientation video, then a safety lesson. Then I have to sign a bunch of forms and pay the thousand dollars or whatever it costs. And even after that, I’m still given an abbreviated safety refresher after I sign the forms.

  The pilot, who could pass as Chuck Yeager’s son, meets me as I walk onto the runway and asks me about any specific requests.

  “I have a house on the coast in Malibu, could we fly low over that?”

  “Absolutely, our flight path tracks right up the coast. We’ll be close enough for your neighbors to see you wavin’. Maybe even close enough for a brief chat. Why don’t you text ‘em and tell ‘em to look out for us in about forty-five minutes.”

  “Oh, nah. I don’t really know my neighbors that well.”

  “New to the area are we?”

  “Sort of, yeah.”

  “Well, if you were ever in need of an ice breaker, this autta do it. Let’s suit up.”

  We put on period-correct flight suits, headsets, and leather helmets. We even have those goggles that have two pieces of straight glass for each eye. The pièce de résistance is a black ascot tied around my neck. The plane is a two seater, and I get the front seat, just a few feet back from the massive propeller. I climb onto the wing and clamber into the cockpit. The pilot makes sure my belts are tight and checks the radio.

  “Now just as a reminder, we’ll be able to hear each other perfectly fine up there,” the pilot says, tapping the ear of his headset, “so if you need anything, just ask. Also, should you feel airsick, this here bag to your left is going to be the best place to blow chow. I’ll be just behind you, so if you blow chow into the wind, I’m not gonna be a happy camper. Lastly, let me know if you get light headed. Don’t want you passin’ out and missin’ the views!”

  Satisfied that I’m not going to become a lawsuit, the pilot hoists himself into the cockpit behind me and, from the sounds of it, starts pressing buttons and pulling knobs.

  “You ready to go up there, Caish?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Alrighty, sit back and enjoy the ride!”

  With that, a starter motor kicks and with a few pops, sputters, and bangs, the propeller starts to spin. The smells of the vintage airplane vanish in the gale wind sent back from the propeller. It’s loud, but not as loud as I expected. The plane nudges forward, and I tense up with excitement. My knot gets tighter. It all feels slightly rickety. Far from safe. The back of the plane swivels back and forth as we taxi around the runway. We wait for a few minutes while a private-plane lands, then move out to another runway. I’ve been on a lot of runways in my life, but never has one looked so large than from the cockpit of this little airplane. We’re like a tiny toy plane on a freeway.

  “Ready for take-off?” The pilot’s southern voice comes through my headphones without a crackle.

  I give him a thumbs up, then return my hand to its iron grip on the handhold by my legs. The propeller’s rotation speeds up and our acceleration is about as dramatic as that of a Volkswagen Beetle. The rear of the plane lifts into the air and the plane is level. The trip down the runway lasts for all of ten seconds and we’re already climbing into the air. It seems like we’re going way too slow.

  The wind shoves my microphone into my lips and I almost swallow it when I open my mouth to shout, “Are we going fast enough?” We’re flying at less than freeway speeds. I drive faster than this.

  “Yup! These little fellas don’t need nearly as much speed as large commercial aircraft. Also, no need to yell, I can hear you loud and clear.”

  “Just seems like paper airplanes need more speed than this to fly.”

  “Haha, maybe so, Caish, but, nonetheless, here we are at about three hundred feet and climbin’. Never in all my days have I seen a paper airplane do that.”

  The air is warm and clear. The old machine carries us up toward the pastel clouds with just enough shake to keep me on edge. I’m white-knuckling the leather-wrapped grips as I watch the ground shrink away. We bank hard and fly southish over the ocean along the shoreline. The little people down on the beach seem even less significant from this height. From up here I can’t see their sunburns or the brand of swimsuit they’re wearing, just that they are there. Sitting or walking, swimming or bobbing, sleeping or talking, just people. Thousands of them. Tiny dots with all their own webs of trivial drama and meaningless futures. Each one of them sure that they are unique. That they are above average in every way. That God knows their name and helps them find a parking spot when they are running late to their toddler’s dance recital.

  I take a picture for Facebook and caption it “Tiny People, Tiny Problems. #nofilter.” Oh, Mia just posted. Looks like she’s back from her scuba-diving trip in Cozumel. Wow, it looks beautiful. Such clear water. Maybe I’ll go there later this summer. And Mia’s girls look wonderful. They have been posting ten selfies a day every day of their trip. Don’t blame them. Selina posted a video of her and Tim driving down PCH with the top down in one of Tim’s Ferraris. Ah man, looks like a few friends went out on Kelsey’s yacht last night without inviting me. Not that I would have joined, but what the hell? No invitation? New notifications. Invited to like another photography page. Three likes already on my picture of those tiny people. I’ll post it to Instagram too. “Tiny People, Tiny #firstworldproblems #malibulife.” New notifications. I have six new followers. Tim just posted a picture of his Ferrari at Mugu Point. Mia’s daughters are blowing up Instagram too. Oh God, I don’t know whose French Bulldog this is (@frenchfryfinny), but this video of the little pup taking a bath is the single cutest thing on this planet.

  “Alrighty, Caish, we have reached our cruisin’ altitude for the evenin’. We’re gonna head down to San Clemente then make our way up the coast until we get to Oxnard, then we’ll fly on back. ‘Course we’ll wiggle our wings at your house on our way through Malibu. As we fly by Manhattan Beach we’ll take a lil’ detour and go look around the City of Angels. The sun should be settin’ just as we arrive downtown. Sound like a good plan?”

  “Sounds good!”

  “And how ya feelin’ up there? Nauseous or anything?”

  “Nope, feelin’ great,” I say. “Any peanuts or beverages?”

  “Haha, I’m afraid not on this flight, although we’ll have plenty of refreshments waitin’ for you back at the airport.”

  The little plane takes us down the coast at a leisurely pace. We turn around above Lag
una Beach. The sun is setting on our left, and I can already see the glimmer of LA’s skyline. When we fly into the city the sun has just dipped into the ocean. A hundred shades of orange fill the sky and reflect off the city’s glass. The buildings themselves light up the evening with the yellows and whites of millions of fluorescent bulbs. Downtown looks like a bunch of megaliths put on their best glass and got together for cocktails. Static giants chatting about their human infestations.

  We make a long sweeping turn over Dodger Stadium to fly back to the coast. I remember my first night with Jamie. The passion each time we’ve been together is more than I’ve ever felt with anybody else. Our future is all I can think about. Well, that and money, of course. I take a picture and text it to Jamie.

  “Dodgers fan?” the pilot asks.

  “Sure am, and I have some great memories from that stadium.”

  “Well don’t be shy with that camera, plenty of views up here I wouldn’t blame you for wantin’ to remember.”

  The pilot makes a good point. These will look great on Facebook and Instagram.

  The sun has now sunk into the ocean, but the sky is still full of fading oranges and purples.

  “That’s my place right there on that cliff,” I point down to my palace.

  “That big white one?”

  “Yup!”

  “Not bad! Let’s get a closer look.”

  We fly over my house low enough to make out the blow-up doll in my pool. Jesus. My house is the best. Modern architecture tastefully designed to complement the natural surroundings. My automated lights have turned on, so the pool, yard, and exterior of the house are lit such that passersby are forced to recognize the house’s beauty twenty-four hours a day. Like me, my house is perfectly manicured. Not so much as a blade of grass out of order. You can tell almost everything you need to know about a person just by looking at the car they drive and the house they live in.

  Speaking of which, where is my Lamborghini? It’s not in the driveway. I realize Jamie never text me asking me to open the gate.