The Big Bamboo (16 page)

Runway Niner. Seat 42B. Middle seat. Serge adjusted the overhead vents and reading lights. He pulled out the reading material in the pocket in front of him, unfolded the laminated safety guide, put it back. He rested his hands in his lap and smiled. He looked down. His knees were slightly touching the seat in front of him. Serge frowned. He shifted his weight and stretched his legs. No good. He shifted the other way. He grabbed both armrests and pushed himself back as far as he could. His knees still touched.

Seat 42A. Window seat. The older man in a business suit made notes in an organizer. His gray hair was leaving, but he was comfortable with it. The organizer began shaking; his Montblanc pen skidded into the margin. He looked at the passenger to his left, fiercely twisting his legs. Serge stopped and smiled. The man smiled back and returned to his work.

Seat 42C. Aisle. Coleman tapped Serge on the shoulder. “When do they start serving alcohol?”

“Not now. I’m having configuration problems.” Serge bent down and reached under the seat in front of him, retrieving his carry-on. “There. My feet have more room. Knees clear.”

“But now the carry-on is in your lap,” said Coleman. “The rule says—”

“I know the rules,” snapped Serge. “And the overhead bins are full. It’s like a Rubik’s Cube.” Serge dumped the bag’s contents in his lap. “Coleman, start stuffing this shit in your seat pocket.” He turned to the businessman. “You using that pocket?”

“Huh?”

“Thanks.”

When it was all stowed, Serge flattened his carry-on and crammed it next to the gym bag at Coleman’s feet. “There.” He successfully stretched out his legs and smiled. He folded his hands in his lap again. A moment passed. Serge glanced at the man next to him, then Coleman.

“Could have sworn I requested a window seat.”

“What’s the matter with that one?” asked Coleman.

“I can’t see America. It’s a five-hour flight, and two centuries of eminent-domain history will be just out of view. The Louisiana Purchase, Davey Crockett, the Sooners, the Gadsden Purchase—everybody forgets that one—the gold rush, and finally the Pacific Ocean, sea to shining sea! I’ll tell you what: If I was doing business work and not looking outside, I’d give up my seat. That’s what I’d do. Yes, sir, I sure wish someone would trade me their window seat. But you can’t expect people to be psychic—they don’t know how much I’d love to look out the window! Because if they did, they sure would offer to trade…”

“Excuse me,” said the businessman. “I’d be happy to trade seats with you.”

“Oh, no, no, no, no, no, no! Absolutely not!” said Serge. “Wouldn’t hear of it! Don’t want to inconvenience…Okay.” Serge jumped up, and they awkwardly squeezed by each other.

The man opened his organizer and began writing again.

The jet taxied across the airfield and pivoted at the end of a long runway. The engines started revving. Serge tapped the businessman on the shoulder. “Know what I like to do on takeoff? Pretend to be a couple of guys from way back in history. You know, people who’ve never even
seen
an airplane. And when the wheels leave the ground, you talk like they would…” The jetliner began rolling down the tarmac, slowly at first, then rapidly picking up speed, eighty, ninety, a hundred miles an hour. “You be Thomas Jefferson. I’m Aaron Burr.” The nose of the airplane angled up as they left the ground. “Tom! Tom! What the fuck’s going on? Why is this happening? We’re in the stomach of a big bird!…Okay, they just retracted the landing gear. You don’t have to be Jefferson anymore.”

The man tried to appear occupied with his work.

“So, you’re a businessman,” said Serge. “But you’re sitting back here in coach. Good for you. To hell with people thinking you’re not successful. I hate the snobs in first class. They think they’re better, but they’re just hurting themselves, lounging in those big seats while attendants tong out hot towels in a manner that makes the rest of us want to vote for Democrats. What do you do for a living? Okay, I’ll go first. I’m in the movies. Well, not yet, but that’s just a formality. I’m going to bring the film industry to Florida. Why, you ask? I’ll tell you. Guess what the biggest-grossing film in Florida history is. Are you trying to guess? Tick-tock, tick-tock, time’s up!
Deep Throat
. Four hundred million dollars and climbing. Right! I agree with you completely! Are blow jobs the first thing we want people to picture when we mention Florida?” Serge punched the seat in front of him, knocking the passenger forward. “Absolutely not! I mean, you’re from this fine state. I know that because I peeked at your stuff there. No, we definitely don’t want blow jobs! No cornholing, no around-the-worlds, no tittie-fucks, pearl necklaces, muff diving or golden showers. No brown ones either—yuck. I say, ‘All of that—off the table!’ Coleman disagrees with me, of course, but that’s why it’s a free country. Disney had it right before he died and they turned his dream into hell with long lines. Yes, good, clean entertainment for the whole family. That’s my vision for America. But since porn has surfaced in the conversation, I want to talk about the movie
Wonderland
. You’ve heard of John Holmes, right? The adult film legend? Had a shlong the size of a Wiffle bat. Something like two thousand X-rated films on his résumé. But there’s more to the story. Much more…”

