Beverly Hills Maasai (15 page)

This was starting to feel like déjà vu all over again—Olivia beside me; the three Maasai in the back seat; Samuel sitting in the middle, no seatbelt, semi-standing, pretending to fly. The only difference was that this time I’d given up trying to tell him to sit down. He was a big boy, and if he really wanted to fly he’d have that opportunity if I had to stop quickly. Although at the speed I was travelling there wasn’t much danger of him going too far.

“Turn right on Santa Monica,” Olivia said.

I was driving and she was navigating, keeping us on the marathon route.

I slowed down—very gently to keep Samuel in the car—and made the turn.

“We’re going to go right by Rodeo. Maybe we should hang a right and show it to them,” I jokingly suggested.

“We’re
going
to turn right,” Olivia said. “The route goes right down Rodeo.”

“Wow, that’s impressive. But I guess that’s what the whole Beverly Hills Marathon thing is about … trying to impress people.”

“I don’t think it’s working on everybody,” Olivia said, gesturing to our passengers.

I adjusted the rear-view mirror so I could look into the back seat. They didn’t look impressed—they looked the way they always did. Nebala looked thoughtful and sort of regal. Samuel looked happy. Koyati had that scowl in place, like he was either perpetually angry or really, really badly constipated.

I turned onto Rodeo Drive. A little shiver went up my spine. Even if it didn’t have an impact on them it still impressed
me
, and I’d been here thousands of times. This was, without a doubt,
the
most exclusive, expensive, elite shopping street in the entire world. It wasn’t long, but it was long on money. It started at Santa Monica and ended three blocks later, at Wilshire. In that short space, basically every designer in the world had a storefront, which meant visibility. Anybody who was anybody
had
to have a location on Rodeo.

Some of the stores were so exclusive that you couldn’t even just drop in and shop—you had to make an appointment… and they didn’t let just anybody make an appointment. I guess they ran some sort of credit check to make sure you could afford to shop there. I’d heard about movie stars coming and spending about $100,000 in under an hour.

Before Africa, that would have been like a dream
come true for me—to go into one of those stores and shop until I dropped. Right after Africa it seemed like an obscene thing to do—I knew what that amount of money could have done for the people living there. Now it was almost like I was someplace in the middle. I still liked to shop and wear nice clothes, and I did live in what a lot of people would call a mansion, but I had pangs of guilt about how much I had, and believe it or not, I actually tried to restrain myself. In a lot of ways, it was easier before, when I didn’t have to think about it.

Olivia turned in her seat. “What do you think?” she asked the Maasai.

“It is … it is … a nice street,” Nebala offered. “The road is very smooth, and the trees and bushes are very healthy.”

He was referring to the gardens that filled the median.

“I mean the stores!” Olivia exclaimed.

“They are … they are nice too.”

“Nice? That’s Christian Dior on the right, and down from that is Gucci, and across the street is Chanel, and just up ahead is Armani, and—”

“You’re wasting your breath,” I said. “Shopping isn’t going to impress them.”

“Maybe if we stopped we could show you,” Olivia said. “Maybe we could even shop a little?”

“There’s no time for shopping,” I told her. What I didn’t say was that I knew they couldn’t afford to shop in any of these stores. She must have known that too.

“Where do I go from here?” I asked.

“Turn right on Sunset Boulevard.” She sighed. “If Rodeo Drive doesn’t impress them, I don’t know if anything in the world can.”

“I don’t know. They might be impressed with lots of things, but they just don’t show it,” I suggested. “Let’s ask.” I adjusted the mirror again so I could see Nebala’s face—which meant he could see mine.

“So what do you think of Beverly Hills?” I asked.

“Many things are very different.”

“But have you seen anything that impressed you?”

“It is not so much what I have seen that has impressed, but what I have not seen,” he answered.

Olivia and I exchanged a confused look. What exactly did that mean?

“You want to explain that a little more?” I asked.

“I see water, but there are no rivers or wells or lakes. I see milk, but there are no cows. I see food, but there are no fields or crops or hunters. I see big houses and fancy cars, but no one works. It is like magic that things appear.”

