Pyromania!

When I was twelve, fire was awesome. I’m not sure how or when it happened but at some point, playing with fire surpassed basketball, kickball and tag on the streets of my neighborhood. My good friend Ben had a hobby of stealing lighters from the local convenience store, and we’d play “The Nose Game” to figure out who would steal the Lysol spray from their parents bathrooms to help create the torch. We’d take our homemade torches out to the neighborhood park and have a grand old time out there in the fields and the man made dunes behind the hill. Most of the people who walked through these dunes were either high or drunk, and many of them were homeless as well.In our town a bunch of kids playing with fire would have been met with several PTA meetings and mandatory fire safety classes in all public schools, so we committed our acts of minor arson and pyromania in seclusion, around people who at worst ignored us and at best crowded around to watch as we burned someone’s shoe while it was still on their foot or sprayed a soda bottle full of aerosol and lit it on fire to blow it up like a bottle rocket.

Eventually we started getting bored with these simple tricks, so we’d switch it up: One day PJ would ride his bike through the flames created by double torches, the next day we’d light a stuffed animal on fire and play hot potato with it. Finally, our friend Mike got his hands on some black powder, the kind they use in shotgun shells or other minor explosives. These and CO2 cartridges became our new best friends, using them to blow up dollhouses and film it, that sort of thing. It was the most fun you can imagine at twelve years old, just a bunch of kids running around some old train tracks blowing up old toys and spraying fire at each other for fun after school. It was real, I think that’s what we all liked about it so much.

This obsession with all things hot and dangerous led to the production of our first short film, the appropriately titled Playing With Fire. Mainly it was a compilation of our favorite fire tricks and various other mischief around town, set to the music of The White Stripes and the theme from Peter Gunn. MTV’s Jackass was huge at the time, but that was only part of our inspiration. We were also influenced by Saturday Night Live, Led Zeppelin, George W. Bush, Nirvana, Lord of Illusions (an awful film we all had seen together at a sleepover), the 1960’s, our 7th grade math teacher and our parents disapproval. Some of these influences got references in the film’s credits, some did not.

I don’t know if it was the lack of recognition or the material in the film itself that my mother was upset about at first. She had come home from the gym one day and found the tape in our VCR, clearly labeled “DO NOT EVER FUCKING WATCH THIS, MOM.” She ignored the warning, and watched the tape in its entirety that afternoon, supposedly. I’ve never actually believed that she was able to make it to the end with all the vulgar language and physical violence. My mother never had a stomach for that sort of thing. Regardless, she read me the riot act and threatened to call the parents of all those involved in the production of The Monstrosity, as my household was now calling it.

I managed to talk her out of becoming the village crier, in return for me promising not to steal my father’s camcorder ever again and to immediately throw away all six of the lighters I owned. This was a good firm reaction on her part; strong enough to send a message, but weak enough to have loopholes. The six lighters she had found had only been my reserve stash; mere backups for the three I kept on my person at all times and the two I kept hidden behind the back fridge for emergency situations. As far as the camera situation, my father worked days, and my mother didn’t know a camcorder from a kumquat. That being said, our film crew was back in business 48 hours after the Firegate scandal broke, and we were out for blood this time. The critical and commercial response to our first film had been overwhelmingly positive, at least among our classmates, and Firegate had added an element of controversy that made it even sexier. We had to capitalize with a well-timed follow up that would shock and scare our captive audience.

The production was harder this time; this film had to be different. It had to be more deliberate and cruel, and it was right from the start. The opening scene involved one of our gang pouring a huge amount of salt right onto an unsuspecting slug, and we progressed from there. We staged an egg fight between all of us at the park and pelted each other so bad we had welts the next day. We covered our friend in potato chips and made him lay on the boardwalk while seagulls and pigeons picked them off his body. We glued quarters to the ground, and when old ladies bent down to pick them up, PJ would run up and perform humping motions in the air behind them while giving the camera a thumbs up. It was pure artistic genius. The White Stripes were replaced by Led Zeppelin and Aerosmith, trading new raw sound for old raw sound. It was our golden age, creatively speaking.

Salted debuted to a crowd of about sixteen after two solid months of hard production. The film was praised as “hilarious,” “side splitting,” and “fucking sick.” It was as proud as we ever were of our exploits, mainly because we actually had tangible evidence of our debauchery for once. Usually, it was just our stories. Actually, I guess that’s all the films really were, too. They were just a little harder to ignore.

Thank God

I hate business trips. I hate business trips and I hate television and the movies for convincing me that they would be paid vacations where I could goof off all the time and get my boss drunk. I hate the endless meetings that are followed by dinner with “colleagues” where small talk becomes the national pastime until some idiot has one too many Makers Mark’s and overshares about his personal life. I hate leaving the comforts of home only to work harder than usual and meet crooked, driven executives from other branches and regions that have no use for my Dallas charm. I hate business trips.