“Sir…”

Serge looked up. A flight attendant was standing in the aisle. “Yes?”

“We’ve had some complaints. There are small children…”

“Children!” Serge jumped to his feet. “What’s happened to them? How can I help?”

“Off-color language. Some passengers found it offensive—”

“
I
find it offensive,” said Serge, jerking his head around. “Who’s doing this?”

“Uh…you are.”

“What?…Oh
that.
It’s okay. The words were used self-referentially. I needed to establish the paradigm in order to smash it.”

“Please try to be more careful.”

“I just told you—I’m already on the team.”

The flight attendant walked away. Serge sat down and leaned to the businessman. “She’s having trouble getting her arms around the paradigm. Where were we? Right, John Holmes. Ever hear of the Wonderland Massacre? Most people haven’t. But that case is to the eighties what Manson was to the sixties. More than grisly crime scenes, they were metaphors for their times. Half of L.A. was coked out of its skull. Crazy parties at the Starwood Club and all over the Hollywood Hills, including this little home on Wonderland Avenue. Then they found four dead bodies, savagely attacked like they’d scratched Ryan O’Neal’s car. A chain reaction of drug rip-offs, and Holmes was involved. So he fled. Where to? You guessed it! Florida! Holed up in the Fountainhead Motel at 16001 Collins Avenue. I’ve stayed in the room, for spiritual reasons. Can’t tell you how excited I was when I heard they were making a big movie starring Val Kilmer. Then I watched the thing and know where it ends? Holmes fleeing east on a California highway. No Florida at all, just chopped off that part of the story like they couldn’t bear to share the spotlight. Jealousy is an ugly thing.”

The businessman forced a grin and opened his laptop. He plugged it in to the telephone receptacle on the back of the seat in front of him.

Serge leaned for a closer look. “Wow, they have AeroLink on this flight! Costs like a million bucks a minute, doesn’t it?…Oh, you’re trying to do work, aren’t you? I’ll leave you alone.”

Serge reached in his seat pocket and pulled out a sleek white gadget. He stuck it between the man’s face and his laptop screen. “It’s an iPod.” Serge pulled it back and began pressing buttons. “Holds ten thousand songs. I’m only up to nine hundred. I can’t stop thinking about it…Sorry, forgot. You’re working…”

Serge sat back and pressed buttons, rearranging his L.A. playlist. He leaned to his left: “Listen. I know you’re busy but could you do me a favor…”

A minute later, the businessman’s head hung in surrender. His laptop sat on Serge’s knees, plugged into the iPod.

“Thanks! I’ll just be a second. Need to download some music. Don’t worry—you won’t be charged. Unless they find out your account was used to steal music; then it could get steep. But how else do they expect me to ever get to ten thousand?…Oh, no. Hold everything. They’re asking for a user name and PIN number. What’s happening to the world? Our whole lives are now user names and PIN numbers! How do you remember all yours? I sure can’t! I started using the same ones every time, but I decided that was just an invitation for identity fraud and then…”—Serge patted the wallet in his side pocket—“…you’re forced to use other people’s credit cards. So I began coming up with a bunch of arcane stuff that I can never recall, and then I have to hit the ‘Forget your password?’ button, which retrieves the ‘hint question’ I set up my account with. For extra security, I use trick questions that even I can’t guess, in case I’m interrogated. Okay, what should my user name be? I’ll try this…Shit. Has to be at least eight characters. How about this…Damn. Must be letters
and
numbers…”

Coleman leaned across the businessman. “Try ‘Bootycall69.’”

Serge typed it in. “Already taken…”

The businessman stuck a tiny pillow behind his head. “I’m going to take a nap.”

