Party Time_Raving Arizona

by Shaun Attwood

  ‘How does that work?’

  ‘Immigration calls you for interviews from time to time. Provided they’re convinced that you’re a couple living together with mail and bills in joint names, there shouldn’t be any problems.’

  ‘Then I won’t have to worry about being deported,’ I say.

  ‘I’ll run everything by a lawyer and get back to you.’

  I tell Sumiko what Mo said, and she agrees that I should apply for a Green Card so we can travel overseas and I no longer have to work illegally.

  Before marrying Sumiko, I want my parents’ approval. With Mum, Dad and my sister, Karen, visiting at Christmas, I plan a New Year’s Eve party to celebrate our engagement.

  On the way to pick them up at the airport, I worry about them finding fault with Sumiko. Despite her limited vocabulary, Sumiko charms them with her demure smile and respectful nature. Entering our apartment, my family admire the decor and Asian artwork.

  Later on, when Sumiko’s cooking, Mum says, ‘She’s lovely. She’s so small, yet perfectly proportioned.’

  ‘I’m so glad you like her,’ I say, smiling with relief.

  ‘Yes,’ Karen says, ‘she’s stunning, but I wish I could have a proper conversation with her. And, Shaun, you speaking pidgin English all the time won’t improve her language skills. She’ll only learn if you speak properly to her.’

  ‘I know, but it’s easier this way,’ I say.

  Sumiko goes out of her way to make them welcome. She discovers Mum loves sweet pancakes and makes them daily for breakfast. Dad says he likes savoury pancakes with bacon, and the next morning they’re there.

  Sumiko studies Mum and Dad cooking traditional English Sunday dinner. A whole chicken. A tray laden with yellow roast potatoes. Dad making gravy with Oxo cubes. Mum putting plates in the oven puzzles Sumiko.

  ‘You cook plates?’ Sumiko asks, making us laugh.

  ‘England’s so cold, we put plates in the oven to keep the food warm,’ Mum says.

  The following week, Sumiko cooks English style.

  ‘She’ll do anything to please,’ Mum says in the living room. ‘You’re lucky. You’ve found a good woman there.’

  ‘Yes, that’s what most men want,’ Karen says, ‘someone to slave on them.’

  ‘Whenever I offer to help with the cooking, she scowls at me!’ I say.

  In the evenings, Sumiko massages Mum. At first, Mum is delighted, but the massage lasts longer each night, stretching over an hour. Getting massaged, ticklish Mum starts to laugh, offending Sumiko.

  ‘Why you laugh? You no like massa?’ Sumiko asks, frowning.

  ‘It’s so embarrassing. The more I try not to laugh, the more I want to laugh.’

  Aware of Mum’s interest in herbal remedies, Sumiko decides to brew a tonic to pep us up on Christmas Eve. She purchases fresh ginseng root and boils it in a large saucepan with various herbs and spices, filling the house with a stale-sweat smell.

  ‘Ginseng good. Clean blood. Make happy. Good for man. Good for woman.’

  ‘Anything that smells that vile must be good for you,’ Dad says. ‘But I’ll probably give it a miss.’

  ‘Hush,’ Mum whispers. ‘You’ll have to have some or she’ll be offended.’

  ‘I’ll give it a go,’ Karen says. ‘I’m into herbal stuff. But it does smell bad.’

  We watch, fascinated, as she tends to the brew, stirring, tasting, adding more ingredients for two days, until she feels it’s ready.

  Before going to a Christmas Eve open house at Mo’s, happily anticipating the festivities, we gather in the kitchen. Sumiko spoons out the brew as an aperitif. As they sip, Karen’s and Mum’s faces contort.

  Can it be as bad as kimchi?

  Forcing a smile, Mum says, ‘It’s nice. Thank you, Sumiko.’

  Dad barely touches it and says, ‘I can feel it working already.’

  We laugh at him.

  ‘Yes, it’s interesting,’ Karen says, trying not to grimace.

  I pretend to drink. When Sumiko turns her back, I pour mine down the sink. Sumiko drinks a large glass.

  Mo puts on a lavish spread. We listen to records and reminisce about Christmases past. While everyone is having fun, Sumiko whispers that she wants to leave. Pointing at her sickly expression and face dappled with pink blotches, I tell my family she’s unwell. On the way home, she starts yelling and screaming in Japanese, ignoring me.

