Our next encounter was with a bachelorette party from—I think—Atlanta. We joined them at their table and were soon helping them work through a second bottle of vodka—which is about the time things started to come apart a bit at the seams. Fortunately I had my digital
camera with me ensuring that I was later able to piece together more of the night’s events. It seems at one point I got to wear the bride-to-be’s veil. Always the bridesmaid.
The next morning’s hangover was painful; the kind that makes one crave a full English breakfast. You Americans try, bless you, but you just can’t get bacon right. You have a thing you
call
bacon, but really it’s just thick strips of fat with a faint pink outline that may or may not have once been part of a pig. I settled instead for a pile of pancakes and a Bloody Mary.
“What time did we get back last night?” I asked, hoping Michael wouldn’t remember either. Some knowns are better left unknown.
“About four, I think, whatever time Eye Candy closed.”
“Eye Candy?”
“Some hotel bar or other; I found the receipt in my wallet. Do you remember the strip club?”
“No, Michael, I do not remember the strip club. When did we decide to go to a strip club?”
“
We
didn’t. You told the cab driver to take us somewhere fun. I wanted to play blackjack back at the Hard Rock—win some of my money back—but you insisted he take us somewhere where there’d be hot girls.”
“So he took us to a strip club?”
“You really don’t remember? Jesus, that was only about two, I think. We got in and they said they couldn’t serve alcohol as it was a fully nude club or something. So you ordered two Red Bulls for $20 each and then we had to run away after they tried to force us into a $400 private show.”
“Interesting,” I said, “all I know is that this morning I had a text message on my phone from a 404 area code—which is Atlanta, apparently. See what you make of it …”
I handed Michael my phone, and he read the message out loud:
“ ‘@ airport flight in half hour u coming …’ Do they not have punctuation in Atlanta? Wait—was this girl—I assume it was a girl—waiting for you at Atlanta airport or here?”
“I have no idea.”
“Ha!” said Michael, “404. Memory of last night not found.”
I didn’t have the energy to laugh at Michael’s geek joke.
22
Nor could I muster much enthusiasm when he started talking about his amazing room at THEhotel with its spa bath, home cinema TV and near-panoramic view over the city.
“You lucky bastard. Are you expensing it?”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Michael replied, looking almost offended.
“Anyway, it’s only a hundred bucks a night. Booked it online. Vegas rooms are stupid-cheap during the week at this time of year.”
A hundred dollars. Exactly on my accommodation budget—another sign, surely—and I could really, really use a spa bath right now. I’d just have to figure out some other way to offset the cost of the flights.
By the time Michael had finished drinking his coffee and flirting with the waitress, I’d booked the room using my BlackBerry.
304
After breakfast, I checked into my new room, tested out the spa bath and then slept for the rest of the day while Michael—who obviously hadn’t been nearly as drunk as me the previous night—headed off to play in, and eventually win, a poker tournament in the hotel’s casino.
The prize money wasn’t much—$500 or so—but it was enough that he’d promised to buy dinner, seeing as I’d bought the $20 strip-club Red Bulls.
We arranged to meet in the lobby of THEhotel at seven. Michael
was still giddy after his win so we decided to walk about a bit to see what our food options were: Michael had heard there was a good Wolfgang Puck close by. In Vegas, you’re never more than twenty feet from a Wolfgang Puck.
As we walked, Michael started to pitch an idea he’d had between poker games. Rather than him flying to his meeting in LA, me heading back to New York and Michelle going back to London, how did I feel about the idea of the three of us renting a car and driving across the desert from Vegas to Los Angeles? He had a meeting in LA, but apart from that we could just hang out—see some sights, meet some nice local girls before finally driving down the coast to San Diego for ETech, the annual West Coast technology conference that was happening the following week.
I had to admit, it was a good plan. A bit too good in fact—I suspected Michael might have been working on it since before we’d arrived in town. But no, I’d had my fun; I had to get back to my planned travel.
“It sounds like a great plan, it really does, but I really do have to head back to New York. I’ve had enough craziness these past few days.”
