Riding in Cars with Brits

Today marks a return to normalcy for yours truly as our spate of houseguests seems to have come to a temporary conclusion—or we have, at the very least, been granted a respite long enough to remember life without roommates. Also, my boss is back in town from his Eurasian journeying, thus returning my work schedule to the industry standard of regularity. And though a part of me will certainly miss my extended morning slumbers, Dawson’s Creek viewing parties, iTunes upgrades (6000 songs and counting!) and early- (OK, mid-) afternoon arrivals at the office, I have found myself relishing the opportunity to get home before dark and to put my downtime to good use: namely, continue pouring my heart, soul and superfluous vocabulary into this space.

So now that things have slowed down a bit, I’m totally ready to throw down, literarily speaking. It’s taken me a week to realize that I really REALLY need to put into words the crazy fuggin experience I endured last Monday night, so what better time than the present, right? Right? Don’t sass me. Right.

Lemme set the scene: As I mentioned, my boss’ travels led to an altered schedule here at the office wherein I would stumble in around 2 or 3, catch up on Defamer and watch the Sox game on MLB.TV until the boss called in. Blah blah blah, yap yap yap, do this do that, send a few faxes then I’m out by 9ish. Monday followed this pattern to a T, though the Sox weren’t on thanks to the All-star break (I settled for watching Bobby Abreu smack balls outta Comerica Park like Ike at a Tina convention). I wrapped up here around 9:15 or so and called H who told me that her, my mom (in town visiting for the week) and our buddy Mueller were hanging out at Baja Cantina in MdR, enjoying a few ‘ritas. I meet them down there and we’re enjoying ourselves. I order a few in a row to try to catch up, the waitress gives us a sob story about there only being one pitcher in the whole fuggin restaurant so we gotta order individual glasses. I chow on nachos. Good times.

While this is all going on, the table next to us has become occupied by a small group of three out-of-towners. It isn’t long before their snapping pictures and Mueller asks them if they want him to take a shot of the three of them. So helpful, that boy. So we all get to talking and we introduce ourselves. They are:

NIGEL (“The Brit”) a banker from Liverpool who’s taken a two-year hiatus from his job to travel around the world with…

JACKIE (“The Wife”) his Irish wife, a quiet bird who seems perfectly content, while her husband is chatting us up, to acting a little TOO friendly in the corner with…

HOWIE (“The Birthday Boy”), Nigel’s buddy from Wales, whose birthday was the occasion for the celebration in the first place.

So we’re all getting nicely toasted as the crowd thins a bit, and suddenly there’s Nigel, bounding back to the table with his hands full of Yellow Pages. Flipping through the entries, he settles on the entries for car services. Apparently, he’s got his mind set on hiring a Hummer limo to drive him and his mates around town for Howie’s birthday. Since making a call from his cell phone would be murder with international long distance charges, I offer to let him use my phone to call locally. The first company he calls is a bust: It’s Monday night, they say, all our drivers have gone home. The second and third calls are more of the same and Nigel is getting increasingly irritated with the limo folks.

Ah well, cest la vie, they’ll end up having a good time anyway just hanging around the bar and getting hammered within walking distance of their hotel, right?

Not so much.

I’m feelin’ the effects of a few ‘ritas by now, feeling a little frisky, but still lucid enough to take the phone from ol’ Nigel and try my hand at the calls myself. It is here that I make the first of many idiotic/brilliant decisions of the night: If they’re not responding to a regular Joe Britannia looking for a ride, maybe they’ll listen to a little agenting from yours truly and do a favor for a random C-List faux celebrity.

I get on the phone with “Patricia” at some limo service and explain to her the situation: Nigel Richmond, lead singer of a hot up-and-coming Brit-pop band (“The Bullocks”) is in town, fresh from a gig at Live 8 in Johannesburg and looking to show his best mate Howie a good time on his birthday. She hesitates.

