Chapter 17.
Spike Grindstone vs. Sander Stonyfield. The main event. The fight to end all fights. Let me set the tone. No. Let me report how things happened, moment to moment.
I'm in Vegas. Post-apocalyptic. That could mean anything. Ask someone who lost a loved one, went through a divorce, lost a job, lost a cat, lost their car keys. World changing events happen all the time, but most folks don't notice because they usually are too wrapped up in their own affairs. Everyone's priorities differ.
Lose a lucky rabbit's foot? "My life is over!" Zombie ate your brother? "Dibs on his car!"
Take the guy whose car I'm about to retrieve. Tourist. Khaki shorts, expensive leather shoes, tweed ankle socks. Flashy jewelry and an air of smugness. He's in a rush, and doesn't have time for me to find his keys on the rack.
"I can see them from here, H7. Let's go, let's go," he says.
Clearly he's a man who knows how to take it easy on a vacation vs. packing in as many activities as possible in the scant few days he takes off each year. I'm sure his family enjoys this time he allows them to bask in his considerate, undemanding personality.
I grab H7, and head out the door. He goes to grab the keys from me, but I'm quicker.
"Sir, please," I say.
"Never mind, pip squeak, just gimmie my keys, I'll do it myself," he goes to grab the keys.
I point to the sign, "Patrons not allowed beyond the gate."
He steams. These are the times when the line between rules to follow and rules to ignore begins to blur. I've been back in Vegas for a short time since the hotel visit in Phoenix. Zombies are far away, and then they're not. It's like the crime rate the news people are always touting, like you can actually gauge human scumbag behavior. Crime rate's up? Nothing happens, you don't hear of anyone you know getting robbed, mugged, burgled, ripped off. Everything is hunky dory and contrary to the news. Two days later, your house is robbed, your neighbor's car is stolen, and it feels like the world is tearing apart at the seams. But the news lady is more chipper than ever about how low the crime rate is.
No different with zombies. Past couple of weeks, the news has been good. Sounds like the problem is going away. The big thing on the news is, as Spike Grindstone predicted within hours of the first zombie sighting...celebrities coming back from the dead. Michael Jackson is scheduled to redo thriller without wearing makeup. Babe Ruth is coming out of the grave to reestablish who the home run king really was, or is. And John Travolta is trying to revitalize his career by starring in a remake of Saturday Night Fever. Some things were better off dead. Including Travolta's career. Gives me the dry heaves.
Anyhow, most people have put ‘Zombies, the Crisis of the Hour,’ onto the back burner. They were more concerned with getting on with their lives. People never change. That's the thing! I can't emphasize it enough. Normal people stay normal people, regardless of the crisis at hand. Take me. I had grandiose plans on reinventing myself. I'm too lazy. Still parking cars. When the phone lines came back up? I call Dodge. Dodge is still paranoid, and slightly arrogant. We ended things on bad terms, Dodge and me.
"I told you," he says, "I told you time and again. Buy gold and silver now. Did you listen? No. You and your pigeon farm. Loser! I told you. The man in the White House will be the ruination of our great land. I'm ready. Locked and loaded. Nobody taking my beans from me! I will outlive all of you!"
"But Dodge," I said, "you’re still in a wheelchair, pal. Just because the dead have risen, doesn't mean that you're going to."
I don't know why Dodge hung up as he did, but he did. Click. I chalk it up to my self- effacing density, and move on. Like now. The tourist has walked past the yellow dotted line, ignores the sign, and rips the keys from me. I'd say he's a Neanderthal, but this guy really isn't. He's out of shape, pot belly, head shaped like a hotdog, real long chin. Curly balding grey pubic hair that he has gelled back. Gummy smile, with jagged little Chiclets for teeth.
"I don't have time for this nonsense," he says striding in front of me.
I take my time. I follow him to his car. He gets there. Sees that there is only six inches of space to crawl his fat butt through. I hold out my hand, and he slams the keys in them.
"No Charlie," I say, and hold my hand out again.