Now, I’m sure Seattle, Santa Barbara, Nashville, Myrtle Beach and Fort Lauderdale are all wonderful places. I can even admit that Buffalo, Atlanta, Newark and Minneapolis may have their charms. However between the car service, the hotel, and the conference centers there usually isn’t much room for interpretation or judgment. These are about all I ever see of a place on a business trip, so usually I don’t have much to say about a place once I’ve returned.

The sole exception to this was Los Angeles. As a God fearing Texan, I shudder when I remember that this place is actually called the City of Angels. Never in my life have I ever seen such an abomination. Everyone is jaded, no one is righteous or just, and everyones trying to get laid – or rather whore themselves out. After my second trip there – one which featured a stoned waiter, a bipolar bell hop and a transvestite cab driver – I vowed never to return to that unholy city. As it turned out, the choice would not be mine.

“Keller was a real shark in his day,” Jim told me, as if that was supposed to excite me about the prospect of traveling with a guy who had retired three years ago and had no real interest in the company anymore. For Keller, this probably was a vacation.

“I can’t wait,” I lied through my teeth. “Where are we going?”

“Los Angeles.”

Fuck. “Really?” I asked.

“I know, I know. I spoil you with these sunshine and palm trees trips, but I hope you remember to get some work done,” Jim said while I pictured myself beating him to a pulp with the lamp on his desk. “Keller will stay on top of you, I’m not worried.”

I drove home from work that day with my head in a fog. Los fuckin’ Angeles, with Keller, the retired shark. Chalk another one on to my losing streak. I stopped for a quick bite to eat; there was never any food in the house since Jane left in August. The pregnant waitress flirted with me shamelessly, unaware that I was the victim of a divorce and custody battle gone wrong. She might have been cute, but all I saw when I looked at her was sin and loss. I glanced at the T.V. At least the Mavs were winning.

That’s when it occurred to me. I had forgotten completely about this weekend’s Western roadtrip: the Mavericks were in L.A. for a Sunday afternoon game with the Clippers. I loved going to basketball games live, but the success of our home team had driven ticket prices higher each year. Surely the lowly Clippers had tickets that were easier to get, I thought. No one could possibly be devoted to a team that horrible. I could see the team I loved, that I dedicated my passion to year in and year out, play for mere pennies on the dollar.

I paid the bill excitedly and drove home, eager to look up tickets online. I would buy one for Keller, I thought, as a gesture of respect and goodwill. Then he couldn’t possibly turn me down. The prospect was still percolating bliss through my being when I passed through my front door and walked right to my computer. As I logged onto the Clippers ticket site, I felt my Blackberry vibrated in my pocket. I ignored this for the time being, manuevering through the internet to eventually purchase two center court tickets for a grand total of $24, about $40 less than a single similar ticket at the American Airlines Center in Dallas.

Once I had confirmed the order, I took out my phone and saw an e-mail from Jim. Attached was my boarding pass for Los Angeles, and as I remembered how much I hated LAX, a horrible thought dawned on me. What if Keller was a horrible person? Not in the sense of being a bad tipper or an axe murderer, but in the sense of having poor taste. What if Keller hated basketball as much as I hated L.A.? Or worse, what if he loved the “City of Angels” so much that he relished in it and insisted on showing me around the sinners paradise one shithole strip club at at time? I panicked, he was my elder and my superior, so I was essentially at his disposal. Purchasing the tickets may have seemed courteous at first, but I was forcing my agenda on him which was unwise and impolite.

It was also clear that I wouldn't be seeing Keller before the trip. He was a seasoned vet being called in for duty; he had no reason to show up at the office for a briefing or anything like that. His assignment was easy: he was coming along to make sure that I didn't go crazy plaster the hotel walls with my brains. Now, that's not to say that Jim or anyone else at the office knew I was slowly climbing out of the crater left by a catastrophic few months... but damn near everyone could see that I hadn't been myself lately, in a worst case scenario kind of way. I ate alone at lunch. I drank after work, but avoided the bars where my friends would be intentionally. I was reading a lot of Nietzsche. These symptoms of psychosis, or at least depression, were visible to all. Was this intentional on my part?

Whatever the case, Keller wasn't along to help close the deal. He was keeping an eye on the talented young headcase who was taking on a job that was well within his normal capabilities. Misery may love company, but true and total destruction requires absolute solitude. Keller was my link to society for this trip into the horrid city that scared me more than even my own thoughts.

I still had no idea what to do about the tickets as I drifted through a week of bullshit and preperation. The flight was scheduled for early morning Thursday, and as I left work on Wednesday I felt sick to my stomach. I decided against getting dinner on the way home, resolving instead to heat up some frozen pizza back at the house. I was going to be away from my home for four days, and I could use a heavy dose of it before I left. It was all I had kept in the divorce.

About two minutes after I got in my door, the phone rang.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Paul. It's Cap Keller. I just wanted to call and touch base."

"Oh, yeah, great. We take off in about twelve hours, huh?"

"That's right," Keller said. His voice lacked the predatory nature of the shark he had once been. "What are your thoughts?"

