‘You’re a lunatic!’
‘Yeah, but I’m here, ain’t I? And I’ve still got my job.’
‘What about your suitcase?’
‘Left it at the airport. Hopefully it didn’t cause a bomb scare or anything.’
‘You clown! Good work though, pal. I’m glad your resourcefulness got you here; it should be a good week.’
And it was. As I quickly discovered, Archie Heckingbottom-Smith the third is one in a million. I have no hesitation in saying he’s one of the most interesting, intriguing and engaging people I have ever met. He’s got a quick sense of humour, which, when paired with an expansive repertoire of quotes from movies and television shows and a consummate love for sixties music, makes for epic banter around the bar. Unfortunately, he’s an unpredictable drunk. After six or seven pints, he hits a fork in the road. Depending on his mood, he can either fire on all cylinders or crash and burn. You either get epic-banter-pick-up-artist-comedian Archie or you’re left with narcoleptic-bar-napping-sideways-drunk Archie. Both are entertaining in their own right.
In London, he played piano in a cover band that didn’t cover many piano songs – so he spent most of his stage time leaning against his piano drinking pints. He’s been an extra in a number of advertisements, TV shows and movies. He shares my love for literature and writing, and reads more than anyone I’ve ever met. For four years, he successfully lived off online poker winnings and did whatever he pleased in-between tournaments. He even participated in a poker tournament on a cruise ship in the Bahamas and bought himself a ridiculously expensive watch with the winnings. He’s the type of guy who will win $15,000 and have nothing to show for it by the week’s end. Aside from being an admitted ‘degenerate gambler’, he’s also a relentless booze hound who will shamelessly chat up any woman you point him in the direction of. He makes rash, bold, illogical decisions, and they inexplicably pay off more often than not.
Getting to know Archie, I realised he probably has a similar personality to those dysfunctional rock stars who stumble through life somehow making it better for everyone around them while barely holding their own shit together. He’s messy, sporadic, disorganised and dependent. But I love him regardless and we get along like brothers. Not surprisingly, he’s a major source of entertainment and a key contributor when it comes to epic stories from the road.
Archie’s most infamous story (and my personal favourite) took place the week before he arrived in California. He was trading his second tournament on the tour, in Washington DC with Felix. He’d worked a busy week and put in some long hours, so when Friday rolled around he jumped on an opportunity to explore the local nightlife. Felix had to work the Friday-night session, so Archie went out on a solo mission. His goal? To get drunk, hit the bars, chat to some locals and, with any luck, meet an adventurous girl to go home with.
He had no problem achieving the first part. A few beers at the hotel between showering, charging phone batteries and checking the next day’s work schedule were the standard modus operandi. Then he called a cab and asked the driver to take him to a bar. Archie has never had a problem starting conversations with random people. While the idea of heading out alone in a foreign country might be daunting to some people, it doesn’t faze him one bit. The only annoying part was he had to take his passport out with him because they don’t accept foreign driver’s licences in the States. Knowing that he’d get excessively drunk, this was a risk. However, it was one he was willing to take, and so here he was – drunk in a Washington dive bar trying to pick up some local girls.
Having a distinguished London accent and incredibly sociable manner helps a lot in such situations, and before long Archie found himself chatting away with a bunch of locals at the bar. Intrigued by the friendly Englishman, they asked a range of questions and drank numerous rounds together. This then led to shots. Shots are Archie’s Achilles heel. He can drink beer all night but if you bring out the straight alcohol he will be a raging, opinionated, slurring, dishevelled mess in no time. Tequila? Sure, why not. A few minutes later, he was arguing with everyone at the bar about Barack Obama and ridiculing American politics – a slippery slope at the best of times. The rest is recalled in a series of sporadic freeze frames. There was dancing. More shots. Then he got kicked out. The second bar was even dingier. His shoes got ruined. He met a girl. Then he was back at her hotel room getting busy. Then … Well, then it got weird.
