Merde Happens

by Stephen Clarke

  Then it was out of the hotel and into the thumping, shouting night for a stroll along Bourbon Street. I was supposed to banter with the revelers and stop at pub doorways to listen in on some music, but we gave up when it became obvious that the only bantering I was going to do was say "Fuck you, too" to the frat boys who were flicking beer over my anorak and expressing very loud doubts about the heterosexuality of my legs.

  The next morning, Woodrow took me out to the garage, where our repair man gave me the bad news that the pump was indeed "totally screwed" and would take two or three days to fix.

  I called Suraya for advice.

  "I need your advice," she told me as soon as I got through. "Should I tell my father I am borrowing my neighbor's scooter?"

  "What?"

  She updated me on her problems. She had ignored her father's wishes, and instead of walking to work or giving up her job, she had accepted her male neighbor's offer to lend her his scooter.

  "I don't know, Suraya. What does your dad usually do when you tell him you've done something against his wishes?"

  "He threatens to throw me out of the house and deprive me of my dowry."

  "Well in that case, I would either not tell him or I'd take the bus."

  "But my neighbor's so dishy."

  "Dishy?" I hadn't heard that word for a decade or two.

  "Yes, he has a brand-new scooter and an MSc. .." The way she said it, an MSc couldn't be a science degree—it had to stand for something like Magical Scrotum.

  "He sounds very dishy. I'm surprised he hasn't got a girlfriend already."

  "A girlfriend?" She repeated the word as if I'd just mentioned some obscure species of Creole shrimp.

  "Yes. Make sure he's available before you get thrown out of your house. Now I really need your advice, Suraya."

  "OK, sorry."

  She let me fill her in on the car problem.

  "Well, if you wait for the car to be fixed," she said, "you'll have no time in Las Vegas before you have to go to Los Angeles for the voting ceremony. And there are some exciting things coming in."

  "Yes? Like what?" I was almost afraid to ask.

  "Oh, Las Vegas is going to treat you like a star. It would be a shame to miss out."

  "I'll be there on time," I told her. "Just make sure that the credit card is well loaded so I have enough cash to cover the flight and the car repairs."

  "Oh! That's his name!" she swooned.

  "What?"

  "You said 'cash to cover the flight.' And my neighbor is called Kashta. It's a pharaoh's name. When he wears his gold crash helmet, he looks like an Egyptian god ..."

  3

  That same afternoon, I was hauling my luggage through what I'd originally thought was New Orleans Lance Armstrong airport, but which was of course named after Louis. Sorry, Satchmo.

  I was feeling excited and only slightly irritated at the unstarlike way I was being treated before I was allowed to get on a plane. My liquids were confiscated, including a cute little miniature Tabasco. I understood why. A bottle of Tabasco in a terrorist's hands could wreak havoc with a pilot's eyes. Though it might take some time to blind him one droplet at a time.

  My bags, shoes, belt, and coat were X-rayed, of course, and then they put me—still half dressed—in a kind of shower cubicle that spat high-pressure air in my face. It was, a security woman told me, removing all the dust particles from the surface of my hair, body, and clothes.

  "To lighten the plane's load?" I asked, but she refused to acknowledge the joke. Soon, I thought, we'll only be able to get on a plane naked, sedated, handcuffed, and drained of all bodily fluids. It's the only way to be totally safe.

  I sat drinking a Coke in departures, and ticked off my own checklist of organizational questions.

  Credit card authorization filled out to cover whatever the car repair ended up costing? Unwise, but yes.

  Jake and Juliana provided with enough cash to drive the Mini to Las Vegas? Overgenerous, but they deserved it, so yes.

  Promise obtained from Renee that New Orleans would vote for Britain at the World Tourism ceremony, despite all the cock-ups? After a full morning waving from a Mississippi river steamer, pretending to be freaked out by the city's voodoo tombs, and helping to load a bright-red truck with boxes of Tabasco sauce, yes. She even got me to autograph some stills from the previous evening's shoot. I was, it seemed, still a star in Louisiana.