Michael wasn’t letting it go, though. “Who said anything about craziness? I have serious work to do when I get to LA. I’ve just always wanted to drive through the desert in a convertible. It’ll be like
Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas
. You know, with the bats.”
“First of all, Michael, don’t think for a second that I don’t realize you’re trying to play into my Hunter S. Thompson fantasies. Second of all, Raoul Duke and Dr. Gonzo were on their way
to
Vegas when they saw the bats. And third, as you well know, there weren’t any actual bats: they were on a shit-ton of drugs. Is that part of the road trip, too? Because I have to tell you, the last twenty-four hours in Vegas have nearly killed me, without any narcotics.”
“No, of course not, I just meant it’ll be fun. You know I’m right. I’ll even let you drive.”
He was right, of course, especially as I could probably parlay the trip into some work—convince an editor back home to pay me to write about ETech or some technology companies in LA—and cover all of my costs at a stroke.
The problem was, the way I was going I might also end up having an actual stroke. I could feel myself getting hooked on the buzz of having no responsibilities.
Whatever Michael said, a trip to LA—especially with Michelle coming too—would surely mean more drinking and partying and madness. It would also trash my already shaky-looking budget. I already had flights to recoup.
“I just want to stay on the right side of ridiculous—that’s all,” I said. “You’re good at knowing when to stop but I’m really not. I just don’t want to make the sweepstake too easy.”
“Dude, look …”
“I know what you’re going to say, Michael, but …”
“No,” said Michael, “Dude. Look.”
“Holy shit.”
Walking towards us were the three most beautiful women either of us had ever seen. Dressed head to toe in black—knee-length black skirts, black shirts, black jackets—they looked like spies. Sexy female spies, with the most perfect hair you can possibly imagine. Men aren’t really supposed to notice hair—boobs, yes, butts, yes, but not hair. And yet there was something about these girls that just screamed it: LOOK AT MY HAIR.
And so we did. We looked at their perfect hair, and then we looked their perfect faces and their perfect, young—maybe twenty-two-, twenty-three-year-old—bodies, all dressed in black, as they walked towards and then past us, chattering excitedly about whatever it is that girls like that talk about.
23
“I can’t believe we didn’t say anything to them,” I said. But Michael couldn’t speak either.
“I know, but, I…I mean … did you … the hair …”
“I know.”
We carried on walking, Michael still pitching our working road trip and me still demurring on the grounds of sanity, and us both still thinking about the girls with the hair. And then, as we rounded the next corner—still no sign of the Wolfgang Puck—there they were again.
Except they weren’t the same girls. They were dressed the same—head to toe in black—and their hair was just as perfect, but this time one of them was a redhead and the other was Asian. And they kept coming. More and more of these girls, in little groups of two, or five or six. All the same; all with the perfect hair.
We finally found our courage, and our voices, just as two blonde girls—they could easily have been twins, had one not been a foot taller than the other—came into view.
“Excuse me, ladies,” said Michael, being sure to exaggerate his accent. Strategy. They giggled.
“Ohmigod, are you English?!” asked the taller girl.
“Good ear,” I said. “I’m Paul and this is Michael. We couldn’t help but notice that there were so many beautiful women in the hotel tonight. We just wondered whether you were here for some kind of convention? Do they have beautiful women conventions here?”
“Yes!” shrieked the shorter one. They both talked in exclamation marks.
“Not beautiful women conventions, I don’t mean!”—giggle—“We’re here with the Paul Mitchell Hair and Beauty School. It’s our annual conference!”
“Goodness,” said Michael, “so you’re all hairdressers?”
“Stylists!” said the taller girl. “Yes, all of us from all the schools across America. There are, like, two thousand of us!”
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
“No way!” said Michael. “What an amazing coincidence. I’m Michael, and my friend Paul and I are hair stylists, too.”
He caught himself. Two male hair stylists? Idiot. We might as well have been holding hands. Also, we do not have the hair of hair stylists.
“Well,” I jumped in, “actually our friend Robert in London is the stylist, we’re just his investors. He’s opening a new salon in Soho.”