After a sustained period of blackout, our boy experienced one of those horrible, jolting moments of clarity. Through the blinding tequila haze, he found a second to shake his head and come to … in the middle of a hotel stairwell, pissing all over the wall. His piss (which was probably seventy per cent beer and thirty per cent tequila) was cascading down the concrete stairs while he swayed against the wall in a disgraceful state. Naked. That’s right, butt naked. Completely nude. Urinating all over the place in his birthday suit. Oh dear, he thought, as this moment of relative sobriety hit him. He had been in the girl’s hotel room, he remembered that much. But what was the room number?
He stumbled back into the bright hotel hallway and stared at a jumble of doors that he did not recognise. This was bad. Under the harsh fluorescent lights, his predicament began to set in. Was it 204 or 206? It had to be one of those close by – he couldn’t have got far with his clothes off. But which room was it? 210? He had to be a hundred per cent certain before he knocked on somebody’s door at whatever hour it was in the early a.m. Hovering with his knuckles over door after door, Archie came to the horrible realisation that he honestly had no idea. It was a pure guess, and he could not risk standing in someone’s doorway absolutely starkers at this hour of the morning. He’d get beaten up, arrested or worse. So what to do? What the fuck does one do in this situation?
In a panic, he ran back to the familiar stairwell and made his way down to the ground floor. Luckily, the stairwell led straight out to the car park, so he didn’t have to negotiate a receptionist or lobby. But now he was outside, in the dark, butt naked in a strange city with no wallet, phone or passport. It was a nightmare come true. The headlights of a car peeked over the horizon, so he ran and hid behind a dumpster. It was behind this big bin that Archie found his salvation: two black aprons. They must have been thrown out by the hotel’s hospitality staff. He wasted no time in tying one on the front and one on the back. Now, with his makeshift outfit, at least he had some chance of avoiding immediate arrest.
With his pasty white arse barely covered by the apron, he crept across the parking lot and tried to get his bearings by the roadside. It was a main road and luckily the drunkard recognised one of the billboards. He had been here before. His hotel was about a mile away. So Archie made a bolt for it – a lost white boy running down a main road in the lightening DC dawn, with two discarded aprons he’d found in a bin the only thing stopping him from being butt naked. Cars beeped their horns and people yelled from their windows. He ran as fast as he could the entire way and somehow avoided police, drug dealers, thugs and any real human interaction. He stumbled through the hotel lobby around 5 a.m. and banged on the door of Felix’s room.
Poor Felix got quite a shock when he opened the door.
‘What. The. Fuck?’ was his response.
‘Mate, you won’t believe this. What a fucking nightmare!’ Archie proceeded to explain the predicament he’d just got himself into. Felix shook his head in bemused disbelief – they’d only just met a week before and this guy was rocking up at five in the morning with nothing but aprons for clothes, having lost his wallet, room key, work phone and passport! The run had almost sobered Archie up by this stage, and he had the presence of mind to snap a quick photo and document the moment. I’ve seen it and, lo and behold, there is the lad with nothing but a skimpy black apron to cover him up. Lunatic!
Archie awoke several hours later to the mortifying realisation that his belongings were all lost. He was due to hop on an international flight
that afternoon. He was in deep shit. Two weeks into the job and he was facing almost certain dismissal.
In typical Archie form, everything worked out just fine. The girl he’d been fooling around with before blindly staggering off for a slash in the stairwell was kind and honest enough to return all of his belongings. He was overjoyed to see her in the lobby after she’d tracked his room key back to the hotel. There she stood with his entire documented life and chances of keeping his job in her hands. Thanks go out to that lovely lady for her act of kindness and for giving my favourite story from the road a happy ending. Tequila and aprons – you’ve been warned!
*
Archie and I trade the Californian tourneys without any drama, apart from that isolated earthquake, which Archie had slept through in blissful ignorance anyway. It is a solid month of sun, beaches, bars, good food, live music (we manage to see Rage Against the Machine perform their last ever show to date in LA) and security-free trading. Well, there is one undercover scout present at these events, but he is so inept that we never feel any danger. I trade one set from my pocket while standing next to him for a laugh. I am so relaxed I even have the nerve to take a photograph of the ignorant scout while he searches the stands with his binoculars.