“It’s far from magic,” I said. “The water comes from pipes that are under the ground and bring the water to our houses, same as in Nairobi.”

“And the food and milk come from farms that are … that are … Where
are
the farms?” Olivia asked me.

“Maybe up in the Valley somewhere? At least that’s what I think … I’ve never been to them, or even seen them,” I admitted. “And people do have jobs.”

“I only see Carlos work.”

“Other people work, but they work in buildings,
in offices and stores,” I explained. I was sure he understood, but I figured he wasn’t interested much in what went on in offices. For him, really working probably meant hunting or farming, and nobody did any of that—except for Carlos.

“Now right on Hollywood Boulevard,” Olivia said.

I slowed down and almost instantly came to a stop. The traffic was always heavy because of all the tourists who flocked here, causing a traffic jam on both the street and the sidewalks. They were all hoping to see a movie star, but the only things to look at here were the tourist attractions: the Walk of Fame, with all the stars set into the sidewalk; Grauman’s Chinese Theatre; and the Kodak Theatre, where the Oscars are given out. They would have had better luck going over to Rodeo, because the rich and famous love to shop.

“Elvis!”

I started and turned around.

Samuel was standing up on the seat, pointing. “Elvis! Elvis!”

“Look out!” Olivia screamed.

I turned back around. The car in front of me had come to a sudden stop! I slammed on the brakes and skidded to a halt just inches from a collision, and Samuel flew forward, landing against the top of the windshield. He windmilled over and then landed on his back on the hood of the car with a thunderous smash!

I froze, terrified, unable to even believe that—

Samuel sat up. He was alive! He turned around and smiled. He was happy and unhurt!

“Elvis!” he screamed again.

He jumped off the car and started running back in the direction we’d come!

“What is he doing?” I screamed. “Where is he going?”

“He saw Elvis,” Nebala explained.

“What?”

“Elvis. He saw Elvis … there.”

“You know Elvis? Samuel knows Elvis?”

“I see him,” Olivia said. She was standing on the seat. “I see Samuel, and he’s with Elvis.”

“How can he be with…?” Then I got it—an Elvis impersonator—one of the celebrity look-alikes who hung out there for the tourists. “He can’t just run away. We have to—”

The blaring of a car horn cut me off, and it was joined by a second and then a third. The cars ahead had started moving and I was blocking traffic.

“Olivia, go and get him!” I screamed over the horns, which were growing in number and volume.

Olivia jumped out—and so did Nebala and Koyati. For a split second I almost yelled at them to get back in the car, but really, she might need their help. Besides, they would be all together in one place, and that wasn’t bad.

The horns kept blaring and I quickly drove off. I had to find a place to pull over, but where was I going to park on Hollywood Boulevard? There had to be someplace to park here, didn’t there? Wait, there was a spot.

I turned the wheel, put my hand on the horn, and bumped up onto the sidewalk as tourists scattered out of
the way like a flock of birds. I turned off the car and jumped out, running back along the crowded sidewalk. There were mobs of gawking tourists, cameras in hand, wandering or clustered in little knots around the different stars set into the sidewalk, or standing around, posing for pictures with different impersonators.

It was surreal to fly by Superman, and then Elmo, and then a Marilyn Monroe impersonator who looked astonishingly like the real Marilyn, with platinum-blonde hair and a twirly white dress. Maybe if I hadn’t been moving so fast I might have seen the flaws.

I caught flashes of red, and then the three Maasai appeared through the crowd. They were all crowded around Elvis.

“Everybody smile!” Olivia sang out, and all four of them—including Koyati—flashed big grins. The strangest thing was seeing Koyati smile—he
never
smiled.

She clicked a picture with her cellphone.

“Let me take one more, just to be sure,” she said, and they posed again.

Elvis held his thumbs up in the air. He did look like Elvis—well, the overweight, white-jumpsuit, big-sideburns, Vegas Elvis.

“Great shot!” Olivia said.

She showed me the picture. It was pretty good. All four of the subjects crowded around and looked, nodding their heads in agreement.

“That’s a fine picture, young lady,” Elvis said. He had the voice down perfectly—a southern gentleman.

