Everything Is Perfect When You're a Liar (31 page)

“I don't think so,” James says. “He's pretty intense.”

“Intense?”

Matt exhales loudly, sinking into his chair and applying SPF to his nose. “In the car he told us he was an Ecuadorian gangster. He had to get out of LA.”

“See?” I turn my face toward the sun. “That sounds like fun to me.”

“I don't think we can handle Pasqual's kind of fun.”

James takes off his shirt and lies back on his chair. Matt follows suit. I wish I didn't care about how my body looks. I can't believe these guys can just take off their shirts like that.

“I can't believe you guys can just take off your shirts like that.”

“Whoooo!” the large drunk group on the other side of the pool starts to yell. I open my eyes and watch a dozen of them push the fattest, drunkest guy into the pool and run. My prediction was right: the pool has become our TV. James hops over to my chair and sits next to me to get a better view. The fat drunk guy surfaces, wiping his face. He's directionally confused, looking around, trying to orient himself.

“Oh my God, they're leaving him!” Angela clutches her chest as she watches the fat guy's friends all run away from the pool area.

Matt looks on, nibbling at a cashew. “He totally deserves it,” he says casually, indicting the fat guy with no evidence. We watch him struggling against the water as he walks to the stairs at the shallow end of the pool. It's taking forever. His friends are gone, laughing and running through the gate, across the pathway and into the hotel. A seagull cries.

Angela continues to stare at the guy, who is now wincing and crawling up the stairs like some tipsy walrus mounting a barnacle-encrusted Gibraltar. “I would be SO mad if my friends did that to me.” Duly noted.

James nudges me, pointing at my sweat-soaked dress. “Seriously, just take it off.”

“No point. We have to go meet Copperfield's assistant soon.”

“Copperfield is going to get you onstage and do something to you,” James says with a smile. What a fool.

“James,” I say condescendingly, shaking my head, “he can't call me onstage. He's a magician. Magicians can't get caught using friends in their performances or people will think they're shysters!”

“You and David are friends?”

“HA, HA, James. Of course we are!”

Rhinestone Navel arrives with the nachos, toppings on the side, and four tequila shots.

Staring at the twinkle tummy beside me, I press my point. “Like, right after we eat these, we have time to go change and meet her.”

Turning my attention to the food, I immediately spot skin on the cheese sauce. I point to the sauce and ask, “Will eating that make you poo?”

Sadly, the waitress doesn't hear and walks away.

Angela eats a chip. “Eventually, it will all be poo.”

I pick up my shot of tequila and push the rest toward my husband and wayward friends. “Let's do these shots. My mom would want us to.”

We drink.

My goals for this trip are to take charge and feel young. So far, I'm one for two. My secondary goal is to get an amazing story about meeting David Copperfield. I'm hoping he does something crazy. Maybe he'll tell me a secret, or he'll enjoy our company so much he'll fly us all to his secret island, or, at the absolute LEAST, he'll make my extra stomach skin vanish.

“I don't need to feel old. Look at this hot body!” I say to James from the floor where I lay, straining to pull my black leather pants up over my skinny but pure-fat legs.

“Your body is the sexiest,” he says, not looking up from his magazine.

“I know!” The pants finally make it over my butt ledge, and I quickly zip and button them up, sighing at the ceiling.

“
NICE BAGS!
” It's an hour later and the four of us are on our way through the hotel to meet Copperfield's assistant. Angela and I trail twenty feet behind Matt and James when we become subject to vocal assault from two guys who could have been Lil Wayne and T-Pain. I wouldn't know.

“NICE BAGS!” The guys whistle, catcalling as they walk toward us. They've just unwittingly passed our husbands, who ignored the catcalls, not even registering that they could have been for us. Total insult.

“He likes your bangs,” Angela says matter-of-factly.

“No, Angela. He said nice
bags
.”

“Why would he say bags?”

“Because they're Chanel? Black people
love
Chanel,” I state, and quickly, because the guys are about to pass us. We keep our stride steady.