He starts peeling off the bills.
"Keep em coming, chief, or you won't get out of here till Tuesday."
"Your day will come, you little jerk!"
"Ho, ho ho. I told you to wait by the gate. People sometimes have their reasons. Now…I will get your car out once I see you standing back over at the gate. See that surly looking Iranian guy? Yeah. The one holding the gun. Go stand next to him."
Things like this are happening all over. People want to pretend there's no end of the world, yet in our bones, we feel it's time. I think it's that whole salmon theory. We've spawned enough evil bastards, it's time to swim upstream, lay our eggs, then die a motley colored death. We've become something the famished grizzly bears refuse to pluck out of the river. There has to be something to our perpetual curiosity every time a Mayan calendar, or Hale Bop comet comes floating down the pike. Enough watery allusions. On with the show.
I go to the MGM after work, home of the Grand Garden Arena. For months now, in between zombie reports, and recounts about how awful life is these days, people want their distractions. And Zircon King (the fight promoter with the hair that stands on end) has not disappointed. This is almost as big as the Second Coming...which a bunch of people are mulling over if the end of times ends with their two year AT&T contract still intact. I mean, how does that obligation work out when you get to the pearly gates?
And when those folks do reflect on the lives they lead, they quickly bury their guilt, deny their problems, engross in talking about Zombie Spike Grindstone vs. Sander Stonyfield. Stonyfield's reach, his stamina, the color of his boxing shorts. Will Stonyfield wear tassels on his boots? Of course he will! ESPN had a big hour long expose just on boot tassels. This fight has been talked to death, and here it is only a few hours away.
Spike got me good seats. He was always a misunderstood prince among men. Aisle seats, too. Well, seat. He got me three seats, and I planned on taking Sissy and Ma, but they succumbed to the sickness, and I had to say my goodbyes. They became Jehovah's Witnesses, a plight worse than walking around as a corpse. They begged me to join them, but there was no way I was buying into that cult. Right off, Sissy had to marry a church Elder. This buck toothed sixty year old technician. Technician of what? I will never know. The fact that some old guy could marry someone as young as my sister, just weird. I have no idea what to do with all these Watchtower pamphlets they keep sending me.
And I could tell Sissy wasn't on board with the whole thing, she was just doing it to go along with Ma. She has Ma's attention all to herself now. And I'm confident they were glad to be rid of my dreams of one day owning a pigeon farm (this was before I became a slave instant message/writer, though never a slave writer. I love writing! And...I'm never truly confident).
So I sold my two extra seats to the highest bidder out on the sidewalk. Yuppies. They tried to haggle me down after the crowd dispersed. The creeps. I sold them for two grand. Cha-ching!
I play slots for a while in the MGM lobby, waiting, killing time, nervous that I may run into Riley. Riley is my dream girl, she's the one whose pencil I still keep tucked away behind my ear. She's one of those show girls with the feathers, dances on stage now and then in between lion and tiger acts. We have yet to bump into each other all these years in Vegas. Plus, I'm very lazy, so getting up and snooping around sounds like effort. If it's meant to be, we'll bump.
This isn't the first time I've played slots in the MGM. Quarter slots. I just pull the handle and watch my life twirl away, hoping to see Riley. I plan it all out in my head. She'll walk by, in between performances, surrounded by Arab groupies who want to whisk her away to their desert harem. She'll spot me out of the corner of her eye and stop. Her entourage will wonder what is go
ing on. She'll wave at me. I'll be that jerk that chooses not to return the wave, like that neighbor of mine. Riley will be forlorn, and sulk away. I'll sit smug at my slot machine, not a care in the world.
"Drink?"
My daydream is interrupted. A cute cocktail waitress holds a tray with several empty glasses. She's picking up the empty glass next to me. She has a tired smile.
"End of your shift, miss?" I ask.
She looks perturbed. "Almost. May I get you a complementary drink, sir?"
