The Job Pirate Page 15

  Vegas? Oh yeah, I was good. Real good.

  I picked up that extremely long limo from a parking garage in Beverly Hills and cautiously drove it up and down every concrete floor a number of times before feeling confident enough to take it on the open road. Once at the hotel, it wasn’t difficult to spot The Woo-Ting Clan—I grew concerned about that on the drive over; the only things I had really known about them were A) they were black, B) they wore lots of camouflage clothing, and C) they would be in a posse. And that’s kind of what emerged from the hotel lobby, in a surrealist sort of way. Four gangsta-looking guys in fluorescent orange and pink camouflage outfits pulled their suitcases to the valet entrance, each wearing a neck full of jewelry and a big yellow pair of goggles over their eyes. They looked like cartoon hunters off for a big-game weekend in Oz. Or an underwater welding team in the Ocean of Day-Glo.

  They rolled their suitcases to the limo and let me toss them in the trunk while they watched, then they stood by the closed back door until I opened it for them. Then they all shared a good long laugh at the concept of a white man having to open the door for black men.

  “It’s like Driving Miss Daisy and shit!” one of them remarked.

  Another, already sitting inside, shouted out, “More like Driving Miss Cracka!”

  I really wanted to lean into the back of that limousine and explain that it was Miss Daisy who was being driven—that they were the Miss Daisy, or the Miss Cracka, in this equation—but I did not. I let them have their fun; their people had waited a few hundred years for it, so I gave it to them. But the fourth and last Woo-Ting Clan member, the one they called Ol’ Dirty Prick, paused before getting into the limo, and he turned back and looked at me holding open the door for him. He cocked his head to the side and examined my face with his bulbous yellow eyes.

  “You look like … who is that?” he tapped his lip and asked me. “That motherfuckin’ actor … you look like … like …”

  With my hair slicked back, like it was then, I sometimes resembled a malnourished Nicolas Cage, according to a few ladyfriends. We shared the same widow’s peak and nose, I think it was. I wasn’t sure but I had heard it more than a few times in the past. So that’s what I presumed Ol’ Dirty Prick was getting at, that I looked like Nic Cage.

  I was just about to end his guessing charade when he beat me to the punch, but his answer was quite different from the one I was expecting. “Oh man, this motherfucker look like Judge Reinhold! That motherfucker from Beverly Hills Cop and shit. The dork from um … Fast Times at Ridgemont High, man! Just like him!”

  He finally took his seat in the back and I closed the door. Judge Reinhold? Was he serious? Not to discredit Judge Reinhold as an actor in any way, but he was not the coolest nor the most attractive man working in Hollywood. And he really was, like Ol’ Dirty Prick pointed out, a dork. Goofy even comes to mind. Was he right, or did all us Germanic white guys look alike to a man of color? Or was he just trying to insult me, like me telling him that he resembled a Gary Coleman of regular height? I wasn’t sure which way to take the Judge Reinhold comment but, regardless, that Ol’ Dirty Prick really knew his ‘80s movies.

  They were a rowdy bunch as we pulled onto the freeway for our five-hour drive ahead, and they proceeded to blast songs from their new album in the back after raising the bass as high as it would go. They all lit cigarettes at the same time, so I surreptitiously lit my own and kept it down by my thigh and out of sight. The limo soon filled with a putrid, chemical-smelling smoke, which was exacerbated by the fact that none of them lowered any windows. The acrid smelling cloud wasn’t pot—I was very familiar with the way pot smelled and could even distinguish California strains from Canada’s through scent alone. It wasn’t anything in the cocaine family—that smell you never forgot. It definitely wasn’t an opiate. Were they smoking methamphetamines, maybe? Foreign cigarettes? Were the leather seats burning? Whatever it was, it was making me as high as a kite and quite nauseous. Before I could poke my head through the partition to inquire what the smell was, somebody else back there beat me to it.

  “It’s fucking formaldehyde, man!” the one they called Ghost Boy shouted. “You dip a cigarette into that shit, let it dry, and it’ll fuck you up, dog. Fucking formaldehyde …”

  “That shit is what they put in corpses, man!” angrily replied the member whose name I think was R.I.P. “What the fuck? You’re gonna kill us!”