  ‘I think you drank too much ginseng,’ I say, concerned. ‘You’ll have to wait for it to wear off.’

  ‘Damare konoyarou! [Shut up, you bastard!]’ With her bejewelled fist, she repeatedly punches the windshield so hard it cracks the glass.

  ‘Jesus! Sumiko, calm down. Do you want me to take you to a hospital?’ I ask.

  ‘No hospital! Home!’

  Hours later, my family arrives in a taxi.

  ‘What happened to the car window?’ Mum asks, entering the apartment.

  Can’t tell them about Sumiko. They’ll worry and might want me to call the wedding off. I’d better take the blame. ‘Er … we had a bit of a row and I smashed it.’

  ‘Some row,’ Dad says. ‘Smashing a window’s a bit extreme.’

  Accepting my lie, they shake their heads and tut. The next day, trading thankful expressions, we watch Sumiko tip the tonic down the sink, declaring it made her crazy. Sumiko becomes more attentive. She takes Mum and Karen to the Phoenician resort for pancakes with strawberries and cream. In the evening, she cooks sumptuous Japanese dishes, and stops scolding Mum for laughing during the massage.

  My family help us prepare for the New Year’s Eve party and have no objections to our engagement. My American relatives and few friends congratulate us, and when it strikes twelve we celebrate the New Year, listening to gunshots outside. In Dad’s speech, he says meeting Sumiko was the highlight of his visit and she’s ‘a very special lady’.

  Six months into our relationship, we marry at a courthouse in Glendale. With local family members, we celebrate at T.G.I. Friday’s. In our honeymoon hotel, the lack of TV channels upsets Sumiko. She throws things around, generating a noise complaint. The manageress threatens to chuck us out. Sumiko doesn’t care. It takes hours to calm her down. Hurt and disappointed, I put the outburst down to her emotions running high that day.

  Chapter 6

  Nick Solari, my new boss, is a tall, sincere man with a wispy beard and owlish eyes. At the 6 a.m. sales meeting, he opens a book, Rhinoceros Success by Scott Alexander. We gaze in worshipful silence as he reads.

  ‘Somewhere, deep in the jungle where few dare venture, there lives a wild animal called success. It is rare and much sought after, but only a few ever risk tracking it down to capture it. The hunt is long, hard, and risky. There are many hardships along the way that tear at your heart and soul. The jungle brush throws up an almost impenetrable barrier. Bugs constantly bite and bore into your skin. Poisonous snakes, crocodiles, and other dangerous animals present very real dangers to your safety. The incessant, burning sun is your constant, relentless companion until nightfall. Then the temperature drops to near freezing and you long for the burning sun against your already reddened, blistered skin.’

  The quote is so pertinent to my life that the other brokers in the room fade from existence. Nick knows exactly how I feel. Becoming a millionaire is going to take longer than anticipated because of the hardships I’ve encountered. Every time I start to do well, I’m forced to change firms and rebuild. I’m making some money but spending more and relying on Sumiko too much. Despite setbacks, I’m determined to succeed.

  ‘At times you feel weak and dizzy from exhaustion. Success seems at times an imaginary creature, impossible to capture. But you continue on, because you are too deep in the jungle now to head back without your prize.’

  I’m exhausted from long days of cold-calling, but I have a solid pipeline of leads and a growing client book. I’m deep in the jungle. I can’t stand the thought of quitting, of everything I’ve worked for getting cannibalised.
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  ‘Months go by, maybe years. Still, no sign of success. It is a clever animal, rarely exposing itself, always quick to flee should it sense danger of being caught. Success is so uncommon, so unique and so challenging that you must have it! No other animal requires so much skill to hunt and capture.’

  My second year: I don’t want to change firms anymore. I need stability to succeed.

  ‘As rare as the animal is, even more rare are the men and women who set up their own expeditions in its pursuit. You and I are part of that group who must have success. The rewards are great. We know that. We also know that the hunt is difficult, at best. We know the odds are against us. We know many have failed and few will even attempt the expedition. When we know all this, we know that success is for us!’

  Johnny did me a favour forcing me to cold-call from the phone book. His throwing me against his wall strengthened me to take on anything in stockbroking.