He held out his hand toward Olivia. Did he want to shake hands with her?

“Any amount would be appreciated, ma’am,” he said.

That’s right. They expected people to give them a tip!

“Do you take credit cards?” Olivia asked.

“Do I look like a store?”

His Elvis voice had flattened out and was replaced by a thick New Jersey accent—he sounded sort of like Elvis playing a gangster.

“Sorry, I don’t have any cash.” Olivia turned to me. “Alexandria, do you have any money?”

“Sure, some … maybe.”

I opened up my purse and started rummaging around—and my Maasai started to wander off.

“Olivia, stay with them!” I called out. “How much do you charge?” I asked as I pulled out some bills.

“It isn’t a specific amount,” he said, once again sounding Elvis-like. “Whatever you feel is appropriate.”

“Is five dollars appropriate?”

“I would gladly accept that if you felt that was sufficient.”

“So you usually get more than that … right?”

“Some people, especially when there’s more than one person posing with me, very generously provide a twenty-dollar tip.”

“Twenty dollars for twenty seconds?” I gasped. “The real Elvis didn’t make that much, and he could sing.”

“Who says I can’t sing?” He grabbed my hand, dropped to one knee, and started crooning to me.
“Love meeee tender … love meeee sweeeet … never let meeee go!”

People stopped and stared. Cameras started clicking, and people giggled and pointed.

“That’s great,” I said, and tried to take back my hand. He held tight and jerked me forward slightly. “You can stop now.”

“Yooou have made my life compleeeete … aaand I loooove yooou so!”

He wasn’t stopping—instead he was getting louder.

“Love meeee tender … love meeee true … all my dreeee-aaaams fulfilled!”

“That’s okay, you can stop … Please stop!” I begged.

I continued to struggle to get free, but he wrapped his second hand around my hand, locking it in place. For a split second I thought about kicking him, but popping Elvis in front of an adoring crowd didn’t seem right, or smart.

“You can have the twenty dollars,” I said, holding it out to him with my free hand.

He looked up at me and smirked but kept singing as the crowd cheered him on—that was worth more to him than the money. He got louder and more dramatic. I stood there, helpless, at the centre ring in the Elvis circus. Why couldn’t he at least have been the pre-fried-food, pre-jumpsuit, pre-chubby Elvis? That man was seriously
hot
in his prime.

He finished the final line with a flourish, and the crowd went wild, screaming and yelling and whistling and cheering. He released my hand, and I felt like cheering too because I was free. He took a bow. I started to move away when suddenly he grabbed my hand again, spun me back around, threw his arm around
me, and dipped me back. I could see where this was heading, so before he could kiss me I twisted and ducked under his arm and made my escape, for real this time. Still, the crowd went crazy!

I staggered away through the tourist mob, which parted and applauded as I pushed through. I looked back over my shoulder to see people pressing bills into Elvis’s hands.

Up ahead I saw Olivia and the guys. Great, we could all get out of here and—Unbelievable
—they
were now posing for pictures! There were tourists standing around the three of them and having their pictures taken with the Maasai!

“We have to get going before my car gets towed away,” I said to Olivia.

“We can’t go yet.”

“What?”

“I think we need to stay for just a while longer.”

“But … but why?” I asked.

“Do you think you and Elvis are the only ones making money here?” She held up her hand. It was filled with bills. “So far we’ve made almost sixty dollars!”

I could hardly believe my eyes, but as I stood there another group of tourists moved into position to have their pictures taken with the Maasai.

“Excuse me,” Olivia said to me. “I’ve got to go and collect some more money. Why don’t you move the car someplace and then walk back? Who knows how much we might have earned by then?”

She left me standing there, too stunned to respond, but she was right. I did have to move my car or else—

“Excuse me, ma’am.”

I turned. It was Elvis! This was like a nightmare that wouldn’t stop. I backed off a step. Why wouldn’t he leave me alone? Was this about getting his tip?

“Here, the twenty,” I said, offering him the bill that was still in my hand.

“I don’t want your money. I want to
give
you money. Here’s your cut,” he said.

“What?”

“I made over two hundred dollars … for one song! Isn’t that amazing?” he exclaimed.