“Good thinking,” said Serge, continuing to type. “Three-hour time difference. Jet lag will screw up your circadian rhythms every time. Except mine are naturally three hours ahead. Lucky genes. So don’t worry about a thing. I’ll stand watch. If anything important happens, you’ll be the first to know.”

The man snuggled his head into the pillow and closed his eyes.

A minute passed. The man felt someone shaking his shoulder. He opened his eyes.

“I have to go to the bathroom.”

A yellow Malibu sped east on Santa Monica.

“Where are we going?” asked Ford, changing lanes to pass traffic backing up outside the Formosa Café.

“Redondo Beach,” said Pedro. “Incredible party. Second best in L.A. tonight.”

“What’s the first?”

“Will’s place.”

“Will who?”

“Don’t know,” said Pedro, keeping his for-the-road cocktail below window level. “We were there last week. Asked the bouncer, but he would only smile and say, ‘Will.’ Incredible spread, like the Hearst mansion in San Simeon. Courtyard full of bizarre zoo animals wandering around Greek statues.”

“It was off the hook,” said Mark. “All these hot chicks passed out by the guitar-shaped pool and in the giant maze of shrubs. The basement had a panic room where everyone was smoking dope.”

Ford stopped at a red light. “If that’s the top party tonight, why aren’t we going there?”

“Because of what happened last week,” said Mark.

“We ended up in the library,” said Pedro. “Everyone was completely wrecked. I tried to score with some babes by standing on a Louis the Fourteenth chair to do an Astaire dance move. You know, where Fred puts his foot up on the back and gently tips the chair over and steps down into a pirouette. Except the back snapped off and I crashed into an antique chess set. Some of the pieces broke, too. I was afraid they were going to try to make me pay, so I gathered the evidence in my shirt and found a balcony and began throwing chair parts and bishops over the side. Then someone started screaming down below: ‘My chair!’ Guess that was Will. Time to leave. That’s when I tumbled down the big curved marble staircase. We couldn’t find Ray, because he’d lost consciousness out back in a pile of emu shit. So we split in a limo, and Mark said something that pissed off the chauffeur, and he gets put out of the car on the side of the Ventura freeway and falls asleep in weeds below an overpass and wakes up with that rash on his face. Tino was the only one who made it home with me but doesn’t remember about the welts or how one of his ears got packed with food. It was starting to get light out when Dallas showed up with some speed, and then we’re driving to Mexico and found a pharmacy with chickens running around and an old lady behind the counter who looked like Lee Trevino and would sell us anything, and we took so much Darvon we went deaf.”

“Deaf?” said Ford.

“Little fibers in the hearing canal get paralyzed, like Rush Limbaugh,” said Pedro. “There’s already a language barrier at the border, and on top of that I’m shouting at the Mexican customs cop: ‘What? I can’t hear you! What?’ So now we can’t get back in the country. Had to stay until the effects wore off and lost two days’ pay. Then it turns out my spill down the stairs was worse than I thought, and I have to wear this wrist brace for six weeks, but they gave me more Darvon. Which reminds me, Ford, how come you don’t party?”

The businessman in seat 42B opened his eyes. Someone was shaking his shoulder again.

“Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!…”

The man’s head turned in alarm. “What is it?”

“I found
SkyMall
magazine in my seat pocket!” said Serge. “I love
SkyMall
! Isn’t it the weirdest? Like this item: ‘The last flashlight you will ever need!’ How can they make such a bold claim? I must have one. Wait. Here’s a personal executive submarine…Oooo! Look! Look! Look! There’s the shore of Texas! Just made it across the Gulf of Mexico, so the flotation devices can’t help us now. Ever seen the Alamo? Big, big disappointment. Right in the middle of downtown, much smaller than you’d think. I’d given up looking for it and pulled into a Taco Bell and hit this statue that some jokers had stuck in the middle of the drive-through. That’s right—it was the Alamo. Then I had to drive away fast…Cool! They’re about to show the movie! Here they come with the five-dollar headsets.” Serge reached in his seat pocket and put on the headset he’d brought with him, then winked at the businessman. “They think they’re dealing with children. Wonder what the movie’s going to be. Hope it’s a good one. Please, please, please!…Damn, it’s
How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days
. I tell you how: Take him to movies like this.” Serge removed his headset. “Know why I love cinema? Because it connects people—total strangers who would otherwise wind up strangling each other. But we all share these common moments. Like in
Five Easy Pieces
when Nicholson is having that sandwich argument with the waitress and tells her to stick it between her knees.”