Malibu Motel Read online

  “Oh yeah okay I see. Cause I was gonna say,” I force a chuckle, “I thought it was Jack.”

  “Sounds like you said it anyway.”

  Okay, so Jack is a jackass. No problem. Plenty of people are like that at first.

  Round two: “So what do you drive?” I ask.

  “The Ferrari. It’s the red one,” Jack says with a straight face.

  “Well I figured you drove a Ferrari, but which one?”

  Jack shifted in his chair to show his annoyance in as subtle-yet-still-obvious a way as possible. “The red LaFerrari. There are two Ferrari LaFerraris in the group, one is yellow, one is red. Mine is the red LaFerrari.”

  “Oh you said LaFerrari, I thought you just said the Ferrari. Okay, wow, well done. That’s a beautiful car.” I pause to give Jack a chance to ask me what I drive.

  Jack courtesy smiles and takes a sip of his wine, then looks back toward a nearby conversation.

  I turn to Mia, who is texting. “Any luck?” I ask.

  “Nothing yet,” she says. “Might just be a club night for you.”

  “For me? Are you not partying tonight?”

  “No, I have my daughters this weekend. I’m going straight back to my place after this.”

  “Oh yeah I forgot,” I say. “Well give them my best. Don’t worry about me, I’ll find something to do tonight.”

  We both scroll on our phones for a while until Mia asks, “What about Jamie? I thought you’d be having steamy dates in Paris by now.”

  “I wish,” I grumble. “Jamie is either avoiding me or is the busiest person on earth. Either way, I fear the worst.”

  “Caish, don’t be so dramatic. Jamie probably just needs some space, you know how that goes. Just find somebody to fill the time until Jamie comes around,” Mia counsels.

  “Yeah, I know. It’s just tough sometimes.”

  Back to our phones.

  The evening’s conversation ambles along, assisted by countless bottles of wine and chocolate bento boxes. I thought after dessert we’d stand out in the parking lot and geek out over each other’s cars for a while, but when we reached the parking lot most people just started leaving. A dozen of Italy’s finest contributions to the world stir to life and fill the evening air with divine melodies. There goes Jack in his red LaFerrari.

  I turn to Mia, “Do you want to see my 330? It’s in the McDonalds parking lot right there.” I point across the street.

  “Oh definitely,” she says, “but I really should be getting back. I told the sitter I’d be back by nine thirty and it’s almost ten thirty. Why don’t you swing by tomorrow afternoon and let me see it in the daylight?”

  “This weekend I’ll be in Monterey, but maybe I’ll come by Monday evening,” I say.

  “Sounds like a plan, drive safe.”

  “Will do. See ya later Mia.”

  The 330 is right where I left it. A few young guys are taking selfies with it when I walk up.

  “Damn! Is this yours?” one of them shouts as if I’m still across the street.

  “Sure is.”

  “Ho. Ly. Shit. I have never seen a Ferrari 330 GT in the flesh. What year is it? ‘65?”

  Wow, this guy knows his stuff. “Yeah, 1965.” I can tell by the way he dresses and his uncouth enthusiasm that he doesn’t own anything near this, so I don’t ask what he drives (spare him the embarrassment). But I was like these guys (without wealth, that is), and I remember how exciting it used to be to see cars of this caliber, so I’m happy to let them enjoy this incredible piece of art and machinery. I pop the hood and they’re all but hypnotized.

  “Did you do the restoration yourself?” they ask, almost in unison.

  “No, I bought this right after it was restored,” I say. “I’ve restored other cars, but I figured I’d leave any Ferrari restoration to the professionals.”

  “Oh yeah, good call. So do you own an auto body shop or something?”

  “No, I’m an entrepreneur. But I worked as a mechanic for almost fifteen years, so I know my way around an engine.”

  “How does it feel to drive something like this?” the younger one asks.

  “Nothing too special. You get used to it,” I say.

  “Really? I guess a whaler’s wonder wanes, right?”

  “What?”

  “Ya know, Moby Dick? It’s like ‘in a whaler wonders soon wane,’ or something like that.”