“No way! That’s awesome—what’s it called … ?”
“British Hairways.”
305
Looking back now, I wonder how different my life would be if we’d arranged to meet for dinner slightly earlier. Or if I hadn’t moved hotels and we’d met instead at the Excalibur. Mainly, though, I wonder how my life would have been different if Michael hadn’t been so good at puns.
Had Michael not been so good at puns there’s a very good chance I’d have flown back to New York the next day as planned, picked up my train ticket and continued my travels. I’d probably have stuck studiously to my budget and, after twelve months of moving around the world from hotel to hotel, I’d have got back to London and maybe written a book: “How I spent a year living in hotels,” or some-such. One of those crazy middle-class adventure books with a very clearly defined goal that you know the “hero” is going to achieve from page one.
Maybe, had Michael not been so good at puns, when I moved into my new apartment on January 1, 2009, I’d have a girl on my arm. A fellow traveler—an American, obviously—who I’d met in a Holiday Inn in Salt Lake City and fallen in love with and decided to bring back to London to start a new life with a dog and plans to procreate.
Maybe had Michael not been so good at puns then I’d have actually met a fucking Mormon.
Michael, though,
is
good at puns. So if you picked up this book hoping for Mormons, we’re both in trouble.
306
“British Hairways.”
The girls hesitated for a second, processing Michael’s words. And then they dissolved into fits of giggles. “No way! That’s sooooo funny!” said the tall girl, turning to her friend. “Ohmigod! They have to come meet Janet—that’s our tutor—and tell her that. She’d love it.”
She stopped bouncing up and down and remembered that she still hadn’t introduced herself properly. “I’m Sandi!”
“And I’m Mandy!” said the shorter girl. I swear that’s what they said.
“No fucking way,” I said.
“What do you mean?!” said Sandi, offended.
“He means we’d love to meet your tutor,” said Michael. “What are you ladies doing later?”
307
“A toga party.” Michael put down his steak knife and shook his head.
“I know. Thousands of those girls, dressed in bed sheets. I have to say, mate, British Hairways was inspired.”
“I know. I have no idea where it came from.”
We carried on eating our dinner. We hadn’t found the Wolfgang Puck, but the steak joint we had found was fine, and anyway we had far
more important things on our mind than food. We’d briefly discussed whether to scavenge some bed sheets from the hotel to make togas, but had instead settled on fashioning some of the fake plastic ivy from the lobby of the Excalibur into makeshift laurel wreaths to wear on our heads.
That way if, as was highly likely, we didn’t make it into the toga party, we wouldn’t be stuck looking like dicks for the rest of the night.
“AUSSIE, AUSSIE, AUSSIE!” Apparently not everyone was concerned about looking like a dick. The guy standing at the bar had been shouting those same three words—over and over again—the whole time we’d been eating.
He was doing shots of some kind of clear spirit, each one punctuated with the same irritating war cry. An Australian, obviously.
We might have told him to shut up had he not been so gigantic—well over six feet tall with enormous arms and a huge barrel chest, squeezed into a skin-tight t-shirt. He was still going strong when Michael and I decided to leave and head to meet the hairdressers.
Unfortunately there was no way to get out of the restaurant without walking past the bar.
“Hey, fellas,” shouted the Australian as we tried to creep by. We ignored him and carried on walking.
“Hey, fellas!” louder this time.
Sigh. We stopped and turned around.
“You guys wanna do tequila suicides?”
I sighed—
Australians
—and started walking again, putting my laurel wreath on my head as I went. We had a toga party to get to. But Michael couldn’t help himself.
“What are tequila suicides?” he asked, genuinely curious.
I admit I was wondering the same thing but had decided it was unwise to ask.
“That’s the spirit, mate! Barman! Three tequilas, and slice up some
more lemons! What’s your name, mate?”
He grabbed Michael’s hand, crushing it on purpose. Michael smiled through the pain and introduced himself.
“Nice to meet you, Mikey, I’m Jonesy—and a tequila suicide is like this …”