It is what trading should be like. The tournaments are held at impressive university campuses such as UCLA and Stanford, or at ritzy venues such as La Costa Spa Resort in San Diego County. After our month of Californian bliss, Archie takes off to trade some tournaments over on the east coast and I fly to Texas to rendezvous with Tim.
*
Upon arrival, I learn that Dallas is in the middle of a major heat wave. Cali was hot but this is just ridiculous! They have gone almost a hundred days in a row without the mercury dipping below one hundred degrees! I arrive at the hotel to find Tim six beers down and blasting music. He has just purchased a new suitcase and a fresh wardrobe of clothes. He’s been on the job for two weeks and an airline has already managed to lose his luggage. I dread the day he and Archie work together. Organising a piss-up in a brewery is probably the only thing they could manage between them.
Tim Fitzgerald is also one in a million. I guess the job attracts a certain type of person. Fitzy, aka Bin Bin, is a rare unit indeed. His gruff Aussie accent, long hair and penchant for beanies and flat-brim caps ensures he stands out in any crowd. He’s a natural comedian and can entertain a whole bar full of people with comedic rants of crude observational humour. The subject of his searing observations is, more often than not, himself. As an exhibitionist, he’s never shy about throwing his birthday suit on (or is that off?) after a few froths.
Fitzy’s main ambition in life is to own a racehorse named My Face. Why? Well, apart from being a lover of horse racing and gambling, Fitzy just can’t wait for the day when he hears a whole crowd of punters shouting … well, I’m sure you can figure that one out. That’s the type of humour Tim loves, and when he’s not entertaining with jokes he will be watching sport and talking odds.
Despite his lost luggage, the lad is all fired up and ready to trade. He loves his new job, and who can blame him? However, after California, Dallas presents quite a shock. They have a real grudge against traders here. Fitzy and I are oblivious to this fact so we go in with our guards down. Play does not start until 5 p.m., which gives us plenty of time to go to a bar for lunch and drink beer. It’s happy hour at the bar, except the beer prices are so ridiculously cheap we don’t even notice when the hour is over. Lunch there is also a bargain so we enjoy a feast and chat with our outgoing waitress, who is friendly enough to leave me her number on a napkin. We manage to down about six pints before heading off and arrive at the tennis moderately inebriated.
This does nothing for my covert trading techniques. During my second match, I realise I am being watched. The stands back up against each other because of the way the courts are set up. I take a glance over my shoulder to see a security guard in the stand behind me. He’s been peering over my shoulder, trying to see what’s on my phone screen. I pause my phone and slip it into my pocket while he’s not looking. Then I hear his walkie-talkie crackle: ‘What’s going on down there? Is he still texting?’
It is time to leave. I jump up at the next change and head for the gate. The security guard follows me and, when he asks me to ‘Stop right there, sir’, I pick up the pace. A big fat guard appears at the exit and tries to block my path. I keep walking and he steps across to try to stop me. This is the United States, not Spain; I know he doesn’t have the right to physically restrain me or hold me here against my will. As the big boy tries to grab me, I drop my shoulder and barge straight through him.
‘Don’t fucking touch me!’ makes my attitude pretty clear. As soon as I’m out the gate, it’s a quick jog to the taxi rank and I’m out of there. That was a close call, but I’m on their radar now and it’s only Monday.
Back at the hotel, I ask the concierge about things to do in Dallas. He tells me there are a few bars not far from here but they won’t be open tonight. He also tells me he’ll happily drive us in the complimentary shuttle bus to and from any local destination we would like to visit and mentions the existence of a wakeboarding park just down the road. There’s also the famous Cowboys Stadium, which holds over a hundred thousand people and offers regular tours and NFL clashes. This is shaping up to be an epic week, regardless of the security threats.
Speaking of which, Fitzy walks through the hotel doors and rolls his eyes at me – he’s been booted. After my exodus, it appears security have upped the ante, as they were straight onto Fitzy before he had a chance to bolt. He has been given a trespass order by the police and cannot legally return to the venue for a year. I don’t like my chances tomorrow. As the bars are all closed on Monday night, we opt for a few quiet beers at the hotel and plan what should be an exciting week ahead.
