Lemons 03 Stroke of Genius (5 page)

God damn it. Lousy tramp just made me laugh.

“This guy’s dicks so small, bacteria laughs at it,” I cackled.

“That’s my boy!” Elise exclaimed. “Thank you! Don’t stop now.”

“Let’s see. It’s so small, when it’s cold outside it actually gets bigger.”

“Oh, what about, it’s so small, sperm has to come out one at a time.”

“OH MY GOD! ELISE!”

***

By the end of the work day, Elise and I were pretty much back to normal. My happiness facade was good enough, I guess. I couldn’t shake this weird emotion I kept feeling deep in my gut, though. I didn’t like it. Not one bit.

After going through every word of the skimpy police report and studying the (now) comical pictures of the deceased, we decided we had no real leads here and I would get my secret wish. We were off to Vegas.

We met back at Elise’s house again and worked out all the details. Jamie agreed to watch the kids while we were gone. We had recently begun paying her, against her will, but she was way too much of an asset to us to take for granted.

We assumed we wouldn’t be more than a few days. In fact, I had a pretty strong feeling this case was going to be a complete dud. After only a week or so it was already cold. And closed. Nobody much cares about accidental deaths. We would need to get extremely lucky to find anything. I didn’t have my hopes up. I was pretty excited about hanging out in Vegas though. Stupid, stupid Vegas.

Elise booked us a room at the Myra, which kinda pissed me off. They stole all my money now I have to give them more? Where is the justice in that?

Mark my words Myra, I shall exact my revenge!

Exact it? Is that right? No time to look it up. Have packing to do. Heading home.

***

I packed enough for about four weeks. I usually do. Better safe than sorry, though. Especially after our last trip where we stayed like a million days longer than we were supposed to.

I was too excited to sleep so I got on my bank’s crappy website. I was surprised to see that it was actually working. I took a notebook from my shelf and wrote down every transaction from the month of December. When I was done, I went to my credit card’s website and checked all those recent transactions and compared them to my bank’s transactions. If both of my cards were stolen, the odds would be good they were stolen from the same place.

It was easy enough to narrow down. During the entire month, I had only used both cards at one place. The Sav-Mor Grocery Store across the street from my house in the shopping center where I got hit by a car two years ago. I remember it well. I did some shopping for my house and the office. My personal items I used my debit card for, the office stuff I used my business card.

That’s where it had to have happened. Someone jacked my shit from the stupid grocery store. This means that it is a local operation. When I get back from Vegas, I will need to go visit this place and see what’s up. It was a good lead and I was excited to bust the son of a bitch that ripped me off.

I lay on the sofa and cuddled up with Wrecker. I had a big day tomorrow and needed my rest.

Didn’t happen. I stayed up til 4:30 watching six straight episodes of Greatest American Hero on Hulu. (believe it or not!)

8.

I’ll save you the details of our ridiculously long drive to Vegas. We actually got a nice, early start, but it was killed by traffic, rain and an accident. And my little girl bladder. We had dropped the kids and Wrecker off with Jamie, then hit the road. The average drive time from Bakersfield to Las Vegas should be about four hours or so. Our trip took seven. I wanted to smash my face into the steering wheel on several occasions. I tried my best to occupy the time with many of my humorous observations, mostly commercial themed, like;

-What’s the deal with commercials for stores that say they’ll beat any price or it’s free? Like, why wouldn’t they just undercut the lowest price by a dollar instead of losing the entire cost of something by giving it away? “What?! That other store has it for two hundred, ninety-nine dollars and ninety EIGHT cents?! Fuck it! I can’t go any lower! Just take the fucking thing!” I don’t even want it! For some reason I just don’t see that happening.

-Or, If you or anyone you know have died from Whatever Drug, call this number now. If I died…call this number.

-Or, what’s the deal with every single commercial that features a married couple, the wife is always a hot babe and the husband is a loafy, balding moron? Duhhhh, my wife said she ate Boston Creme Pie every day for a week and lost five pounds. Duhhhhh, where da pie at?! Gah!

-And like, nobody is being fooled by you saying your shitty oven bake pizza is being confused with an actual delivered pizza from a real restaurant. Come on, DiGornio, we’re not all slack jawed, inbred hillbillies who will believe whatever you tell us.

-And what’s the deal with people dancing while cleaning? Nobody does this. Ever.

