Worst. Person. Ever(14)
The point is that I remember LAX back in the day, and was kind of looking forward to a little dash of that California energy. And as my pretzelled, blood-starved body limped out of the Jetway and into the terminal, I thought that a ghastly mistake had been made. Maybe the plane had landed in Tijuana. The concourse was full of short little munchkins percolating away in Mexican or whatever it is they speak in California these days. A filthy, clapped-out terminal building. Darth Vader Homeland Security warning messages blaring every thirty seconds. Police and K9 search squads imperiously sniffing everything. Greasy fast-food stands. I mean, if they’re going to ape Mexico, why not throw in some donkey cock floorshows and a few five-minute hand-job booths? How hard is it to get a titty bar going? Staple-gun a black bed-sheet up in a corner, break out a halfway decent flashlight and start minting twenty-dollar bills. Gentlemen, it’s not rocket science.
Neal saw me coming and waved me over to our gate. “That was a good flight, Ray. I saw the Flintstones movie four times. That Joan Collins, sure, she may have been driving ambulances in the Korean War, but she’s still got something going. And how are you?”
“Fucking Americans.”
“I have to agree. I was expecting something a bit fancier, maybe even kind of like that bar scene in Star Wars.” At that moment half of Peru cut in front of us and clattered away to some distant gate. “The one thing I wasn’t expecting was …”
“An anthill? Neal, please tell me that our flight to Honolulu is on time and that I have a seat in first class.”
“As your personal assistant I’m on it.”
Neal talked to the gate agent and confirmed that all was well and that boarding would start in two hours. I quickly found the business lounge—the very one in which I’d banged young Shelley, no less—and even found a vacancy in my old toilet stall, and sat down to have a verklempt little moment while I attempted to relax my churning guts.
When I got back to the lounge, I soon learned that, in LAX, free mini bottles of booze were treasures of yore. In fact, anything alcoholic was behind a bar backed by a trio of shrieking wide-screen TVs carrying that ghastly style of news Americans delight in, where three crawls are going simultaneously and where the stupidest incidents are inflated into cosmic importance by the world’s ugliest reporters. Has this country never heard of a casting couch?
Frank:
Julie, we’ve just reached our contact with Homeland Security. Apparently the kitten is still stuck up the tree.
Julie:
Frank, did Homeland Security say whether this was a politically motivated stranding?
Frank:
Julie, according to my sources, the kitten went up the tree—and remember, Julie, this isn’t official yet—the kitten climbed the tree with no backers or lobbying groups in mind.
Julie:
Frank, let’s go to live cam so that viewers at home can get a look at the kitten. Also, I’ve just heard from Rick in Atlanta that the kitten has a Facebook page showing some images that some viewers might find disturbing. Rick?
Rick:
Thanks, Julie, these images aren’t for everyone. A visit to the kitten’s Facebook page revealed images of not just one, but several molested dead birds lying on its owner’s front door welcome mat. In the kitten community, we’ve been told, these sorts of ritualistic murders are called “gifts.” Back to you, Julie.
Talk about a culture in free fall. At the bar I asked for a double vodka tonic and received a snitty look from LACEY. “I’m sorry, sir, but federal regulations prohibit the sale of any drink containing liquor in excess of one point five ounces.”
“Can I order two drinks, then?”
“I’ve been told to exercise my judgment as to whether I think the purchaser intends to drink them both, and if I think that is the case, I have an obligation to sell that person just the one drink,” LACEY said.
“Okay, I give up. I’ll have a single vodka tonic.”
In the absence of any other customers, LACEY ever so grudgingly mixed me a vodka tonic that stank of floor cleaning products. “How much do I owe you?”
“Cocktails are complimentary to visitors to the lounge, but customers are not constrained from tipping if they wish to.”
“Do you find yourself getting many tips, LACEY?”
“I believe in doing a good job.”
“So if I don’t give you a tip, you’ll still think you are doing a good job?”
“I suppose so, yes.”
“Must be fun being you.” I downed the rest of my vodka and bounced off to rejoin Neal, who, to my joy, sat dejectedly at the gate, surrounded by Peruvians or Nicaraguans or Mexicans. All that was missing were hutches full of angry chickens and the sound of pan flutes.