"Oh no, I don't mean to imply any hanky-panky. You just got bags under your eyes is all, and that forced smile. I just assumed you were spent. Makes you like older than what you probably are. Let me guess… you're thirty-five, but look forty. No? forty-five! Wait, I'll take a Sprite-miss?"
She walks off, upset too. I wonder if it was something I said.
I play slots, look for a clock. I wish I had a watch. Most everybody did away with their wristwatches once cell phones came out. Not that I could ever afford a cell phone on what I make. But by the time I saved up enough for a wristwatch, there was a huge run up on them. Drove the prices through the roof because cell phones don’t work anymore.
I see a young guy walk by, and I ask him what time it is. Two hours to the fight. "Plenty of time," I think. "I'll wait here a bit, keep an eye out for Riley. Maybe say 'Hello, long time no see. Where am I going? Oh, nowhere special. I thought I might take in the fight, you know, Spike Grindstone is a good friend of mine. Go up to my penthouse after? I'd love to, but I should check my calendar.'"
A big guy in a black suit and a white hearing aide sticking out of his ear stands next to me. Doesn't say anything, just stands there until I look up and acknowledge him.
"Sir, we ask our patrons not to solicit the staff here at the MGM," he says.
"Huh?" I say.
"Sir, we ask all patrons staying at the MGM to please refrain from trying to illicit favors from the staff."
"I have no clue what you're talking about, chief."
"Just a moment ago, sir. The young lady over there. She asked if you wanted a complementary drink, and you propositioned her."
"I did?"
"It's what she claims, sir."
"Well then, have you ever heard the saying, 'the customer is always right?’”
"Of course, sir."
"OK then, perhaps you owe me an apology, then?"
He looks smug...too smug. "It will be my pleasure sir, I will have a bottle of whatever it is you’re drinking sent up to your room immediately."
"I don't drink," I say.
I don't drink. My vice is sugary snacks and peanuts, soda too. All the junk food that sits on the end of the aisles in a grocery store. All the commodities that becomes insanely expensive in a few years. I exist off the carb laden junk that nobody health conscious dared touch before the apocalypse, then everybody flocked to stocking up immediately after. A box of Twinkies is now going for $12. It's price gouging. Totally insane.
"In that case, I will order you a fruit basket, on the house," he says.
"Well, that would be nice. Why thank you. And a bottle of Sprite, too maybe?"
"Just tell me the room number you're staying at sir, and I will have it delivered immediately."
"Can't you just send it to me over here? I'm awfully comfortable. How about just a bowl of peanuts and a Sprite, if that's not too much to ask."
He stares at me for a moment, and looks around. I see him reach in and press a button on his hearing aid wire, and then he takes the thing out of his ear.
He clears his throat and whispers, "Listen you little fool. Our slot machines are only for our guests, or those spending real money at the tables. Our drinks are complementary, but our women are not. Now I'll give you five minutes to get out of my lobby, or I'll be happy to show you what I learned in ju-jitsu earlier this week. Would you like that?"
I stand up. "Listen, Jerky, I got every right to be here as anyone else going to see the fight tonight."
"Is that so?"
"Yeah," I say, smug as a bug in a rug.
"May I see your ticket?"
"Sure, let me just...wait a second...no...not in the wallet...oh yeah, my other back pocket...no...hang on...hmm. Maybe it's in my shoe?"
He takes my arm and escorts me to the door by the front lobby, rather civilly. When we get to the door, he takes me down a corridor marked off with red velvet ropes off to the side. He unlatches the rope, takes me down the corridor a little ways, then down a long hallway with a bunch of small offices. Drags me out a side door into a loading dock. He unceremoniously hurls me into a dumpster filled with wooden pallets.
"No shirt, no shoes, no service!" he says. Then closes the metal door with a clank.
The bastard took my shoes. Nice boots, too. They added two inches to my troll like height.
I search my pockets frantically for my ticket. Nothing. I run around the loading zone, up this narrow palm tree lined road, and out to the front of the MGM.