  My flight was called and I boarded, buckling myself in with undisguised pleasure. We were going to fly over the bayou, the hugeness of Texas, and then the classic cowboy movie landscapes of Arizona, before landing in Vegas at nightfall, which everyone had told me was one of the most exciting things you could ever see from an airplane.

  The plane was full, and I'd only been able to get an aisle seat, but it had a decent enough view if I leaned forward. I checked the battery on my phone to make sure I had enough power to record the views and annoy friends and family later with show-off text messages.

  My anticipation was diminished slightly after takeoff, though, when my window-seat neighbor pulled down the shade and killed my view of the vast green swamp. I looked around, and everyone else seemed to be doing the same thing, shutting out the daylight.

  What is it with these people? I wondered. They make sure they get a window seat, but they'd prefer it didn't have a window? Or are they all poker players and need darkness to meditate on the game ploys that they're going to be using tonight?

  I was patient. I let the "meal" service (a soft drink and a packet of tiny choke-proof pretzels) go by and kept my eye on the TV screen that told us where we were flying. I ticked off Dallas, Fort Worth, and places that I'd never heard of like Lubbock and Childress.

  I had time to observe my neighbor and try to work out if he was the accommodating "Sure, I'll open my shade" type. I couldn't decide. He had an iPod, jeans, and an open-necked checked shirt, and he took his sneakers off for die flight, so he was pretty laid back. But he'd hardly acknowledged my "Hi" when he sat down, and hadn't taken up the opportunity to chat when I'd seen die size of the pretzels and laughed. And he seemed to be a self-contained traveler, die fortysomething who's seen it all (hence the closed window) and always packs everything in the same place in his suitcase. He'd have a spare set of his thin-metal-framed glasses and he'd never forget his dental floss. He wouldn't like outside interference during his journey. Still, I told myself, no need to prejudge die guy, let's wait and see if he opens up.

  It was only when I saw Roswell appear on die map that I started to get seriously anxious. Wasn't that where all the aliens land? Wasn't it likely that we were at that very minute being buzzed by a flying saucer, and I was missing it because the man next to me didn't want to be disturbed by the outside world?

  From the few windows that were unblocked, I could see that the daylight was fading. Sundown over New Mexico— it seemed a shame to miss that.

  "Excuse me," I said with my politest English accent and my brightest smile.

  He pulled an earphone out and I heard a faint jangle of guitar rock.

  "Yeah?" He didn't sound unfriendly.

  "Would you mind opening the shade so I can see the view? It's my first time here." Again, I gave him a smile that said how much I loved his country, and what a privilege it would be to actually see America as I flew over it.

  "I prefer it shut," he said, and put his earphone back in.

  And people say the French are the rudest people in the world.

  "Excuse me," I said again, and he took out the earplug with a sigh of desperation.

  "Yes?"

  "We're going to be flying over some of the most dramatic landscapes in the world, and then landing in Las Vegas by night, and I'm not sure I'll ever be flying over here again, so I'd really like to see the view. How's about we switch places?"

  "I'm all set up here." He motioned to his shoes, his magazine on the tray, his iPod tucked in his lap. "You want to see the view, you should get a window seat."

  "I couldn't. The
y'd already been taken."

  "Then you should have checked in earlier or grabbed a seat online." He ended his comment with a shrug and the faintest hint of a "duh," and put his earphone back in again.

  Now if there's one thing that really gets my goat it's the "duh" and all that it implies. The person who does it is a genius, the victim is a dickhead. No subtlety, no middle ground, you're an out-and-out jerk and it's just been proved beyond any reasonable doubt.

  "Excuse me." This time I was polite but a little more assertive dian before.

  "What?" He pulled the earphone less than half an inch out and held it against his lobe, as if this was going to be a very short interruption indeed.

  "If you don't want to look out the window, why do you get a window seat?"

  "That's my business. America is a free country and not a police state, thank God. We don't need to explain ourselves here."

  As if having to explain something to your fellow man was a breach of human rights.

  "But that's like asking for a seat in smoking and then complaining that people smoke."

  "We don't have smoking sections any more. You don't know what you're talking about."

  The "duh" was back, widi eyes raised to the ceiling diis time.

  "OK then, it's like asking for a table by an open window in a restaurant and then moaning because diere's a draft."