  “Oh yeah, probably,” I say. I have no idea what this kid is talking about.

  “So is this the original 400 Superamerica 4 liter V12 engine?”

  The questions continue this way for ten or fifteen minutes. Sometimes I can’t tell if people are really curious about certain details of the car, or if they just want to find something I don’t know so they can go home and tell their friends they saw a Ferrari and knew more about it than the owner. Either way, I field their questions and we conclude cordially with handshakes and first-name introductions. They ask for my number (“ya know, so we can invite you to some car shows coming up”), but I’m smart enough to avoid giving any personal information to random lurkers. Their swooning resumes when I start the engine and they take pictures and videos as I pull away.

  The night is new and I don’t have plans. I have a few hours before I need to get to the airport and I’m not one to waste time. There aren’t many clubs in Malibu, so I decide to drive to Santa Monica. But before I do, I need to hustle home and change cars. If I’m driving around looking for a good time I need to be in something exotic. Classics don’t get nearly the attention as my cocaine-white Lamborghini Aventador. When I get home I spend a couple of minutes in front of the mirror, then I get the night started with some blow—just a couple lines though, all things in moderation. Alert, energized, and ready to rock, I hop in the Lambo and break the sound barrier on my way down PCH.

  I slow down when I pass Ocean Boulevard and drive just over a walking pace when I get to Santa Monica Boulevard. I scan the packed sidewalk for people that I’d like to spend the night with. While I’m waiting at the light on Third Street, a couple interested passersby glance at me with hungry eyes. Their bodies and clothes tell me all I need to know and I wave them over. One of them leans on the passenger door and looks in at me.

  I keep it light: “Evening. Any plans for the night?”

  “Yeah, actually. You?” Hungry Eyes says.

  “Nothing that can’t be rescheduled. Where you two goin’?”

  “A little later we are hittin’ up Hyde.”

  “Bullshit, you can’t get into Hyde,” I say politely. Nobody unfamous or not rich strolls into one of LA’s most renowned nightclubs on a Friday night, not even with the looks of Hungry Eyes.

  “Yeah, actually, we can. Anyway, have a good night Lamborghini Bambini.”

  “Woah hey hold on, I can get you in,” I say, reeling them back in. At this point the traffic light had turned green and a few cars had the gumption to honk. They can go around.

  Hungry Eyes smirked and said, “Whatever, we’re getting in without you. But if you want to tag along I guess that’d be chill.”

  “Where are you parked?”

  “We’re ubering. And if you plan on partying with us, you probably should too.”

  This was sounding good. “I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it,” I say. “I’ll drive, let your friend catch up with us at Hyde.”

  “Thanks, but our Uber is the one honking at you. We’ll meet you there.”

  They get in the car behind me and I drive toward Hollywood. I drive slow so the Uber will pass me (I’d rather not drive all the way to Hyde if they aren’t really going), then follow it to Hyde.

  When we arrive a valet approaches and I tell him to clear a spot for me and that I will be parking my own car. The valet runs to a nearby car and drives it out of the way and I park within eyesight of Hyde’s entrance. The bouncer needs to see me in my car, it’s the only sure way I’ll get in, and I need to be extra sure tonight or I might not be able to get Hungry Eyes in. I rev a coup
le times before I turn the car off, just for good measure. I step out and light a cigarette while I wait for Hungry Eyes to come over, friend in tow. But instead, Hungry Eyes walks straight to the bouncer, glances back at me briefly, then walks right in. I flick the barely smoked cigarette into oblivion and walk toward the entrance. Having made eye contact with the bouncer several times at this point (both while in the car and standing next to it), I feel good about my chances. Sure enough, after a few formalities (“sorry, your name is not on the list, back of the line”) I slip him a hundred and he lets me in.

  Like any nightclub, the music is loud, the light is low, alcohol is everywhere, and most people are on their phones. Unlike most nightclubs, Hyde is packed with rich, influential people. And there are often a few famous people stashed away in private rooms. People are packed in tight, and getting a seat at the bar is not an option. I open a tab with shouts and reaches and take my cocktail on a scouting mission to find Hungry Eyes or any other familiar face. I’m in no hurry though, at a place like this I’m among my peers.