  ‘Success is not easy. It is a truly difficult animal to capture, requiring lots of work, quick thinking, desire, and persistence on the part of the hunter. This, then, is your “rhinoceros manual” for your greatest hunt. Use it and you will not only achieve more success quicker, but you will also have the greatest time of your life charging through the jungle. Let’s go! Right now is the season for success!’

  Yes, I have the qualities of the hunter. And manic energy to work longer than my colleagues, guaranteeing I will eventually rise above them.

  ‘Are you stockbrokers rhinos whose thick skin can’t be affected by petty rejections on the phone?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘I can’t hear you! Are you rhinos?’

  ‘Yes!’ we roar like jungle animals.

  ‘Then let’s break some records dialling for dollars today!’

  We leap from our seats and attack our phones, buzzing with the energy of a new firm on the rise.

  Radcliff’s top producer is Max Purcell, a short, fair-haired man with long ginger eyelashes and a bulbous whisky nose, who speaks in a deep and threatening Texan drawl. His territory is the biggest office at the back. Every so often, he emerges with a trade ticket and dashes past the quads, his body tilted as if leaning into a strong wind. His smarmy manner makes me dislike him. I want to earn a back office, to outdo him. But how?

  Chapter 7

  I hear on the radio that 808 State – a rave group from Manchester – is playing in Las Vegas. Sumiko agrees to go. The six-hour drive whizzes by in a whirl of excitement. Spotting Las Vegas, I’m amazed by the skyscrapers and the unnatural glow in the sky, as if something extra-terrestrial is happening. I park at the venue. The techno boom-boom-boom raises goose-pimples on my forearms.

  Walking to the club, Sumiko glowers at the glitter girls in the queue, all skimpy clothes and leg flesh. Pouting like a petulant child, she folds her arms. ‘We not going in there!’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I ask. ‘Are you joking?’

  ‘Don’t want you round those women!’

  ‘What? I just drove all this way!’ I yell, anger heating up my face.

  ‘We not going in!’

  ‘I’m here to see 808 State, not the women. I love you! I haven’t come all this way with my wife to find another woman. That’s ridiculous!’

  ‘We not go in, Shaun!’

  We argue for fifteen minutes. She grows enraged. Fed up, I agree to go home.

  Stewing in disappointment, I speed along the freeway, wary of Sumiko, her stiff body radiating heat with a kimchi tang. Afraid of provoking her, I say nothing.

  I’m concentrating on the road when she screams and claws my face. My skin burns. Amid the yelling and shoving, the wheel is knocked. The car shoots off the freeway – my body braces – and bumps over the desert. I pump the brakes. Expecting a rollover, I lock my arms, grit my teeth, push my back against the seat. The car spins out of control across the Mojave, kicking up plumes of sand like a dust devil. My head whirls as if I’m on a Waltzer ride. Time stretches, each second unfolding with a chance of death. When the spinning slows, relief creeps in. The car skids past a boulder and stops short of a tree that looks half cactus. My body goes limp.

  ‘What the fuck! You almost got us killed!’

  Sumiko stares like a sad animal, tears in her eyes. My anger softens. I blame myself for taking her to a nightclub.

  After that, every few weeks she explodes in the house. She throws things around and smashes plates. Young, naive, I don’t know how to handle her. Remembering how Ecstasy melted my stress away, I crave that feeling.

  I tell Matt, ‘Sumiko’s going to Japan soon. I’ve gone so long without raving, I’m starting to hear wolves howling for me to come out and party.’

  On the Saturday Sumiko leaves, Matt drives us to Phoenix’s run-down warehouse district.

  ‘Got any change?’ asks a hobo.

  ‘Here’s a dollar,’ I say. ‘Don’t spend it on drugs.’

  We walk past the Madison Street jail, a tall, bleak building with tiny bulletproof windows. The music leaking from the Silver Dollar Club tingles the skin on my forearms, bringing something inside of me alive. We pay and enter a large, dark room packed with people dancing. When the house music slows down, hundreds of arms shoot up.

  I laugh at a large face projected onto a wall: a camp old man in Goth make-up. He peeps at me, grins and stares ahead as if nothing happened.

  ‘Did you see that?’ I say, hoping the face peeps again.

  ‘What?’ Matt asks.

  ‘That face just looked at me and smiled.’

  ‘Did you take drugs already and not tell me?’

  ‘I wish. Let’s get some Ecstasy, shall we?’ I say.

