Good to Be God (3 page)

Normal names were out: Pussyfiller, The Pan, Earmuseum, Unibrow, Clingfilm, Shootastic. This might have been for the same reason that criminals have street names, so no one knows the real one. Many of the nicknames were giveaways however: The Pan had a frying pan fixed on the back of his jacket, and Pussyfiller was mostly interested in that.

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GOOD TO BE GOD

The only one of Rehab’s circle with a normal name was Larry.

Rehab had a massive transparent plastic container next to him, the sort you’d fill up with potato salad for a picnic.

Inside was a large spider. Bigger than my hand. Certainly the largest I’ve ever seen, and I’ve been to a zoo or two. The large spiders I saw there, the tarantulas, were immobile and as exciting to watch as a tired pebble. This spider was drumming forcefully on the sides of the container in arachnid fury.

“Yeah, that’s right,” said Rehab. “You know how they say wild creatures don’t want trouble? They’ll only attack you if they’re threatened? They only want to be left alone? To be wild and do natural shit? Not Larry. He’ll attack you because you’re… there.

And if you’re not there… he’ll come looking for you.”

For the next two days I didn’t sleep much. Highlights included heavy cop betting on Larry, as he had a number of fights. Larry vs white mouse. Larry vs rat. Larry vs an especially hefty rat Clingfilm and I spent hours searching for in a drainage ditch.

Larry vs boa constrictor (this was much duller than it sounded

– the boa was huge, but lifeless, despite encouraging kicks from its owner). Larry vs an insultingly small spider Unibrow found on a plant and bet on simply to annoy Rehab (it was adjudged a draw, although nothing happened and Rehab insisted, “It’s too small for Larry to see.”) Finally, Larry vs a pitbull called Loco. Larry took out the pitbull with one bite and did a runner, several members of the audience getting above head height in palm trees in their ardour to give Larry plenty of clearance.

Three times a day a delivery van would present Rehab with a tray of tiramisu. The whole time I never saw him eat anything else or drink anything but cognac. I did my stuff for Nelson: I spent the float he’d given me. I gave away his catalogues, although we only went to the conference proper for half an 15

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hour because Rehab needed to borrow money. Two Costa Rican prostitutes I found in my bathroom recounted to me something of their country’s history, of which I was embarrassingly ignorant (apparently it’s one of the few countries that doesn’t have an army), before I redirected them to Pussyfiller.

We had a lively session at a shooting range, which had a long list of rules displayed in several places in head-sized letters.

There was only one rule we didn’t break, but when the owner of the shooting range is your friend who’s counting? I shall always remember fondly Shootastic blasting the ash off The Pan’s cigar with an armour-piercing round from a hundred feet (admittedly, it was a freakishly long cigar…).

One of the most memorable moments, however, was ostensibly trivial. I was helping Earmuseum and Unibrow carry a sofa out of the lobby of a snazzy hotel – we weren’t strictly speaking stealing it, because it was for a bet Earmuseum had made with The Pan. Earmuseum had been scathing about hotel security, and the low calibre of the employees. “Man, we could just walk in there, pick up a sofa, and walk out.” He was right.

He collected fifty dollars from The Pan and another hundred from the driver of a pickup truck who liked the sofa.

But as we were carrying the sofa out, although the security staff weren’t in evidence, I noticed this man looking right at me.

There was something familiar about him. Forties, stocky, shaved head. Actor? Politician? He was dressed Miami-style in a turquoise guayabera, and jewellery peeked from his chest, though I couldn’t tell whether the necklaces were some cultural-heritage crap or straight bling. But he looked right at me and he knew what we were doing.

As The Pan collected his money, I couldn’t stop thinking about the guy. You grow up in a big city you can recognize 16

GOOD TO BE GOD

someone heavy. A cop? Possibly, although frankly he appeared too intelligent. Much as I had cherished the company of Rehab and the boys, I hadn’t undergone any intellectual intimidation.

The police force tends not to attract the finest minds because you get paid very little, the worthless spit at you or try to kill you, and unlike the army you’re in trouble if you kill them back.

