Authors: Ray Banks
Egg noodles, sesame chicken, special fried rice. A spring roll that I took one bite out of, noticed black strings under the batter, and thought better of it. The rest of the food has been sitting here so long it's congealed into a greasy lump. In the meantime, cabaret is provided by the staff at Canton Cuisine. There's a tiny old lady perched on a stool, haranguing the two guys on the counter. I don't know Mandarin or Chinese or whatever, but I do know when someone's getting bawled out. The taller guy looked like he was going to say something at one point, but it stuck in his throat.
Good for you. Keep your dignity.
I take a swig from the beer. It's cold enough not to taste of anything. Across from me, Liam's picking at the salad he brought with him, his nose still in that notebook. He didn't trust the airline food, been eating out of Tupperware ever since we left Manchester. The plane meals were chock full of preservatives, he'd said. Might as well eat the seats.
“What're you reading?” I say, stifling a belch.
He looks up. “Book.”
“Yeah, I know that. What's in it?”
“Stuff,” he says.
“And what's in the box?”
“Carrot sticks.”
“Fantastic. Just what every growing boy needs.”
“You taking the piss?”
“I'm serious. You need your greens. Or oranges.”
“You dehydrate on the plane,” he says by way of explanation.
“And what's the wet bog roll for? Dessert?”
“Kitchen towel. Put it in there to stop the carrot drying out.”
“You're a bright lad.”
He puts the book down. “When's our flight leave, Cal?”
I check my watch. “Boards in about an hour.”
“I have to sit with you for another hour?”
“Another eight hours, Liam. Fuck's sake, son, how're you going to handle it?”
Liam doesn't say anything, goes back to his book.
“You finish your carrot sticks and have a wander about if you want to. Go shadow box or something. I'm not bothered. Just don't get lost.”
Liam bites into a stick, then gestures towards my plate. “You gonna eat that?”
“Nope. Thought I might leave it, see what it turns into.” I stifle another belch.
“It stinks.”
“And I ate on the plane, didn't I?”
“No wonder you've got wind.”
“Tell you what, how about we stop talking? 'Cause I don't need you pecking my head right now.”
No, what I need right now is a bed, a bottle of duty free and a quiet place to smoke. That sounds like heaven and I hope this spell in purgatory gets me there. The flight was hell so I deserve to work my way up to something.
We were packed in like veal. Liam took the window seat and promptly fell asleep, the B.A. Baracus school of travel. I was wedged in the middle, elbow-to-elbow with a guy who stank of airport soap, had a two-day growth on sagging cheeks and looked like he was about to get stuck into some heavy-duty perspiration. Which he did as soon as we took off.
I spent most of the flight trying to avoid conversation with him. The bloke wore the uniform of the transatlantic businessman: the crumpled suit trousers, striped shirt and tie. He carried expensive-looking hand luggage. Looked like the kind of guy who said, “I eat fellas like you for brunch.” So I watched a kid's film with only one side of the headphones working until they brought the meals.
That was when he thought it was a great time for a chat.
“Your first time?”
I wanted to tell him to fuck off, but my mam brought me up better. “What makes you say that?”
He pointed at my lap with a greasy fork, dwarfed in his fat hand. “Four hours in and you've still got your seatbelt on, I'd say it was your first time.”
I looked at Liam; he was still fast asleep. I unbuckled. “I'm not a good traveller.”
“You don’t say. You left dents on the armrest.”
“Well, I don't fly much.”
“Yeah, it's your first time. I fly all the time.”
“Good for you.”
“Part of my job.” He paused, waiting for me to ask what he did for a living. I didn't. “Doesn't get any easier, though.”
“I can imagine.”
He shoved a forkful of mashed-up chicken into the open wound he called a mouth. Acted all delicate by dabbing the corner of his mouth with a napkin, then ruined the effect by talking through his food.
“Your friend isn't eating?” he said.
“Nah, he doesn't eat anything that doesn't come out of Tupperware.”
“He seems pretty easy with travelling.”
“He's easy with everything.”
“Look, I've got something that might help if you're interested.”
“Really.”
The businessman eased himself onto one buttock, fumbled around in his trouser pocket so long I thought he was indulging in a Barclays. Yeah, that was a real stress-reliever, but it'd probably get me chucked off the plane. I was about to ping for the flight attendant when he sat back down with a thump, showed me a wee tin.