“I just sent our last driver home,” she sighs. “I’d love to help, but…”

“What’s it gonna take to get a driver back in, Patricia?” I reply in my false friendly, snakeoil salesman best. “Nigel here is just looking to take his buddy out for a good time. Two hours, 300 bucks. Yeah, he really wants the Hummer. The bar’s closing in about 20 minutes and I don’t want my guy wandering the streets without a party, Patricia. No, this bar closes at midnite. Yeah, I know. Did I mention these guys are only in town for the night before they’re back to London? They’re opening for The Killers on their new tour, starts next week. One night and they’re gone. Will you let Nigel here make it one to remember? Patricia?”

“Hold for a moment, please.”

And I’m waiting. And waiting. I roll my eyes and the crowd goes wild. I’m playing this poor operator like a fiddle while the rest of my party is slowly getting stoned on their next round of drinks. I’m thinking we’re done. She’s never coming back. Fucking Patricia, the fucking whore at the fucking limo place fucked us, Nigel! She fucked us!

Click. “Hello, Ben?”

“Hi Patricia. Whadda we got?”

“Ben, I’m sorry…” My heart sinks. Was I really that transparent? Of course I was. I’m not agent. I have too much integrity to convincingly lie, at will, for the whimsical amusement of some guy I could give two shits about that wants to break the rules because he considers himself deserving. I’m just not that kinda guy. She saw right through m—“…I couldn’t get the Hummer. Will a regular limo be alright?”

DING DING DING!!!

I flash the thumbs up. The crowd goes wild again. “I don’t know, Patricia, Nigel really had his heart set on a stretch Hummer…”

“I can have the Hummer meet them in Hollywood!” she chimes in helpfully.

You can see my grin from Saturn right now. “That’ll be fine, Patricia. Just fine.”

I spread the good news, we settle the tab and head for the parking lot, where, Patricia assures me, Adrianna will be picking us up momentarily. She’s picking up the car from the lot in the Marina, stopping for some refreshments (DING DING DING!!!) and coming to get us. We wait in the parking lot for what seems like an hour. Nigel and Howie get their pictures taken jumping into the arms of the none too impressed bouncer. As my mom gets set for another shot, the bouncer looks like he’s about to rip Howie’s arms off when I say “You ever heard of The Bullocks?” He looks at me incredulously. Strong silent type. I figure I’m better off not pushing my luck on this one and let the boys carry on. He poses for a few more pictures as Mom and the Irish bird snap away while I pace out to the street and back. This time I’m POSITIVE that my ruse didn’t work, that Patricia had agreed to my demands simply to get me off the phone and we were gonna be stuck there with a couple of drunk Limeys until Mueller & H were sober enough to drive home.

Then the limo pulled up.

Right into the crescent driveway of Baja Cantina. My eyes are saucers. I honestly still can’t believe this is working. Out steps Adrianna, a pale little Brazilian chick with a blonde ponytail and braces. And she’s all metallic smiles as we throw open the back door and begin piling in. As the self-appointed spokesman for the group, I relay our plans for a cruise to Hollywood and back. Adrianna seems agreeable to this. So does Nigel. Of course, at this point I could offer to stick knitting needles through Nigel’s nipples and I think he would say it “soun’ li’ a fuggin’ gra’ fing ta doo ta me, may’t”

The bar is stocked with a fake crystal carafe of rum, another of vodka, some mixers and a 24-pack of Coors Extra Gold. In cans. I refrain from commenting on our driver’s questionable choice in alcohol and seize what may be my one and only opportunity to sip Original Coors from a champagne flute. Time to settle back for the ride, folks.

We’re smoking and drinking, carrying on. Adrianna tells me that the sunroof opens, but we can’t stick our heads out. I alert the crew. It goes over like a lead balloon, of course, and for the remainder of the ride Nigel, then Howie, then Nigel again are hanging out the top like Tom Hanks in “Big”. Adrianna pulls over. "NIGEL! GET DOWN! YOU'RE BEING AN ASS!" cautions the Irish bird. We pull the big oaf down. He topples on everybody. Drinks spill. Toes are crushed. H laughs and gives me a look. Good times.