Bullet-headed and dark, I would have pegged him as a Turkish bus driver, Bahamian school football coach or Peruvian bricklayer, but for his presence in a luxury hotel, and the posturese of a summiteer. That aura comes to men when, although they may not have been as successful as they’d like, they’ve made it to a summit with a good view. High in their habitat. Content to sit back.

You may not be the most renowned gynaecologist, but you have the house, the holiday retreat, the right car, the boat, kids in good schools, money fattening in the bank, so you only work a few days a week: you’re a summiteer, you can sit at home and chuckle. Or take an insufficiently auctioned painter, whose work hasn’t made it to the biggest galleries, who hasn’t conquered the covers of magazines, but has a comfortable slot teaching, and was fêted enough to sleep with dozens of art students.

Sitbacker. Sure, we’d all like to go up another rung, to have another helping of chocolate (okay, not me), but the important work has been done.

I wanted to go over and say, “I’m sure I’d be better off knowing you.” But you can’t do that without looking gay or mentally ill.

And I had a full programme with Rehab and gang. But his stare stayed with me.

Adieu time came the next morning. All the cops were leaving, but I got one day extra in Miami, I suppose in case there was any 17

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bonus post-conference ingratiation to be done. I pass Nelson’s home details to Rehab. He’s still a little down about Larry’s escape. He takes his special tiramisu spoon and shovels up a mega-mouthful. “Where am I going to find attitude like that?”

We shake hands in the lobby. Enthusiastically, Rehab explains how keen he is to come and visit. I wonder how Nelson would cope with Rehab on his doorstep. I’m tempted to spill the truth, because it’s distasteful deceiving, even in a small way, someone you like. Fifteen minutes later, as I exit, Rehab is still in the driveway waiting for a taxi. I think he sees me but pretends he doesn’t.

G

Now, I’m not feeling so great. The solar high and eight-legged excitement of the last few days are fading. The prospect of return is in my face. Apart from some dirty bed linen I really have nothing to return to. The country already has more lighting salesmen than it needs. One of the seventy job applications I’ve written in the last month might have coughed up a lead, but I doubt it.

I was mulling it over, but I now announce it formally to myself: I’m not going back. If I’m finished, I might as well be finished with a tan.

I have a few friends, but they’re like Nelson, weighed down with family and job. They’re good for an appearance down the pub twice a year. And I’m not likely to get a job. The unemployed are always suspicious.
Why
are you out of work? The time you’ll be offered a job is when you have a job.

Then, although I have some faith in my abilities, companies can give a job to someone fifteen years younger than me who’s probably not as good as me, but not much worse and whom 18

GOOD TO BE GOD

they can pay half the salary, and who will work harder than I would. At my age, I should be high up the tree, hanging on grimly and voiding my bowels on those below.

I’m not going back: they’ll have to shoot me.

I consider suicide. I haven’t thought about it for a while.

It’s something I used to do for hours, like watching daytime television, or fantasizing about beating Hollis with a choice bit of iron piping. Suicide’s chief appeal is that it’s easy.

Going through with it isn’t. That requires some drive, but the mechanics are simple. Which of the following is easiest?

Filling in a ten-page job application form which contains several questions you don’t even understand? Moving house? Getting a qualification in computing or engineering? Trawling through the lonely hearts columns hoping for someone with decent conversation? Building up a business in executive toys on your own by working twelve-hour days for six years?

Or swallowing some pills?

Suicide panders to our laziness. And laziness, laziness always wins. Sooner or later. That’s the only law.

And why not kill yourself when you’re in a good mood?

Why go out miserable? Why not quit when you’re ahead? The notion of checking out in a good mood in a good hotel suddenly appeals to me.

The main reason I ponder suicide a lot is because I know I won’t. I have the problem of being a coward and a weakling.

But I’m not going back: I’d sooner die here than return to the aged urinal that’s London. Evidently I’ve been doing something wrong with my life. It just hasn’t worked. There’s no unfacting facts. In a modest, scarcely noticeable way, I’ve tried being sensible and honest. Forget that. I don’t know what I’m going to do next, but forget that.

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Strolling down Collins Avenue, I abjure reason and jettison honesty. It’s fantastic. I resolve to laugh at qualities such as reliability, compassion, punctuality, patience, industry and the truth. I let off a cackle as proof of my determination.