-And don’t get me started on Pajama Jeans! Have you seen these things? Oh goodness. They’re basically pajama pants that look like jeans so you can wear them in public. It breaks my heart a little more each time I see this commercial. Their slogan should just be: Pajama Jeans; For when you just don’t give a fuck anymore.

-What’s the deal with lawyers in commercials who wear cowboy hats? Nooooo thank you! You want me to hire this guy? How about I just light my money on fire while sticking large foreign objects up my b-hole? Pretty sure the outcome would be the same

-Or that pizza roll commercial where the goofy looking stupid mom takes the disgusting rolled up slop from the microwave and the kid’s hand comes smashing through the wall to grab one and the mom just stands there with a dumb ass look on her face and says “Okay…. Okay….” Gah, that commercial makes me want to punch kittens!

It’s stupid shit like that that makes me convinced that every single marketing firm on the planet should have at least one black dude. I guarantee you, ninety-nine percent of those terrible-terrible commercials we are forced to watch in-between reruns of our favorite shows were thought up, written, produced and created by a room full of crackas. There is no way a black man would stand for some of the stupid shit that rapes my eyes and ears every single day. Black dudes would have cooler ideas; they’d bring back Billy D. Williams to push some shitty malt liquor or something. When some whitey came up with another one of their ridiculous ideas, the black dude would stand up and say “Yo! Dat’s whack,” or whatever it is that they say. Maybe pull a gun on them. I don’t know. I don’t have many black friends. (Note to self: Please find a black friend so jokes do not seem racist. Oh! And a Mexican friend. Perhaps two Mexican friends. Good lord, I need Mexican friends. Perhaps an entire Chevy van with blacked out windows full of Mexican friends.)

Speaking of; How come on St. Patrick’s Day, everyone wants to be Irish, but noooobody wants to be Mexican on Cinco De Mayo? I mean, these drunken assholes will wear the most ridiculous, green hats, ties or costumes for St. Paddy’s but there isn’t a single person out there who will wear a flannel shirt with only the top button buttoned and steal a kid’s bike on Cinco De Mayo. Poor Mexicans. Apparently, they rate even lower than the drunken, ill-tempered Irish, even with their Irish Curse.

But anyway, that is just a small sample of what a car drive with me is like. You can thank me for saving you the other six hours and fifty-five minutes poor Elise had to endure. Anyway.

The lights of Vegas came into view and my frustrations melted away. I was ready to have some fun. Oh, and um, work. Of course. I had hit up the ATM at my good bank with my savings account and took out a rather ridiculous sum to lose (win) at the tables! Elise didn’t know, though. Didn’t want to hear any nagging. As far as she knows, I have four hundred dollars on me from the office safe. Yep, that’s it. Just four hundred measly dollars.

I checked the speedometer, I was going 110.

“Slow down, Speed Racer,” Elise said. “Vegas isn’t going anywhere. They’ll still take your money an hour from now, too. Just ease it up, Red Asphalt.”

“Such a party pooper!”

Fifteen minutes later we were exiting the freeway on Frank Sinatra Blvd. The air was electric, the lights abuzz. It was pure sensory overload, something that used to scare the hell out of me when I was a child. We spotted our hotel. It was a massive structure. On our way up to it we passed a pyramid, a castle, a Hooters and giant MGM lions. Then, when I overshot our hotel and had to flip around, we passed the Eiffel Tower, the Roman Colosseum, a giant active volcano and dancing water. When we finally arrived, I realized that ours was least inspired hotel on the strip. A drab, cold bit of architecture that was a bit too modern, even for my high standards. You can have a five-star hotel and little personality, ya know. This place had nothing. Of course.

We parked in the underground structure and made our way to the front desk. We decided to check in first and get organized before we started poking around. We had reserved the two-bedroom penthouse. It was a little pricier but the office area would serve our purpose well. We went to check in and were told by the idiot at the front desk that our room wasn’t ready. In fact, it was never going to be ready. The previous occupant had decided to stay a few extra nights and refused to leave. I hate hate hate this hotel!

I tried to keep my cool. I explained that this was unacceptable. The room was fully paid for, this was bullshit.

“I’m sorry sir,” the dumb cootch at the front desk told me. “I’m afraid we don’t have the room. There is nothing I can do about it. I can offer you a standard room.”