  Several people recognize me and we make small talk. As small groups form, we don’t so much talk with each other as we talk while standing by each other. Each person looks up from their phone to make passing eye contact with whoever’s talking, scans the room, then looks back down at their phone. Each scan is conducted as casually as possible. We all pay just enough attention to the conversation to make it seem as if we care about what each other is saying. While I’m scanning the room and considering who I could hook up with, I spot Hungry Eyes moving back to a private area. I excuse myself and snake through the crowd. By the time I get to where I saw Hungry Eyes, security stops me. I try most of the usual “do you know who I am” phrases but to no avail. I even offer him a Franklin. Security tells me not to make problems and to enjoy the rest of the club.

  Heading back to the place I was before, I find the group I was chatting with has moved to the dancefloor. I set my drink down and move into the sea of pulsing people.

  We drink, “dance,” and dabble in drugs and debauchery. I catch glimpses of Hungry Eyes throughout the night, even making eye contact a couple of times, but we never talk. What a tease. Whatever, I’m over it. Besides, I should get going, I have a flight to catch.

  I close my tab, step out, and call Sergio to come drive me home. Sergio, a man of humble circumstances, loves exotic cars. One morning, while he was cleaning my windows, I offered him an opportunity to drive the cars he loves so much. Here was the deal: he could drive my cars whenever I needed to get home but was too... let’s say incapacitated. It was a win-win. I trusted him and needed somebody to drive me and my car home, and he always wanted an opportunity to drive sports cars. It was a little after 1:00 a.m., and Sergio sounded groggy. But he was at Hyde in no time (I think he lives in Inglewood, so he had to have broken speed limits). I nap on the way home and wake up when he shifts into park.

  Looks like his wife followed us over. I tip them both for their time, then wobble inside and pack for my weekend in Monterey.

  I would never drive myself to the airport, even if I do have a hangar to park in. Sometimes it’s better to be driven than to drive. My chauffeur, Miles, is a few minutes early. He loads my luggage into the trunk of the Mercedes Maybach S600 and waits by the car as I tidy up. When I step out of the house Miles puts out his cigarette on the ground, pulls out a small canister (like the ones used to hold a roll of film) and places the cigarette into the container for later disposal. He then opens the passenger-side rear door and I slide into the most comfortable hand-tailored topstitched Nappa leather seat on the planet. I love this car. Even the refined sound of the door closing has been thoughtfully engineered. LEDs provide the cabin with a soft moonlight glow. Wood and leather cover every surface and are offset by brushed aluminum accents. I stretch out my legs and recline the seat as Miles guides us up the driveway. Without music playing the cabin of an S600 is virtually silent, so Miles puts on some Van Halen at a low volume. He knows me well.

  As we travel toward the 101, I pull out my phone and make sure the house is all buttoned up. Using a smart home app I close two windows, turn off all the interior lights (the exterior lights are automated), lock the doors, windows, and gate, and set the alarm. I text the pilots to make sure we’re on for our 3:00 a.m. flight to Monterey and they report they are running pre-flight checks. I check the Green Mountain app to see how quickly my wealth is multiplying. The green lines are steep; all is well.

  I must have drifted off because suddenly we’re pulling into a well-lit hangar and I can hear the hum of jet engines. When Miles opens my door the sound jolts me back to full alertness. The Gulfstream G500’s twin jets are warming up just outside of the hangar. Miles and a flight attendant carry my bags to the plane while one of the pilots greets me with a vigorous handshake. I haven’t met this pilot before. He says the weather looks good and he’s excited to get in the air.

  We walk out of the hangar and across the tarmac. I climb the airstair and find my way to a leather couch in the cabin. Most G500s are pretty similar, but this is the first time I’ve seen this interior layout. It seems more spacious than usual. I don’t own this private jet; I pay a yearly membership fee to a charter organization and I fly wherever I want, whenever I want, without having to deal with the hassle of ownership. We taxi to the runway and the cabin lights dim. After a brief announcement, the pilots put the lever to the metal and g-forces, sound, and speed increase in tandem. We skip down the runway then the ground drops away.