  "Listen, fella," he said. "You're in your seat, I'm in my seat. You're bodiering me. If you don't stop, I'm going to call the stewardess."

  "And get me dirown off the plane? At least I might see a bit of the view."

  "Stop talking to me or I'll summon the stewardess." His finger hovered beneath the button next to his light switch. I knew I'd lost. I wasn't going to see the mountains, the sunset, or the Vegas lightshow.

  "Yeah, and call your mummy while you're at it," I said.

  He pressed the button, and we heard the telltale ding. He glowered at me as if to say, Gotcha now, punk. I glowered back, as if to say, Dickhead. Well, I probably said it, too.

  An aged but resolutely blonde stewardess tottered unsteadily down the aisle. She reached up and turned off the call light.

  "Do you have an issue, sir?" she asked my neighbor.

  "No, I have a problem," I said, but before I could explain about the shade, the guardian of the window butted in and reminded me that he was the one who'd called the stewardess, and he had the problem because I wouldn't leave him in peace.

  "He doesn't have to open the shade if he doesn't want to, I'm afraid," the stewardess told me, a kind but sad smile on her pastily foundationed face.

  I gave her the spiel about it being my first time here and wanting to enjoy the spectacular scenery. I'd gone to stand by the door for a while, I told her, but the porthole was tiny there and distorted the view. And I wouldn't be able to stand there for the landing, would I?

  "The plane's full, I'm afraid, sir, or I'd try to move you to a window seat," she said.

  "Look, don't argue with the guy," my neighbor said. "Just tell him to keep quiet."

  She exchanged a glance with me. Yes, we were saying, dickhead. But she couldn't insult a passenger.

  "I'm sure he won't disturb your enjoyment of the flight any longer," she said. "Sorry," she told me.

  "Everything OK here?" It was a steward, a young guy with slicked-down hair and a dimple in his chin.

  "Yes, yes," the stewardess said. "This gentleman would like to watch the sunset, but he doesn't have a window seat." I was grateful for her poetic description of my plight.

  "Flight's full," the steward said sympathetically. "Hey." A question seemed to flash into his head. "Aren't you the kilt guy?"

  I laughed. "Well, I'm keeping my legs covered up in this air-conditioning, but yes."

  "I saw you on TV. He was on TV." He nudged his frail colleague and nearly sent her sprawling in the aisle. "You were on the news this morning."

  "On the news?" This was news to me.

  "Yeah. Those kids giving you a hard time in Bourbon Street. It was a blast."

  "Excuse me." Now it was my neighbor's turn to say it. "I summoned for assistance because I was being disturbed, and now you're holding some kind of meeting here."

  Three pairs of eyes met and shared the thought: Total dickhead.

  "Sorry to disturb you, sir," the steward said with so little irony that it only doubled the implied sarcasm. "Come with me, Mr. . .. ?"

  "West," I told him. "Paul West."

  "Come with me, Mr. West. We'd be honored to upgrade you to business class so that you don't miss out on the view."

  "Hey, I'm the one should be upgraded. He was causing the disturbance." Window man was aghast at this unjustified favoritism.

  "Well, you'll be able to enjoy the flight in peace now, sir," the stewardess told him.

  I gathered up my things, and couldn't resist a self-satisfied grin at my neighbor.

  "Fuck you," he mouthed.

  "Enjoy the view," I told him out loud, and mouthed the killer American insult, ten times worse than a mere duh. "Loser."

  4

  Business class wasn't very different, but I got a window, a beer, and a sandwich, and settled back in my new dickhead-free environment to watch the sun put on its evening show.

  The sky seemed to be doing the impossible, turning a lighter and lighter blue as the angular clouds got darker until they were charred black. The sun melted across the rocky horizon, so that it looked as if the plane was flying into an immense strawberry-mango smoothie.