  “I know, bro …” Ghost Boy slurred with a long toothy smile. “But you’re high, though. Shit’s heavy, man. I got a whole jug of this shit at my place.”

  Fuck that noise. I pushed a little button on the dashboard and the black partition rose between the driver’s compartment and the cabin, and I quickly lowered the windows up front so I could breathe. There were no complaints from the Clan about the divider now up between us, so I found a station that played BBC news and sipped from my thermos of coffee and smoked cigarettes all the way to Sin City in my own isolated cockpit.

  Once at the Las Vegas Convention Center, I followed the line of limos through the semifilled parking lot to the front doors, where a handful of photographers and cameramen stood beside a dozen big security guards in headsets. Again, I jumped out, ran around to the other side of the limo and opened the back door—like a good Miss Cracka—and received a faceful of blinding camera flashes once the Clan stepped onto the curb. Before they could disappear into the throng of photographers, fans, and journalists, I grabbed the last one—Ol’ Dirty Prick, I think it was—by the arm and asked, “So, what time should I pick you up?”

  “I don’t know, man!” he yanked his arm away and shouted. “Wait your Judge Reinhold ass over there with all the other limos!” He pointed to a long stretch of desert road just beyond the enormous parking lot, where forty or so other limos sat parked in a perfect line.

  “Do you want to just call me when you’re finished?” I asked. “I have a phone with me.”

  “I’m performing on stage, motherfucker!” he shouted back. “I don’t do shit like call the limo man! Just look for us!”

  “What about someone from your posse? Could they call me when you guys are done?” I attempted, but he had already started answering questions from some TV entertainment show host.

  Another limo pulled up behind me and honked, and I looked over to find three more limos waiting behind that one. So I jumped back inside and drove across the parking lot to the barren lane of limos and took my spot at the very end, exactly forty-three limousine lengths from the middle of nowhere. I stepped outside and tried to assess how far I was from where I had just dropped them off, but it was too far to make out anything but the occasional camera flash. There was no way I would be able to see them coming out. Ol’ Dirty Prick had it wrong. I debated the dilemma and came to the conclusion that I should just follow the herd. Once the show ended, all the celebrities would probably pour out together, and then all of the limos would leave in one long mass exodus to pick each one up. Just a nice game of follow-the-leader. It sounded logical enough for the time being.

  One topic they never went over in the Limo Driver’s Field Manual was what to do if you had to go to the bathroom. It was at least a mile walk back to the convention center, which was out of the question wearing a black suit in that desert heat. There were no fast-food restaurants in sight; no hotels, no casinos anywhere. I even lowered my urination standards, but trying to take an outdoor leak in Las Vegas proved nearly impossible: There were no trees in a desert, no secluded alleyways, and no trash bins anywhere—just sand and limousines as far as the eye could see. I considered the old “open the trunk and pretend to look for something but really be pissing near the bumper” trick, but three limos had parked behind me and three pairs of mirrored sunglasses were now watching me from behind three windshields. I felt like Morpheus about to get thumped by a handful of rogue Agent Smiths.

  I couldn’t wait any longer. My stomach and groin were aching from an enlarged bladder, and I could feel the early trickles of pee dampening the
front of my underwear. I only had one option left: pee in the limo. Not knowing proper limo driver protocol, I lowered the partition and crawled through to the cabin and looked around for any large cups or beer bottles lying around, but the Clan apparently weren’t big drinkers. The only thing remotely close were the three lowball glasses anchored into a minibar by a bottle of scotch. That would not suffice; I would have to improvise. I got onto my knees and cracked open the back door about three inches, then, after making certain that every window surrounding me was tinted, I unzipped, aimed, and tinkled through the narrow opening. Aside from a desert breeze shutting the door midstream, the operation was a success. I used Ghost Boy’s pink camouflage sweater to dry off the door then tossed it onto the floor by some candy wrappers. Judge Reinhold that, fucker!