“Nah, y'alright, mate. I got gum.”
He set his fork down, popped the lid on the tin and shook a scattering of tiny pills. “They're not mints.”
“What are they then?”
“Betablockers.”
“Okay.” Like I knew what betablockers were.
“You're wound up, they'll unwind you. Go on, take a couple.”
I pinched two of the pills, washed them down with a swig of Coke and sat there, waiting for something to happen. “So what do they do? Knock me out or something?”
“No, just take the edge off. Stop your nerves from fraying. I take 'em all the time.”
“They legal?”
“If you've got a heart condition, yeah.” He nabbed a couple of pills with his chubby fingers, placed them at the back of his tongue, swallowed some water.
“D'you have a heart condition?”
“If you don't calm down, I might have by the end of this flight.”
It wasn't my fault. Liam had fallen asleep with the blind up on his window. I didn't want to wake him up by leaning over him, so every time I glanced his way I saw the wing of the plane in my peripheral vision. And it was shaking, almost bending. I had premonitions of it snapping off mid-flight. I had visions of John Lithgow going mental, screaming about a gremlin and William Shatner would be in the back, nodding in recognition.
“You'll know,” I said. “Is the wing supposed to do that?”
“Yeah. Don't worry about it.”
Don't worry about it. Famous last words if ever I heard them. I wondered if I'd have to end up eating him when we crashed or whether I'd be dead on impact. Then I checked around for the emergency exits.
I don't know if the betablockers worked. I didn't feel any calmer. When the trolley dolly took away our trays, I made a point of throwing away a stack of dollars on half a dozen overpriced drinks. The businessman joined me, vodka and tonics, a couple of Michelobs. Then I took some of my prescription, settled into a snooze that was punctuated by nightmares of DVT and sudden turbulence.
It didn't ease up when we touched down, either. There was Liam, fresh as a fucking daisy, and me doing the ragged refugee waltz, looking like I'd just dropped from the undercarriage. I got stopped at immigration by a woman whose bosom looked like a couple of Rottweiler puppies sleeping on her lap. She chewed gum, very American, and she didn't give a shit. It's always easy not to give a shit when you've got a gun strapped to your hip. I gave her a smile along with my passport.
“How long are you staying, Mr Innes?”
“A week. I think. As long as it takes, I suppose.” I was busy watching Liam sail through immigration, wondered what he'd done for it to be that easy. And Christ, was his officer
smiling
at him?
“Mr Innes?”
“Hello,” I said. “Sorry.”
“Mr Innes, the United States isn't big on
supposing
. You have up to thirty days. Any longer than that, you'll have to apply for an extended visa, do I make myself clear?”
I did my Tom Cruise, complete with forehead vein. “Crystal.”
“What?”
She didn't get it. And then I saw her name tag.
Crystal.
Jesus.
Telling the story to Liam now, I get the same look she gave me.
“I don't get it,” he says.
“
A Few Good Men
.”
“Eh?”
“Doesn't matter.”
And Paulo said this lad had it together. What a fucking joke.
When we hit LAX, I have to go through the prerequisite blood-urine-DNA test in order to get a canary yellow lawnmower. There are economy rental cars, and then there's the Geo Metro.
“This the best you could get?” says Liam.
“It's what we can afford. You got some spare cash floating about, I'll upgrade us to a Reliant Robin.” I grab his bag and stuff it into the back seat with mine. My bag's a little heavier now I've visited the duty free shop. Liam's been whinging about that detour, put a face on, but he can get to fuck. My holiday, I'll smoke and drink as much as I want.
Liam gets into the car and I slam the door shut for him as I pass. It bounces open again. “Fuck's sake.”
“Here, I've got it,” says Liam. He pulls the door shut. Looks at it, pushes it. Seems sturdy enough considering it's about as thick as Bacofoil.
“Good lad.” I get into the car. “But you might want to buckle up. I don't want you falling out.”
“I'm not going to fall out.”
“Buckle up. I'm not explaining to Paulo how you ended up as fuckin' roadkill.” I make a mental note to call the rental place from the hotel, let them know the car's not up to snuff. I'll be buggered if I pay extra for a shoddy door.
Turn the key in the ignition and the whole car shakes, a high whine coming from the engine.