"Well, I actually read over the briefing again today and it looks like we're in good shape," I answered.

"Good," he paused. "Actually, I kind of wanted to see what you'd like to do on Sunday before our return flight. We should have the deal closed by mid day Saturday at the latest, you know? I lived in L.A. back when I was first married, so I know the scene pretty well."

Christ, I thought. I was right. This man had spent the first few years of marital life diving head first into the full contact strip clubs of L.A. county. He was probably planning on buying me a dozen prostitutes after Sunday brunch, just so he could watch and get some sick kick out of it. My silence prompted him to speak.

"To be honest, I'm not really into much of it out there," he admitted, sounding defeated. "I just figured a younger guy like you would want to see some of the City..."

"No," I said, trying to sound tired rather than relieved. "I'm not really much for L.A. really. It's too..."

"Dirty," he concluded. "And compromised. I know. I never liked it, but my wife fed off the life force there, I guess."

Wow, I had hit the jackpot with a travel companion. This guy actually seemed to be on my page, somehow. Suddenly I was seeing Jim as a genius rather than a cruel operator. If someone was going to look after me, this Keller, the upstanding, honest citizen who succumbs to the needs of others was clearly the best candidate for the job. Perhaps for any job in the history of the world. I would have nominated him for Senator based on our brief exchange.

"Well," Keller started, "what are you into, Paul?"

It was more wide open than a foul shot. "Well, basketball mostly."

"Basketball! That's right! The Mavericks are in L.A. this weekend! You a big fan?"

"Oh, yeah," I said, "Huge. Once I nail enough of these business trips for Jim I plan on getting season tickets."

Keller chuckled at this. "Well, what do you say? Want me to snag us some tickets?"

Shit. If I had just had faith in the higher being and waited for things to work out, I wouldn't have even had to pay... oh, well. Too late now.

"Funny thing Cap, I kind of jumped the gun on that and already ordered a pair."

He exploded with laughter at this, taking great pleasure in the fact that he'd found out about my secret agenda. "That's great, I'm glad we'll have something to talk about on the plane tomorrow. A fan like you must really know his stuff about the game. I'd love to pick your brain."

Too good to be true. The guy even wanted to listen to me talk about basketball. "Sounds great," I said, "I'll see you in the morning?"

"That's right, have a nice night, Paul."

"Have a good one, Cap." Cap. Fucking Cap. This guy was clearly my new best pal. I was so excited to spend time with the basketball loving Christian who had dominated my profession for twenty-five years once upon a time that I could barely fall asleep that night. It was like waiting for Santa to come.

My alarm was actually welcome that morning, despite the early hour. I got ready fairly quickly, and the cab came right on time at 5:45. I was ready to meet this Keller character and start our assault on Los Angeles, business trips and all things unholy.

I tipped the cab driver way more than usual that morning, aspiring to show the courtesy I expected others to show me on this long West Coast adventure. I grabbed my suitcase from the trunk and slung my backpack over my left shoulder. When I found the security line for our terminal, I saw Cap Keller waiting for me.

He was wearing a brown suit, jacket and all. I had ditched the blazer for this flight for the sake of comfort, but I now felt underdressed. He was almost bald, but short white hairs were visible above his wrinkled forehead and green eyes. He formed a close mouthed smile when he saw me approaching and realized that I was the boy wonder he was here to accompany.

"Pleased to meet you Paul," he said, thrusting his hand out towards me. I set my backpack down and shook his hand. He didn't have the commanding grip I expected, but no one's perfect.

"You too, Cap. You ready for this trip?"

"Ha, I'm never 'ready' for a work trip," he said, "but hey, weekend warriors, right? Oh, by the way, I've got to show you something." He unzipped him suitcase and pulled out a red baseball cap, hiding what was on it from my view.

I was curious; was this an expression of company pride? I had never seen a Oasis Education Corp. hat, but maybe it was from his day as a sales rep. Maybe it was a ritual: a lucky sales hat that he always wore on flights. I stood there waiting for an explanation.

"Ready?" he asked.

"Sure," I shrugged, confused by his excitement over a silly hat.

"Alright!" he exclaimed as he put the cap on his head. I was speechless.

It was a Los Angeles Clippers hat. A representation of the most unsuccessful franchise in the history of American professional sport... an emblem of loss. Yet he wore it with a smile... was it a joke?

"You're Mav's are goin down, buddy!" he said.

Nope. No joke here. This man was an honest-to-goodness Clippers fan. The personification of sorrow and dissapointment. Every season that began was like the start of a funeral for a fan like him, a slow procession towards a burial that most of the world was entirely unaware of and unconcerned with.

I was surely a miserable person all the way through my being at that point in my life, but I felt lucky at this moment. I hadn't been born into the tradition of unconditionally supporting a perennial loser. I had the constant comfort of knowing that the team I supported at least wasn't cursed. Things could be worse for me, I realized at that moment. My facial expression must have gave these thoughts away, because his smile dissapeared and he looked down with a defeated nod.

"Yeah," he said, "I know. It's rough."