  I had never before been in the back of a limousine and, whether it was the sudden peaceful feeling of a deflated bladder or the residue in the air of the formaldehyde cigarettes, I melted into the soft leather sofa-like seat and felt a sense of tranquility that I hadn’t felt in years. I glanced through the tinted windows at all of the shuffling chauffeurs in black suits making small talk with one another outside, or cleaning their windows free from bugs and sand, or sipping coffee and talking on cell phones from their bumpers. Then I looked around inside the cabin of my limo. I had seclusion, I had privacy, I had a minibar, I had a leather sofa-like seat, and I had a television imbedded into the wall. This was living, I concluded. To hell with your small talk, limo drivers. Sing your chin music to one another and share your stories of celebrities and freeway traffic, because this particular chauffeur was going to relax, watch some TV, and have a well-earned drink.

  I caught the last half of Jaws only to find Jaws II next on the roster of whatever station this little antennae TV picked up, so I poured another scotch in honor of Chief Brody returning to the waters of Amity. At just about the same time the first teenager was pulled underwater, a handful of limos left our herd to return to the convention center. So I poured the rest of my scotch out the back door, crawled back into the driver’s seat, and followed them in. The crowd of bystanders and cameramen had doubled in size at the front doors of the convention center, and I slowly and very carefully drove through the horde trying to catch a glimpse of orange and pink camouflage. But they were nowhere to be found, so I drove back through the enormous parking lot and returned to my original spot among the line of parked limos on the lonely street of servitude. I crawled back into the cabin, poured another small scotch, and resumed my spot on the sofa-like seat with Jaws II. Chief Brody eventually killed the big shark for the second time, signaling that it had been about three hours and change since the fashion show had started. Another succession of limos then pulled out of the line and returned to the convention center. I checked my watch to find that 40 minutes had passed since my first attempt, so I crawled back into the front and followed the last limo back to the crowd at the entrance. But, just like the first attempt, no Woo-Ting Clan waiting for me. So I sped off back to Limo Boulevard and took a vacated spot about twenty feet from the front. I stayed behind the steering wheel this time because limousines were beginning to break from formation every minute or two, and I knew the show would soon be ending.

  By the time I finished another cigarette, two-thirds of my black-suited people had fled our road—a mere twelve or thirteen limos were all that was left of us. Cars were also beginning to exit the parking lot in boulevard-long lines, and pedestrians soon filled the streets around us—the fashion show had surely ended by that point. Three more limos turned on their headlights and drove to the convention center, so I started up my stretch and followed them back to the entrance. Most of the photographers and camera crews had already left because the majority of celebrities had gone, so I had a perfect view of the entryway as I pulled up. And yet again, no Woo-Ting Clan anywhere in sight. I idled there for a few minutes hoping they would emerge, but two drunks walked by and threw some type of food at my limo, so I sped off back to Limo Road to find it completely empty of all limousines. But I parked there anyway.

  It was 1:00 in the morning when I smoked my last cigarette of the pack. I drove around until finding a liquor store, bought two packs of Camels, beef jerky, and some candy bars for dinner, and returned to the parking lot minutes later. Most of the cars had left. Almost all of the overhead lights had been turned off, and the only signs of life were a few straggling audience members and a lone security guard waving a flashlight toward the last available exit.

  I was convinced that I had missed the Clan; that they had somehow not seen me when they left and took a taxi to the hotel. If that was the case, though, I figured Marv would have called to chew my ass off by now. So I waited again, but this time parked right at the front doors of the convention center. If they were still in there, they would have to run right into me. There was no way I could miss them now. I checked my watch to find it nearly 2:00 a.m., almost 10 hours since I’d had anything but 35 cigarettes and a candy bar in my stomach. Just as my eyes fluttered closed for a little malnourished nap, the back door sprang open and the cabin suddenly filled with a dozen loud, laughing people. I was startled awake and couldn’t make out who was back there—some drunks, the wrong band, a gang—but then I heard someone shout, “Hotel, motherfucker!” and I knew my boys were back safely inside.

  I dropped them off at the lobby of Caesar’s Palace, parked the limo, and checked in to my room. I love hotel rooms. I love the freshness of them; I love the crisp, laundered sheets; I love the free HBO and Showtime; I love the pens and polite tablets with hotel logos, and I love taking them. I love the little individual bottles of shampoo and conditioner and the strong jets in the shower. I love the deep silence of a hotel room; I love putting the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the front door and resting assured that I would not be disturbed. I love everything a hotel room has to offer, and the only way I could love it any more was if someone else was paying for it, like this one.