I immediately decide to bribe myself. It’s rather pathetic, but since I still control Nelson’s credit card, and since my diet before Miami was toast and scrambled eggs, I’m buying myself an obscenely expensive snack, goose liver and caviar with gold flakes, something like that. When in doubt, call in the goose liver and caviar.

I head for the Loews. Everyone should stay in a luxury hotel once. Staying in a luxury hotel removes the hankering to stay in a luxury hotel. It’s delightful to sit by the swimming pool with someone world-famous, so you can go on about having sat at the swimming pool with someone world-famous, but you only need to do it once.

Curiously, the thicker the luxury, the snottier the staff are, and unless you own a country or are one of the ten most fame-heavy figures in the world, they won’t take you seriously. By some process the staff come to believe they are rich and powerful.

The best hotels are the good three stars, spick and span with cheery staff.

As I transect the cavernous lobby I notice a board listing the meetings and events the hotel is hosting.
The American Society
of Golf Course Architects
are in town,
The Organization of
Competitive Eaters
, some entity called
Whomp-Bomp-A-Loo-Bomp A Womp-Bam-Boom Boom Bam, Baby
and a talk on

“
Not Being
”.

The menu is not as extravagant as I was hoping for. No ortolan-and-panda sandwich. I settle for a tuna ceviche, and while I’m waiting for luck and debating which would be the 20

GOOD TO BE GOD

more dishonest, walking off without paying at all or using Nelson’s card, I see him.

I see him disappearing into a doorway, with a model-grade woman looping around him like an eager assistant. It’s him, the Sofawatcher. In a hotel full of the self-important and wealthy, he’s cornered all the gravity. I have to find out more.

Outside the doorway is a sign “Not Being – A Guide to Vajrayana Buddhism with His Holiness, the Lama Lodo”.

On the stage I can see the Sofawatcher getting ready to talk in the way that talkers getting ready to talk get ready. So, he’s a salvation salesman. That’s a surprise, but I go in.

You probably have to register or pay some fee for this, but of course, I don’t do stuff like that any more. I settle in at the back, and check out the audience.

Two or three students. One little old lady. You could give a talk on any subject, anywhere in the world, anytime, and there’d be one little old lady. The obligatory nutcase is in attendance, twitching away, pulling at his beard. A woman with a humourless stare (and with her face I’d be humourless too) fiddling with a notepad, who’s probably the local journalist. A couple of couples who look like concern is their major concern.

Then, more significantly, a group of well-tanned, well-off women in their thirties, say one marriage down, seeking some shoring. One sitting three rows in front of me reaching down into her bag has a section of back exposed: a hard, fat-deprived coccyx with half a Chinese inscription showing. For forty seconds or so, I have an imaginary, largely physical affair with her.

They say marriage is being stuck in a room with someone who irritates you. It’s no use trying to avoid that. The best deal is finding someone who doesn’t irritate you very much, and who 21

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sporadically gives you something in return: money, an amusing comment, support for your exercise regime, a tasty meal. “Are you sure about this?” I’d said to my wife as she walked out. She was.

In the past they understood things better. I remember my grandmother saying, “For years I kept hoping your grandfather would die, but now we need the money.” This was when he came out of retirement to ride with a boiler fitter, who was a tremendous boiler fitter, but who couldn’t read or write. My grandfather accompanied him to do the paperwork. Customers loved it, since they had the impression they were getting more service with two fitters turning up. My grandmother was of a generation that understood you weren’t here to enjoy yourself.

You didn’t divorce, you hoped for a bus with bad brakes. But she stuck it out and got what she wanted: peace during the day and a few extra quid.

I think my wife was wrong. I think I was right; but I’ve noticed that being right doesn’t do you much good. Being right doesn’t improve the quality of your life, any more than wearing yellow socks.

“Move down to the front, please,” says the Lama, “It’s an ancient Tibetan belief that sitting in the front row is excellent for the karma.” The Lama couldn’t be more showbiz if he had a backing band, dry ice and laser beams. Within a minute, he owns the audience.