We cruise up to Hollywood, and though there’s a block and a half of construction in preparation for the ESPY’s later in the week, we pile outta the limo to do some sightseeing. And in honor of Chris Berman, the Limeys are rumblin’-bumblin’-stumblin’ down Hollywood Blvd, past crowds of teamsters setting up bleachers and running electrical cables. Nigel pisses on The Gap. We keep walking/crawling down to the Chinese where Nigel & Howie literally fall all over each other to stick their hands in the molds of Ol’ Blue Eyes. “FRANKIE!!!” The scream. We scream. The Irish bird screams: "NIGEL! SHUT UP!!!" Pictures are taken. High Fives are given. And I drag ol’ Nig back to the limo as he threatens to embarks on the “angry drunk” portion of our program, cursing at teamsters and yelling for his stretch Hummer which, miraculously, did not in fact meet us in Hollywood. This could get ugly folks.

But it doesn’t. Yet. We’re back in the car and cruising down the Strip. Howie embarks on repeated Hanks-ian moments, each time becoming harder and harder to bring back down from the sunroof. As we idle in front of Sunset Plaza, Adrianna yelling in pigeon English for us to get the guy’s drunk ass back in the car, I take out his knees and he topples. Drinks spill. Toes are crushed. H cringes and gives me a look. “Hey!” screams Nigel, “Don’ fuggin’ ‘it me may’t! ‘E ‘it me may’t. Thissis me bes’ frien in th’ ‘ole worl’, don’ you go ‘ittin’ ‘im ‘n knockin’ ‘im ova, ya bast’d!” Jackie calms her man down with a rousing round of “NIGEL! NIGEL! SHUT UP, YOU DRUNKEN FOOL! DAMMIT NIGEL, STOP IT! STOP IT, NIGEL! NIGEL! STOP IT! NIGEL!!!” Adrianna glares at me in the rearview mirror. Not good times.

Tensions run high until Mom settles us down with a rousing chorus of “I Will Survive”, which quickly segs into “Happy Birthday”, then the Beatles “Birthday”, then the R&B “Happy Birthday to You” (who does that, Stevie Wonder? Sounds like him. Whatever) in honor of the birthday boy Howie, whose eyes, it should be noted, haven’t opened since we left the bar. Next thing I know, we’re cruising through Santa Monica.

“I got’a ta’ a piss,” mumbles Nigel.

“To the Beach!” I yell.

Adrianna pulls over to the curb on Ocean Ave. Close ‘nuff. We all pile out. Nigel and Howie share a tree, both hanging on like the thing was swaying in the breeze and, most likely, pissing all over each other’s shoes. Wait, no worries; they aren’t wearing shoes. Sigh.

Somehow, we get back to the bar. It is now 2:30am, the place is closed and the valet guys are sitting out front smoking a joint. I can’t imagine they were expecting to see us at that time of night, but there we were. I round up Nigel, who had given his credit card to reserve the car, to pay for our night on the town. He proceeds to repeat his performance at the Chinese and tumble to the ground with Howie close behind. Things get a little ugly. Howie is falling all over the place, as Nigel takes this opportunity to haggle with our obviously distressed and overtired driver, who is having none of the Limeys continued shenanigans. She threatens to call the cops. “Go ‘head! Call ‘em! I don’ fuggin’ care!” says Guess Who. She’s on with the 911 operator when Howie finally manages to sign an X on the credit card slip. Fully sober by this point, I offer to help Adrianna clean the car. Too late, she is loooooooong gone, leaving a limo-shaped cloud where we stand.

And the rest, as they say, is history.

If you’re still here reading this, you’re either a) pissed off that nobody got naked, b) wishing you could have the last 20 minutes of your life back, or c) my mom; to which I say, in order: a) I forgot to mention that Nigel flashed his nuts in the limo, b) tough luck, sucker, and c) Hi mom! Hope the bruise is healing well!

Oh, and I know there are pictures out there, somewhere. Mom, Mueller, Adrianna…if you’re reading this now, think of how much more entertaining this would have been with visual aids. I hope you’re happy.