  After a few minutes of climbing, the steward approaches me and asks if I’d like anything to drink. The flight attendant’s pressed white uniform and tidy hair seem out of place at three o’clock in the morning. Too clear eyed. As if this poor service industry slave hasn’t had nearly the night one deserves. A name badge pinned to the flight attendant’s shirt has “Taylor” etched between two golden wings.

  “I’ll have whatever you’re having, Taylor,” I say.

  Taylor hardly blushes, “I wasn’t planning on having anything. But I would be happy to make recommendations.”

  “In that case,” I say, “I’ll have two glasses of your finest Pinot Noir.”

  “I don’t drink while I’m at work, but I appreciate the gesture,” Taylor states.

  “Well then clock out.”

  I think Taylor’s smirk turned into a smile as Taylor turned and walked away. The glance back over the shoulder confirms my suspicion. Taylor’s eyes say all that needs to be said.

  Taylor is not wearing a ring and we are the only two people in this flying island (besides the two pilots—who are presently occupied). I know that behind the back partition there is a bed and a shower. Flying from Van Nuys to Monterey only takes an hour, so we don’t have time for games. I would never force anything, but if we’re both on the same page, why wait?

  After a few minutes I realize that Taylor is not coming back with the wine. I see it as an invitation to join Taylor in back. I remove my shoes and walk through the softly-lit cabin toward the partition door. The door slides opens without a squeak. This room is just as dimly lit as the rest of the cabin, but the lighting in here is warmer. The bed takes up nearly all the floor space, with only a small walkway running along one of its sides leading to the bathroom. The curved walls have white leather stitched to them and the three windows on either side of the room have their shades open to the black outside. Two glasses of red wine are sitting on a small table next to the head of the bed. On the bed is a dark plush comforter. On the comforter is a light flush Taylor. Once again, our eyes do most the talking. Then, for the second time that evening, g-forces, sound, and speed increase in tandem.

  I’m thinking about Hungry Eyes and Jamie the whole time. Not that Taylor isn’t every bit as bangin’ as Hungry Eyes (and just shy of Jamie), I just can’t get Hungry Eyes out of my head or Jamie out of my heart.

  Before we land Taylor and I exchange numbers that we both know won’t be used. Not that the inflight entertainment wasn’t wor
th repeating, we’re just realists. My huge tip will make it awkward because Taylor won’t be sure which service I’m paying for.

  I’m putting on my shoes and buckling up for landing when Taylor, looking as fresh as ever, walks over to my seat.

  “I’m embarrassed I didn’t ask earlier, but what is your name?” Taylor asks.

  “Caish.”

  “Quiche?”

  “Caish, like cake. Caish Calloway.”

  3

  Every summer I drive in the Bullrun Rally. It’s an underground car rally (invitation only) with a $20,000 admission fee. Networking with the right people is crucial if you want to be successful, so I see the admission fee as an investment. This will be my first year with my Lamborghini, and I want to make a lasting impression. I take the car to the Beverly Hills Lamborghini dealership and have them give it their best treatment. A full detail, service, and inspection will run me well over a thousand dollars, but those small nominations are the sort of cash I still have plenty of.

  The morning of the rally gets off to a rough start. I wake up to the blaring beep of a flatbed tow truck backing down my driveway. I must have left the gate open. Jesus Christ. These people are relentless. I’m sure they’re here for the Porsche. I bought it several months back on credit, and I may have missed the past four payments. Buying on credit has never been my style, but times have been tight, so I didn’t have a choice. If they could just wait a few months, I’ll be able to make my first withdrawal from the Green Mountain account without incurring penalties and pay off these loans.

  I stagger out of my room, down the stairs, and out the side door to handle this situation. I step onto the warm cement of my driveway barefooted and find a husky gentleman holding a clipboard having a look around.

  Without a trace of annoyance, I ask, “Excuse me, can I help you? Are you lost?”

  “Good morning, are you Caish Calloway?”

  “Yes, how can I help you?” Again, I’m laying on the kindness here. I even offer the brute a cigarette as I light one of my own. He declines.