“Where you girls going so fast? Damn!” I look at the guys as we pass them. They're young. I wonder why they're talking to us. Are we hot? Would I have a chance with Drake? I mentally assess myself: I'm wearing a sequin top and sneakers with my leather pants. Every girl in Vegas wears heels and walks worse than a baby. So I went with sneakers instead of heels, to ward off a too-sexy look. I like to look pretty, but I don't like wearing clothing that makes people think about my vagina. Angela is wearing all black, leather jacket and flats, totally gorgeous, but not all think-about-my-vagina-y. We look more New York waiting room than Vegas Strip. So I'm shocked that these guys are bothering with us.

“We're following our husbands,” I say to Lil Wayne as I point to Matt and James up ahead. For a week before we left, James and Matt had planned on wearing Tom Cruise's and Dustin Hoffman's suits from
Rain Man
. Unfortunately the tailors weren't quick enough on the suits, and they both ended up dressing like '89 James Spader.

T-Pain looks at them. “Husbands? How long you had that problem?”

I ignore. This could get ugly—at least if our husbands weren't in the middle of a heavy debate on the merits of the cashew. Lil Wayne and T-Pain are past us now, but I can hear they've turned around and they're looking at our asses as we walk away.

Then one of them—I don't know who because I refuse to turn around—yells, “PULL UP THAT G-STRING!!!”

“Why is he yelling that?” Angela asks.

“Oh my God, Ang! He said
G-string
instead of
thong
, like I do! Maybe he's old like us!” I've been trying to remember to say
thong
ever since I got mocked on my blog for saying
G-string
. I'm learning.

Again: “PULL UP THAT G-STRING!”

My heart nearly stops. I'm humiliated. So much for dressing like I don't have a vagina. I lean into Angela and start walking faster, whispering, “I'm wearing a G-string. It must be showing.” I refuse to reach back and tuck it back in. If I do that, I'm letting him win. We keep walking, only now I'm outpacing Angela, pulling ahead of her as I think about Lil Wayne seeing my underwear. Why aren't Matt and James hearing
any
of this?

“PULL UP THAT G-STRING, GIRL!!” It's like I'm a deer or something. Prey.

“Wait, you're wearing a G-string?” Angela calls from a few feet behind me as she jogs to catch up.

Technically, it's a one-size-fits-all thong I bought off Shopbop. I got three.

“You know? If I'd been walking this fast a month ago, I would have been out of breath. Tracy Anderson is
working
.”

We round the corner and see Matt and James waiting for us at the last moving walkway before we get to the fountain where we're meeting Copperfield's assistant. Angela and I stop beside them, and I finally have the privacy to reach back and tuck my underwear into my pants. I gasp, dropping my hands to my sides. “My thong isn't even showing!!”

“You're wearing a thong?” James says, shocked.

“We're going to race.” Matt stretches his arms, paying no attention to the thong comment. “James on the floor, and I'm taking the moving walkway.” He pulls off his loafers, then locks eyes with James. James nods and starts the countdown.

“Three . . . two . . .”

“WAIT!” Matt shouts, pointing at James's feet. “Take a step back. You're one step ahead of me!”

James grew up with three brothers. I'm happy when we're with his male friends, because then he doesn't need me to play along with this kind of shit. I've been thrown into walls while wrestling, almost drowned in Puerto Vallarta during a “swimming contest,” and I've eaten six hot dogs in a row and vomited in order to fill his brotherly void. I don't want to race, even if I am wearing sneakers.

James takes a step back. “Okay, you're good now.” Matt shakes his arms out.

“Three . . . two . . . one . . . GO!”

And they run. Angela and I casually get on the moving walkway.

James and Matt are running fast. Neck and neck. Matt's glasses fall onto the human conveyor belt. Angela ballet-runs ahead of me and daintily picks them up. The guys make it to the wall at the same time. They're out of breath, unable to talk. Angela steps off the belt and passes Matt his glasses.

I step off the belt, the four of us standing in the corner at the end of the hall.

“But if Matt is
running
on a conveyor belt,” I ask, “he's not actually running any faster, right?”

We all sit quietly and think about that for a minute.