  When Las Vegas came into view, it lived up to the hype. All that was left of the daylight was a jagged slash of orange across the black mountain tops. Below, in the bowl of the valley, it was as if a billion people had laid out candles to guide us in from the darkness. Flickering white lights in a dense, warm circle. At the heart of our target was a pulsing splash of color. Crystal-like outcrops of gold, blue, red, and white, the massive resorts on the Strip vying for attention by emitting enough light to blind astronauts overhead in a space station. And as if that really was the city's aim, a white laser bolt was lancing vertically into the night sky. Calling in aliens, perhaps, to lose a few Venusian dollars on the blackjack tables.

  I could see the Eiffel Tower quite clearly now, uncannily close to the Empire State Building. We were about to land right in the middle of the resorts. Having the airport in the city center must save time, I reasoned. The planes drop you off practically inside the casino. One of the resort hotels boasted that you could fit a jumbo jet inside its atrium. That was probably the original idea. Passengers would step out of the jet straight into their poker chairs. But planning permission was turned down when they realized that the jet blast would melt the hotel across the street.

  Of course, since the planes couldn't go into the casinos, they brought the casinos out to the planes. The first sound I heard after saying a grateful goodbye to my flight attendant friends was die electronic blooping of slot machines. A tiny high-rise city of them in the arrivals area, beckoning at me as I walked across to get my luggage. I ignored them, but some of my fellow passengers couldn't resist a premature taste of the thrills to come.

  There were crowds of people down in the baggage claim, but one thing immediately caught my eye. It was a large white board being held by the kind of girl that makes you think, Wow, I wish she was waiting for me. Tall, slim, long black ponytail, and a dark business suit that had been cut back to reveal as much of her body as possible without turning the jacket and skirt into a bikini. And on her board was written "Paul West." My first jackpot in Las Vegas.

  When I introduced myself, she grabbed my outstretched hand and gave a cry of pleasure. I have probably not been greeted so enthusiastically since the night I was born.

  "Welcome to Las Vegas, Mr. West. I'm Candy."

  I resisted the temptation to make a cheap joke about having a sweet tooth, and told her how pleased I was to meet her.

  "What do your bags look like? I'll have someone bring them to the limo."

  "Lim
o?"

  "Of course." She speed-dialed a number and said simply, "He's here."

  Wow, I thought, so diis is what it feels like to be a star. Although when I saw a small group of unshaven, combat-ready guys jogging in through the doors toward us, I changed that from "star" to "kidnap victim." One of them was pointing a grenade launcher at me.

  As they got closer, though, I noticed that the weapons they were carrying were in fact a TV camera, a hand-held light, and a boom microphone. I smiled and waved hello.

  "Stop," Candy said. "He's not wearing the kilt or the anorak. We'll have to shoot it after he's changed."

  The limo outside was less of a car than a train. I lost count of the number of windows it had. It was a primary-yellow stretch version of a Hummer, and was as long as some streets in Paris. I strolled past a long winding line of people waiting for taxis and got straight in, feeling all those envious eyes upon me. Not necessarily because I'd got this surreally huge ride, but because I'd actually got transportation out of the airport.

  Inside, the limo was so dimly lit that it was hard to see right down to the front, but I did take in the neon-lit bar on one side, stocked with enough spirits to keep a rugby team happy across the whole Nevada desert. A bottle of champagne was peeping at me out of an ice bucket. I thought I should go and introduce myself.

  First, though, I had to say hi to a guy who emerged from the gloom.

  At first I thought he was a TV star who'd hired the limo back in 1975 and got lost in its vast interior. He had on a tight black suit, with large white shirt cuffs poking out of the sleeves, and his head was straight out of the Dallas book of hairstyles. Center parting, long over the ears, and even longer at the neck, curling inward over the collar. All this framed an unnaturally even tan and what they usually call chiseled features, meaning that his eyebrows, nose, mouth, and chin had all been designed with extrabold strokes of the genetic pen.

  He held out a large flat hand.

  "Larry Corelli," he said. "I'm media relations director with the Las Vegas Development Office."

  "Pleased to meet you, Larry," I said. Larry Corelli. It sounded like one of those composite names that spammers use. Arthur McArthur, Gordon Warden, and the like. Then the "Corelli" sank in and I realized where I'd seen his look before. It wasn't Dallas, it was The Godfather. And this "Development Council" was probably a euphemism for a slightly less public organization. Gulp.