Ride the Titanic! (25 page)

‘They said it was dug up, said we couldn’t get through with our load over there, said our road permit was screwed up. They, they, THEY! Don’t you just hate the ‘theys’ of this world? But you know what? Just try finding them. Like cockroaches in a dark room, brother. Flip on the light and BANG, they’re gone with the wind.’

Laughter.

‘Watch and see.’ I cup my hands and bellow, ‘Is there anyone here working on this? I’ll give you a thousand dollars cash if you walk out here and show your face.’

I yank out a thick wad of small bills from my wallet, pray they look impressive and wave them in the air. ‘Any takers?’

A drunk shouts, ‘Gimme’ it, I’ll make sure they get it.’

Laughter.

‘See what I mean? Cockroaches, every one of them. Working for the big cockroach. Well, take a good look mister bug, whoever you are, wherever you are.
Ride the Titanic
is not going anywhere. We’re staying put until we
give these lovely folks here the ride of their lives – quick show of hands, who’s coming back in April for our maiden voyage? Got a brand new hotel with four thousand rooms ready and waiting, and the first thousand guests get twenty percent off. Rooms, meals, drinks, the ride, the works. Such a deal. Show of hands, now.’

Up they rise like happy flags. I swing around and take turns looking into each of the news cameras. ‘Now you listen carefully, cockroach. You can try to stop us all you want. But I’ve got witnesses. See? They’re standing right behind me, and they saw what you tried to do today. They came to Vegas to have fun. But you don’t want them to have fun with us, do you? No, YOU want to live in the past and play with your beat-up toys and build old fashioned casinos, while my friends and I want to live in the future, and nothing is going to stop us from doing that. Right friends?’

I turn back to the crowd. ‘Right?’

A ragged cheer.

‘Little louder, folks. Cockroach can’t hear you.’

A raucous shout, smartphones waving, cameras flashing, capturing my rant, and please, God, let it go viral before noon. To hedge my bets, I make sure the news cameras follow me back to the center of the street, where I kneel down and pat the scraped and dusty surface.

‘Good old boulevard. They tried to use you to stop us, didn’t they? But it didn’t work, did it? You’re here to stay and so are we. Right here in beautiful, one-of-a-kind, fabulous Las Vegas.’

Thanks to Lewis, the local news outlets carry our slow-motion adventure live all morning. The network morning shows, desperate for something more than their daily gruel, gladly carry updates nationwide. By noontime, CBS, NBC, ABC, Fox, YouTube, Facebook, and Twitter feature video of our runaway transporter, capped off with my one-man side show at the end. By noontime the local outlets have a special report on the air, including interviews with me, Max, the police, and a ‘no-comment-until-we-investigate-further’ response from a baffled spokesperson from the mayor’s office.

During all this excitement, the gigantic pressure hull section arrives safely at the building site without further incident, and then recedes into the past like the iceberg did after hitting the
Titanic,
its treacherous duty done. But like the aftermath of the disaster at sea, the aftermath of our near-disaster in Las Vegas has just begun. Robert Grayson leads the pack, his name glowing on my smartphone like an avenging angel, right after a Fox News noontime special report; ‘Runaway
Titanic
.’

‘You outdid yourself, Mike, congratulations,’ he begins.

‘All life is illusion, somebody once told me.’

A chuckle then a cough. ‘Of course, you realize your ass is in a sling so deep you will never get it back in one piece.’

‘Literally?’

A beat. ‘That’s a good question. If the news vampires keep sharpening their teeth. . .’

‘They will. Blood is blood.’

‘Then the gloves come off. Plan on having some real accidents on both your sites.’

‘What do you call the bad concrete pours and the steel fuckups that sent my guys to the ER?’

‘Kid stuff. My client doesn’t like being made a fool of.’

‘A single client’? I thought you had a room full of old farts running up the tab.’

‘Slip of the tongue. Many, many angry old men.’

‘You sure about that?’

‘Would I lie to you?’

‘Yes.’

A pause. ‘My bug scanner says you’re not recording our conversation. But something tells me that you might be anyhow. Is that true?’

‘No.’ I say.

‘You wouldn’t lie to me would you?’

‘I won’t if you won’t.’

A long pause.

‘Nobody likes advice, Mike. Especially when it’s the good kind. But I’m going to give it to you anyhow. You’re a bright guy. Seems you succeed at anything you put your mind to, so why not fly that beautiful mind of yours out of Vegas and onto another brilliant idea? That way Geena and the kids can enjoy your being in their lives instead staring at a framed photo on the piano of a good-looking dead guy that makes them cry every time they walk past it, until one day Geena puts it away in the bottom drawer of your bedroom and starts looking for someone else to share her life with.’

‘I never told you my wife’s name.’

‘It’s my job to know it, like I know Fiona and the twins’ names, Angela and Arturo. Beautiful daughter you got. Cute babies. Lucky man. Is your wife enjoying her brief stay out here minus the kids? And such a great mother-in-law to watch the babies back home.’

A chill ripples through me. ‘Where exactly is this going?’

‘Orlando, Florida if I were you. That’s where your family belongs. Your future too, according to my sources. A bright, promising future as a team leader. Forty people in your department at last count. Maybe run the whole shebang if you keep your nose – I mean ears – clean.’

‘You talking Disney?’

‘Think about it. The world’s largest entertainment group wants you to help them grow even more. They want to work with a guy who has the brain power and talent and courage to figure out how to sink the
Titanic
.’

‘And bring it back again.’

‘Exactly. And how can they grow dreams as big as yours? With Imagineers like you on the payroll.’