“You can offer me-Wait, no. This is complete bullshit. If you don’t have the room we goddamn paid for and reserved, you need to UPGRADE US! Upgrade! Not DOWNGRADE! Do you understand the difference?”

“Yes sir, I understand.”

Arguing like this went on for another twenty minutes. I was completely shocked that a staff of such obvious intelligence would ever process a fraudulent or stolen credit card. Nope, not this crack squad of brain aces! I turned around and looked across the casino. Tons of people crowded the floors, drinking glass after glass of liquid-stupid and dropping their mortgage payments on that slim chance the rest of their lives wouldn’t be spent with store-brand groceries and basic cable.

“Sir?” a voice from behind beckoned me.

“Finally. Shit. That was like waiting for an action scene in The Thin Red Line.”

“Sir?”

“Forget it.”

Anyway, I finally got to speak to the “manager”. She wasn’t much more help. She was rude, lazy and completely incompetent. This hotel was in desperate need of a new management team. Who did they pay off to get that five-star rating?

Honest to crap, another two and a half hours later, we were finally entering out two bedroom suite, which was a downgrade from our penthouse, with a wonderful view of the top of the building behind us and some desert. Yay. My frustration and anger actually kept me totally preoccupied during the rather speedy elevator ride up to our floor. Good thing. I didn’t even realize we were on the elevator until we were stepping off. Elise was impressed. Now I just had to figure out ways to manage going back down. Anyway, thanks for the downgrade!

Stupid Myra Hotel!

At first glance, the room appeared rather nice; two nice big bedrooms and a common room with a decent television, sofa, small kitchen table and kitchenette. The bathrooms were also impressive with a large tub, a steam shower, two sinks and a toilet featuring a warm seat and a bidet. It was almost tempting enough to make me try out a used toilet seat.

Almost.

If the room had stayed that impressive I would have been happy and able to put our previous setbacks out of my mind. No luck though, of course. I opened my suitcase and removed my pre packed Rockstars. Then I took out my fresh can of Lysol to spray everything down. I was going to give the inside of the fridge a good once over so I could put the drinks in there when I discovered that it was not cold. Nope. Not cold at all. What it was, though, was fucking broken! I called the front desk. Apparently, someone would be up to fix it.

I wasn’t holding my breath.

Second, I plug my iPod into the dock near the TV. Does it work? Of course not. I called the front desk again. Someone would be up shortly. MmHmm.

I was getting aggravated and was mildly pleased to see Elise getting rather pissed off herself. She decided she would take a bath to try and calm down and relax a bit. I told her I would be sitting here in an anger filled stupor.

Less than two minutes later I hear a loud GOD DAMN IT echo through the bathroom and rattle my soul. I quickly shot up and headed into Elise’s bathroom. My first step onto the tile soaked my sock. The ground was covered in water. Apparently, Elise had the nerve to turn the jets on in the bathtub. Instead of shooting air and bubbles into the tub, this particular unit shot water out of the base and onto the floor. Elise was livid. So pissed, in fact, that she didn’t even mention me standing there while she was naked.

“Get dressed, Archie!” she barked at me. “You, my good man, are taking me out for dinner and drinks. Lots and lots of drinks.”

“You know she’s dead?” I ask.

“What?! What the hell are you talking about?!”

“Mayra…Urkel’s girlfriend from Family Matters. She died a long time ago from cancer while the show-‘

“GET DRESSED!!!”

Yikes! I stepped back a few feet and told her I would go get ready. She got out and started getting dressed while I went back to my suitcase and unpacked my sheets. I stripped the linen from the bed and began replacing them with mine after I drenched the mattress in Lysol. Elise caught me.

“What the hell are you doing?”

(The mouth on her lately, I swear.)

“I’m putting sheets on my bed.”

“Well, this is a new one. I don’t recall you doing this at the beach. You were terrified of a motel but not the sheets. We come to a five-star hotel and now the sheets disgust you?”

“The motel was at the beach. A nice family vacation spot. These sheets are located in this aids-pool called Las Vegas, with their hookers and their crabs and their greaseball, juiced-up douchebags in Tapout and Affliction shirts. There is no way I’m lying on these disgusting sheets. Jesus himself could descend from heaven and wash them with his magical bible powers and they still wouldn’t be clean enough for me to sleep on. No way, no how. Now get dressed.”