The pavement is hot, even in the evening, my dogs are burning. It smells like I'm cooking baloney. I run to the front of the MGM, to the front lobby. But I don't go in. I wait around, watch as limo after limo pulls up. Paparazzi are taking pictures now and then. A security guard is eying me suspicious like, so I mingle with the photographers, try not to stand out too much.
Then I see the couple I sold my tickets to. The Haggling Yuppies.
"Excuse me, Hi. Yeah, you remember me? I sold you the tickets to the fight," I say to the gentleman, and smile broadly at the lady.
They start to walk past me, so I walk with them. I hide my face in my hands as we go into the MGM.
Finally the yuppie guy says, "Yes, a bit of a price gouge, wouldn't you say?"
I'm shocked. I say, "I'm happy, you're happy, I was just wondering if I could see the tickets. You see, I think maybe I have the one in the middle, and I figure you two would want to see together, am I right?"
He looks at me puzzled, "What difference does it make? After we get in, we'll just sit together."
I think fast, "Sure, we can do that, but you see, one of the tickets has a scratch off on the back. An MGM lottery promotional they have, and one of the ticket holders can win a prize. I want to make sure I sold you a ticket with the scratch off, see? So it's like you got your money's worth."
His wife says, "Just take the damn tickets out already."
He looks sheepish at her, and takes them out. Sure enough, my ticket is stuck to the back of one of his. I go to peel it off, and he grabs my hand.
"What is this?" he asks.
"Oh, I just had a chili dog earlier, see, and I didn't have any napkins, so the chili sauce must have, you know, got my ticket stuck to yours. No biggie, I'll just peel it off here."
"No you won't", he grabs the tickets from me.
"Hey, wait a minute. I sold you two tickets, not three. My ticket is just stuck. Do the right thing, chief."
"Chief? Sounds like you're the Indian giver, chief," he says. His wife sidles up to him, a big smile on her face.
"Chase, we can sell it. What did we pay for ours?" she asks.
"Now wait a minute, miss-"
"-Two thousand, though I bet we can get more than a grand for his. His is right on the aisle," he says.
"Now just wait a second here, you just said it was my ticket," I say.
"Possession is nine tenths the law, though. Even in Vegas," his wife says.
"Don't try any of your legalese on me lady, not when chili sauce is the cause of this whole misunderstanding here. Matter of fact, I don't know if I want to even sit next to you people tonight. Here," I get out the two thousand, "take your money back, and give me my tickets."
They both laugh at me. I stand there incredulous.
His wife says, "I know, we'll have an auction.” She crinkles her yuppie nose at me, “Isn't that how tickets are sold on the strip?"
"I think so," says her husband. They both stare at me, then laugh some more. Finally, the guy stops laughing
.
"OK, OK. Tell you what, I'll sell you a ticket, for....two thousand."
"Two thousand?" I say. "But I sold you yours for a grand each."
A big fat guy walks over, sweating profusely, which is a feat unto itself. We're in the desert, and the MGM has AC. Yet this guy is dripping sweat. And he has a big wad of cotton gauze taped to his neck. The cotton gauze is saturated with blood, and he dabs at his neck with a sweat drenched handkerchief.
"Did you say you have an extra ticket to sell?" the fat guy says.
His wife says, "Yeah. We're asking two thousand. 8th row, aisle seat."
"I'll take it," says the fat guy.
"Wait a minute! Has the whole world gone topsy-turvy? You just offered me the ticket. I'll take it," I say.
"I'll pay $2,300," says the fat guy, dabbing at his neck.
"$2,500," I say. From where this comes within me, I have no clue.
"$2,850."
"$2,851," I say.
They all three look at me.
The fat guy reaches into his wallet, starts counting off bills, "Twenty....Eight.....Seventy five, six, seven, eight...wait a minute, I got some change. $2,878.55"
"Pass,” I shrug. “Choke on the seat, fatty." I also see that guy in the black suit who threw me out earlier. So I go to turn and run.
I run smack dab into bunch of sequins and ostrich feathers, knocking over a show girl. On the ground is Riley.