  ‘I’ll ask around.’

  ‘I like it. It’s like an English club only much smaller. Maybe there’s hope for raves in Phoenix after all. I’ll be right back. I’ve got to take a piss.’ I leave Matt at the bar. In the stall I try to enter, two muscle boys in wife-beaters are having sex.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say.

  ‘Join us or get out. Either way, close the goddam door!’ one says.

  The next stall is empty. All done, I find Matt chatting to a bull of a Mexican American dressed in black with a steel nose-ring.

  ‘This is Moo,’ Matt says.

  ‘Hello, Moo,’ I say.

  ‘Hi,’ Moo says in a high-pitched whisper.

  ‘Moo’s got X,’ Matt says.

  ‘How much for?’ I ask, excited.

  ‘Twenty-five,’ Matt says.

  ‘I’ll take one,’ I say.

  ‘Two,’ Matt says.

  ‘Fifty dollars first,’ Moo says in the voice of a little girl. Moo does the deal and leaves. Familiar with the taste of Ecstasy, I chew it.

  ‘Why’re you chewing it?’ Matt asks.

  ‘So I know if it’s bunk or not.’

  ‘It’s gotta taste gross! If they’re bunk, I’ll beat that Moo’s ass.’

  ‘No, it’s good. It tastes right. We’ll be off our heads here soon. Me before you, because it hits you faster when you chew it.’

  ‘Now you tell me! Gee, thanks!’

  We hover around the bar, waiting for our highs to arrive. It takes thirty minutes for my knees to buckle. I lean against Matt.

  ‘Y’all right?’ Matt asks.

  ‘Never felt better.’ The sides of my head tingle, warmth inches in. It sweeps across my face, the nape of my neck and creeps down my spine. My diaphragm and chest move in harmony as my breathing slows down. Each exhalation releases more tension. I grow hot but relaxed. ‘It’s great … that we met,’ I say, my eyeballs flickering upwards. ‘I would never have had the balls to steal those Kruger accounts without you.’

  ‘At the rate we’re opening new accounts, we’ll be millionaires in a few years.’

  ‘Isn’t it great?’ I say.

  ‘Fucking A!’

  We high-five.

  ‘Five years from now, we’ll be at Merrill Lynch, living in mansions in Paradise Valley.’

  ‘Driving BMWs and badass Japanese sports c
ars,’ Matt says.

  ‘Taking holidays all over the world.’

  We laugh.

  ‘You know what else I’m going to do when I have the money?’ I ask.

  ‘Move to Utah, convert to Mormonism and have ten wives,’ Matt says.

  ‘No, silly. I’m going to throw proper raves in Arizona so people can experience how I felt when I started raving.’

  ‘It’s all country and western and metal and rap out here. There’s not enough interest.’

  ‘By the time we’re rich, it’ll be more popular. I’ll figure it out. Raves for thousands of people, not a few hundred like this.’

  ‘Raves would be awesome out in the desert.’

  ‘I’m getting … like … a rush of energy,’ I say. ‘Ready to dance?’

  ‘Hell, yeah!’

  The dancers on a raised area pull us up. Inhibitions gone, I move effortlessly to the music. I close my eyes and let the music move me. I seem to float. Rush after rush sweeps my body like electricity.

  Are you ready? goes the song. Jump everybody jump everybody jump …

  We leap from platform to platform. When DJ Sandra Collins plays The Prodigy’s ‘Charly’, I close my eyes and imagine I’m at an English rave. We dance our way to the front of the main stage, dripping sweat, hands in the air, eyeballs rolling towards heaven, hugging the strangers around us, grinning at the throng of freaks below. I feel right at home.

  Chapter 8

  ‘I’ve got an idea that might get us investors that doesn’t involve cold-calling,’ I say to Matt one evening, exhausted from dialling more than 500 numbers.

  ‘What?’ Matt says, hanging up the phone.

  ‘Dumpster diving,’ I say.

  ‘Dumpster diving!’ Matt frowns. ‘You’re crazy.’

  ‘Have you ever thought how much client info there must be in the trash brokerages throw away?’

  ‘No,’ Matt says.

  ‘Watch this.’ I stick my hand in a garbage can, pull out a pile of paperwork and wave it at Matt. ‘Imagine if our competitors got their hands on this. Names. Addresses. Telephone numbers.’