On the Tuesday, I wake up feeling fresh and jog out the hotel doors with the intention of doing some serious exercise. I’ve forgotten we are currently staying in a state whose climate imitates that famous kitchen appliance called an oven almost every day of the year. The tar under my feet feels sticky, as if it’s only a few degrees away from melting. Exercise? Fuck that. I’m going back to the air conditioning. Now I understand why play doesn’t commence until late this afternoon. You couldn’t pay me to sit in the crowd in this heat. As for playing three sets of tennis? I’d rather trade Fez again!
Later that afternoon, once the oppressive heat has subsided and the sun has dipped into the horizon, I purchase my ticket, sneak through the grounds and start trading the Tuesday match-ups. I notice only two other traders in the crowd. One is a Russian girl whom I’ve spoken to once or twice and the other is a Frenchman. I stay well away from both of them because I know I’m a target. It doesn’t take security long. Towards the end of the first match, I hear a creepy whisper come from the stand behind me: ‘Get out … now!’ I turn around to see an angry security guard boring his eyes into mine.
‘Sorry, are you talking to me?’
‘So, stop texting and leave now.’
‘Well, I can’t, mate. For one, I’m not texting and two, they’re in the middle of a game. You can’t just get up and walk out on a small court like this! It distracts the players and is very poor form.’
He realises I have a point. I figure I may as well keep trading until the change. This does not please him. But he’s on the other side of the fence, so there’s not much he can do apart from trying to order me to ‘Stop texting! Now!’ – which I ignore with a smirk on my face.
As a court-sider, I’ve always hated deuce. Fucking deuce can turn a quick day into a nightmare. It can go back and forward forever. I’ve traded twenty-minute games in my time because of relentless deuce swings. I’ve also traded sets that only went for twenty minutes, so you can see why I hate deuce. But this is the most memorable and most hated deuce of them all for me. It comes at the most inopportune and awkward time ima
ginable.
I’m sitting there ignoring the cranky security guard, who is complaining to his superiors into the walkie-talkie, ‘He’s still texting,’ and the players decide they want to have an all-out battle-royal shitfight for the next six or seven minutes. They scrap back and forward, struggling to find momentum and take consecutive points. I’m trading every point and I can’t wait to get off court and get this over and done with. Across the court, I see two security guards watching me. Then a third. Then a fourth. Then an official joins. They even summon an event photographer to take snaps of me with her big zoom lens. I pretend to itch my face with an extended middle finger. Meanwhile, the score is bouncing back and forth as evenly and almost as quickly as the ball. This is torture! It’s four all, deuce in the second set. There isn’t a more pivotal point in a match! The worst part is I know I won’t be able to trade the rest and we will miss out on a great opportunity to cash in.
When I’m finally given a chance to bail, a security guard of honour greets me outside the stand. There are six of them. They have lined the pavement that leads to the exit and are all glaring at me like I’m Adolf Hitler. Arseholes. They don’t even know what this is about. Even if they do understand the situation, what reason do they have to be so mad at me? I see the photographer snapping away and wave to her. She shies away and looks embarrassed … How does she think I feel? As I approach the exit gate, I am stopped by a uniformed police officer. He’s covered in tattoos and has that deep Texan drawl down to a fine art. Another squad car arrives and two more officers step out to surround me.
‘All this for me?’ I joke. ‘You guys must have me confused with an actual criminal.’
With all the commotion, the rent-a-cops decide they want to join in the fun. People stare at me as I’m interrogated by three policemen and six security personnel. It’s embarrassing and a little insane. I’ve been updating live scores, not murdering puppies while streaking! Officer redneck takes my details and issues me with the same trespass warning he gave Fitzy. They ask whether I know any other traders, particularly one by the name of Tim, and try to coerce me into ratting on anyone else inside who is still trading. Although I don’t know the Russian girl or French guy very well, there is no way I’d ever rat them out to the authorities for going about their business. They might be competitors but they’re not enemies. In the end, I’m banned from the ground for a calendar year. Looks like I won’t be trading Dallas this year or next year! As we finish up with the formalities, officer redneck asks the head of security, ‘So whaa’d he doo?’
Game, Set, Cash! Page 12