I slowly count to ten.

‘Still there?’ he says.

‘Thinking about what you said.’

‘No need to answer for now. Grist for the mill. Food for thought. Something to ponder while watching your world come down around your ears. Get it? Ears? Mickey Mouse?’

‘Got it.’

’One more thing: I like you, my friend. You remind me of the ‘me’ I always wanted to be.’

‘Thanks. . . I think.’

‘Time for one more story?’

From my vantage point in the construction office, two cranes slowly swing the pressure hull section into its final position on the assembly cradle.

‘Make it fast.’

‘Here goes. . . Walt Disney. He’s twenty-six years old, top of his game, cranking out
Oswald the Rabbit
cartoons for a guy named Charlie Mintz. They’re a huge success, in movie houses all across America. Universal Studios wants more, more, more. Contract renewal time, Walt’s expecting a big raise, but BOOM, Mintz pulls out the rug instead and steals away all but one of Walt’s animators.

‘Mintz owns the
Oswald
character’s trademark and copyrights. Walt owns squat. Either he works for less, or he’s out. He walks. Mintz goes, ‘Who the hell needs that bum? I got his animators, I got the rights, and we’ll do
Oswald
ourselves – with me so far?’

‘Any chance you can speed this up?’

‘Walt heads home on a streetcar, a beaten man, what’s he gonna do? And then on the way, BOOM, he dreams up Mickey Mouse: the rest is history. Meanwhile, Mintz cracks the whip over his animators and they crank out boring, stupid, unimaginative
Oswald the Rabbit
cartoons that nobody likes, and within six months he loses his theatrical distribution agreement and ends up taking the Walt’s little rabbit out back and putting a bullet through its little furry head.’

‘End of story?’

‘All except the moral: Mintz never did understand that all along Walt was the puppeteer who had his hand up Oswald’s ass. No Walt, no Oswald.’

‘No me, no
Titanic
?’

‘Exactly. You’re the genius, my friend. Where your hand goeth, so goeth success.’

Even from this far away I can see Max dancing along the pressure hull like the prince in search of Cinderella at the ball.

‘Nice story, Mr. Grayson. But I’m staying put.’

‘Call me Bob, and it’s more than a story, it’s the truth, son.’

‘What’s the truth?’

‘The first
Titanic
never finished its maiden voyage. Neither will yours.’

I try to sound tough. ‘That a fact?’

‘Just a hunch, my friend. But after playing the Vegas odds for thirty-five years, I know when they’re in your favor and when they’re not. And I’m not blowing smoke about this Disney offer. It’s for real. Pete McNally told me he’s ready to roll out the red carpet for you. All it takes is one phone call from you and a three-letter word, ‘Y.E.S.’’

‘Who
don’t
you know?’

‘God, but I’m working on it.’

McNally heads up Disney’s Imagineering division. A tough, no-nonsense genius who achieved breathtaking results by taking huge risks. I’m his biggest fan-boy. Grayson’s offer sounds too good to be true.

‘What kind of muscle are you using on him?’

‘Zero. He’s flat out in awe of what you’ve done here. Talk about a legacy. First your dad working for Disney, and now a chance for his son to dance with them too. Word is, McNally’s looking for a prince charming to take over the throne. Think about it: one day you could running the whole damn mouse factory.’

His seductive vision of a different future scares me with its allure. But wait a second, my ‘Disney Dream’ is dead, right? Then why am I getting the ‘glow’ again? I try to make my voice sound convincing, but it’s hard.

‘Nice stories, Bob. Both of them, and thanks but no thanks. My arm’s up to my elbow in
Ride the Titanic’s
ass.’

‘So’s your head. Pull them both out before it’s too late.’

‘He was just blowing smoke.’ Geena says later. ‘No way would McNally give up the reins to the shop.’

‘It wouldn’t be right away. I’d be his golden boy for a few years. And anyhow, one way or another they’re going to stop us here. That’s a given.’

Together at long last, my wife and I perch on the edge of my bed in the small condo at the
Mandarin
I’ve leased until the
White Star Grand Hotel
is done. Unemployed by NASA and grateful to have her mother watching Fiona and the twins, Geena flew out to Vegas for a long weekend. But until now, my working all night at McCarran, combined with the runaway
Cometto
adventure has left nothing to be seen of me except my ranting and raving on television and the clips that (YES!) have gone viral online.

‘After all you’ve done. . .’ she begins.

‘Look, I love everything about the ride, I love your hotel idea, it’s just that. . .’

‘What?’

‘I’m scared they’re going to really hurt somebody, maybe kill them and for what? A fucking ride? It’s not worth it.’

‘Grayson knows you’re a family man.’

‘That he does.’

‘He also knows you want be home at night eating supper with me and the kids. Reading them stories before tucking them in. That sort of Disney dream thing. You are such a sap that way.’

‘And you love it. At least you used to.’

‘I still do, but. . .’

‘It’s what I missed the most when the ride took over my life.’

‘True.’

‘Not to mention sex.’

‘More than true. And since then, you’ve been home – what – five or six weeks at the most in the past year-and-a-half?’

‘Roger that,’ as Adam says.’

‘Too long a time for a fish like you to be out of the water, Michael, flopping around in the Las Vegas desert. Home sweet home is where you belong, pal.’

I make the mistake of looking out the window at the glowing madness of the strip, a seething cauldron of ‘What-can-we-do-next?’

Geena rubs my shoulders, her strong fingers finding and smoothing out knots I don’t know I have.

‘Don’t groan. . . talk,’ she says.