“Oh, nice,” says Liam. “Sweet ride. All you need's the furry dice.”
“Shut up.”
The directions to the Ramada Inn are right on the money, which makes up for the fact that I've never driven an automatic before and this country has some suspicious roads. It all seems too easy, too laid out. No roundabouts, no real curves in the road. Like motorway driving, except I'm doing it everywhere. When we finally get parked up and walk into the hotel reception, all that easy driving's calmed me down. I don't even mind that I look shabby as hell compared to the surroundings. There's a bloke behind the reception desk who makes me feel as if he's been waiting for us.
“We have reservations,” I say. “Innes and Wooley.”
The receptionist taps at a computer keyboard and smiles at us. “Two non-smoking.”
Liam nods.
“Sorry,” I say. “Non-smoking?”
“Yes.” The receptionists catches my tone, frowns for a second as he checks the reservations again. “Two non-smoking queens.”
“You what?” Now it's Liam's turn to get riled up. You want to annoy a scally, intimate he's gay.
“Queen-sized beds, Liam,” I say. Then back to the receptionist. I lean on the desk, give him my friendliest smile. “I'm a smoker. Any chance of changing the room?”
“Uh, let me just see, sir.”
There's a long silence, punctuated by the tap of keys. Liam stands there looking sullen. Then: “I'm sorry, sir. All our smoking rooms are occupied at present.”
“Come twenty hours on a plane, Cal. Fuck difference does it make if you don't have a smoking room?”
I don't look at him. “It makes a difference, Liam, because I'm a smoker. I bought a load of Marlboros at LAX and being a smoker, I'm looking forward to smoking them. They didn't let me smoke in the fuckin' airport, they don't let me smoke in the fuckin' rental car and now they're not going to let me smoke in the fuckin' hotel room. So, yeah, you could say it makes a difference, because I haven't had a cigarette in twenty hours which is almost a fuckin' day. And watch your language, son. We're ambassadors for our country.”
I smile at the receptionist. He says, “I can let you know when one of the smoking rooms becomes available.”
“That'd be lovely,” I say, grabbing our room keys.
“I'll get you a bellboy.”
“That won't be necessary.”
Liam and I pick up our bags and head to the lift. I check the number on my room key and press the button.
“You want to treat people with a bit more respect,” says Liam.
“Yeah, right. You were all ready to kick off when you thought he was calling you queer.”
“I knew what he meant.”
“Course you did, slugger.”
“Don't call us that.”
“What's the matter, punchy?”
“Paulo never told us you were an arsehole.”
I watch the numbers flick by. “He's never seen me jonesing, Liam.”
“Yeah, but jonesing for what?”
“Fuck's that supposed to mean?”
The lift doors open. Liam snatches his key from my hand and stalks off up the corridor.
“I said, fuck's that supposed to mean, Liam?”
But he's already slammed his door.
I step out of the lift, my gut twisting. Then I head to my room. Lad's got some issues, that's about right. Play them off like he's sorted upstairs, but he's still got some glitch. What else do I expect from a kid who used to beat up pensioners for pocket money?
My room's decent enough. Nothing swish, but it'll do. A balcony, television, nice big bed and I'm sure if I hunt about for a while, I'll find a well-stocked mini bar. I dump my bag on the bed and check out the ensuite. It's pristine, absolutely spotless. When I turn on the light, a fan whirrs somewhere in the ceiling. I wonder how long I can go without using the toilet, because this is just sickeningly clean. British hotel bathrooms are clean too, but they're never
this
clean. Like the staff are whispering in your ear at check-in: “We appreciate you're a guest and all, but don't go thinking we're your slaves, alright?”
I check the toilet. It's gleaming. But it looks blocked, judging by the amount of water in the bowl. I might have to call someone about that if it becomes a problem.
Back in the bedroom, I unpack the duty free. Stick the Marlboros on the writing table and glare at them. I crack open the litre bottle of Smirnoff Black and look around for a glass. There's a couple of tumblers in the bathroom. I pour myself a hefty measure. It stings going down, but the warmth catches up and overtakes.
Drinking in LA. Ah, Mam, if you could see how far your little boy's come.
Course, the trouble with drinking is that it makes me want to smoke. I tear open the carton of Marlboros, slip a pack into my jacket pocket and down the rest of the vodka.