  It wasn’t more than 10 minutes after brushing my teeth and settling into bed with my HBO when I heard a knock at the door. I sat upright in bed but didn’t move beyond that. Who would dare knock on the door of a hotel resident with a DO NOT DISTURB sign clearly posted? It was well after 3:00 in the morning and, even for Las Vegas, that was pretty damn late. Perhaps it was a mistake? Maybe some drunk mistook my door for where the party was? Well, give it a second … quiet again … might be safe now to recline back into bed and fall—knock, knock, knock, knock. BAM, BAM, BAM.

  I jumped out of bed and opened the door to find two of the Woo-Ting members swaying alongside two promiscuous-looking women wearing silver dresses that hugged every ripple and curve of their unflattering bodies like sausage lining.

  “What’s the deal?” I said after partially closing the door to conceal the briefs that I thought were boxers.

  “Hey, Reinhold, can we …?” Ol’ Dirty Prick raised a thick brown joint at me.

  “There’s forty motherfuckers in our room right now,” R.I.P. added. “And we just wanted to smoke a little with these fine ladies somewhere chill for five minutes.”

  “You mean here? It’s not that shit from the limo, is it?” I asked.

  “No, no, this shit’s chronic, man.” Ol’ Dirty Prick ran the joint under his nose and smiled. “We’ll just chill here for a sec, man. It’ll be cool.”

  He had already angled himself past the door by the time he finished what he was saying, so I opened it all the way and went into the bathroom to put on pants and a shirt. When I came back out, all four were lying on my bed and watching the Bruce Willis movie that I had put on, so I sat down in the chair by the window. I watched the joint pass between them several times before Ol’ Dirty Prick finally noticed me sitting just a few feet across from them. I hoped he was finally going to pass it my way, but the scowl should have been a good indicator that he wouldn’t be.

  “What the fuck?” he shouted. “Why are you still here? You said we could have your room!”

  “I said you could sm
oke that joint in my room,” I corrected him.

  “Naw, naw, naw, naw! We’re paying for this shit!” he shouted again. “This here is my room now!”

  “No, it’s actually not.” I corrected him again. “Music TV is paying for this room—for my room—as well as for my limo service. You really didn’t pay for a damn thing here.”

  “You even act like Reinhold … all whiny and shit!” Ol’ Dirty Prick said before leaning back against the headrest of my bed, showing no signs of leaving any time soon.

  “Hey, let’s all just be cool, alright?” R.I.P. said after running his hand up the back of the bare leg of the lady lying beside him. “We’re just having some fun here.”

  They proceeded to spend the next 20 minutes smoking that joint without once passing it to me. I puffed away at a cigarette and pretended to be engrossed by this latest Die Hard sequel on the TV while they lounged on my comfortable bed and did the same. Then Ol’ Dirty Prick finally snubbed out the end of the joint on the wooden bedside drawer, and Bruce Willis finally got the bad guy. But the two lovely couples wrapping themselves in my blankets made no attempt at leaving either my room or my bed. Fuckers even had their heads on my pillows.

  It was officially 4:00 in the morning, and I refused to take any more of this. I was off the clock, and these momentary celebrities were now just robbing an honest hardworking man of a good night of sleep. The women were beginning to doze off and the guys looked as if that was their plan, so I stood up and clapped my hands twice, which was something that always worked on me when I was a kid.

  “Alright, time for you guys to go now,” I exclaimed.

  All four ignored me so I shook Ol’ Dirty Prick’s shoulder and said it again. He violently pushed my hand away and shouted, “Don’t you ever fucking touch me again!”

  I was exhausted and angry and hungry and I wanted nothing more than to punch him square in the face, but I knew that that would probably be the only punch I landed, and the remaining punches would all be showered upon me. So I leaned down closer to the bed, just a few inches from his face, and calmly said, “Get out of my bed. And then get out of my room. I want to go to sleep.”