“Sorry,” I mumble. “Let's go find the fountain.”

MGM makes no sense to me. Vegas makes no sense to me. It's like being inside a giant mall, even when you're outside. A giant mall with casinos, a wonderland where you can drink and smoke wherever you want, 24/7. If society ever decided to get rid of people with IQs below 100, all they'd have to do is set up this sort of place on an island with no return transportation. It would be like Shutter Island for people who use
party
as a verb.

Still, we can't find a fountain. “I'm going to ask this guy where the fountain is,” James says, heading over to the blackjack tables. On the way, he walks right past a
Ghostbusters
slot machine, which I VOW I will not put any money in, because I fear I'd never be able to stop. What would the machine do when you win $200,000? Would the Marshmallow Man bust through the place? Slimer? Would 1980s Bill Murray call me on my cell and tell me I'm wonderful, saggy stomach skin and all? I need to know. One dollar and I would be down that rabbit hole.

“Are you ladies excited for Copperfield?” Matt is grinning. He likes this stuff. He likes Masonry and druids, secret societies and conspiracies in general.

“I'll tell him you're a druid.” I look for James.

Angela grabs my hand and looks me in the eyes. “Do not tell him Matt's a druid!”

“You can tell him,” Matt says, smiling wider, molars showing. “Did you know Copperfield's island has a secret cave with psychic monkeys that he's taught to draw people's thoughts?”

“No, Matt. I didn't.”

“It's true. And I read that he originally bought the island because he discovered a water source there that could be the Fountain of Youth.”

“Matt, please don't mention this stuff to David,” Angela flatly begs. “Do NOT talk about the Fountain of Youth or psychic monkeys that can draw your thoughts.”

Behind Angela, I spot James, walking behind a blackjack table. He's in the inner circle of about a dozen blackjack tables. He's headed toward the big guy in the suit.

“Oh my God, did James just go into THE PIT to ask the PIT BOSS where the fountain is?” I'm calling it the pit, but I have no idea if it's called the pit or if that guy is a pit boss. I haven't watched
Casino
since the '90s.

Matt and Angela turn around to look. There's James, walking up to the big man in the suit. In one swift motion, the man turns around, grabs him by the elbow, and escorts him out of the pit. He releases him with no further incident, which doesn't seem very
Casino.

James comes back like nothing happened. “Fountain's this way,” he says, pointing.

I take his arm. “Why did you go into the pit?? That pit boss was pissed!”

“I don't fucking know.” He shrugs. “I just wanted to find out where this fountain was so we aren't late for Copperfield.”

“Well.” I shake my head, coming up with the most insanely dramatic example possible, to keep him from wandering into dealer-only territory again. “If something were to happen in that pit tonight, or to any of those tables? Those videotapes will be pulled, and when they go through them and see you walk in there like some stupid, lost asshole, they'll think it was a scam! They'll run a scan on your face and put you on TV as a suspect, or show up in our room and interrogate you and cut off your fingers.”

I see by James's nonreaction that he isn't worried about being interrogated by guys named Johnny Three Fingers. Then some sort of miracle occurs: I see a poster for Drake.

I stop talking and walk up to the poster. I put my hands on either side of Drake's face.

“DRAKE IS COMING HERE?
NEXT
WEEKEND!!!??” I'm devastated. All I want to do is go to a Drake concert and do my Wheelchair Jimmy dance move for him. And also go on a date with him. Maybe he'll be my second husband.

“Do you want to come back for it?” James asks supportively, like a decent first husband.

“Naw.” I know that next weekend won't be my time with Drake. We wouldn't get a chance to talk, or get to know each other. He'd think I was too old for him or too married for him, or something. “It wouldn't have worked out.”

David Copperfield's assistant Stacy is standing beside the fountain. I know it's Stacy because she's the only woman by the fountain without a feather boa, a necklace with a tiny penis on it, glitter, or a two-foot-tall beverage cup. Plus, she recognizes us: “Kelly! I'm Stacy, I'll take you up to David's SkyLOFT.”

We pass the regular hotel elevators, where a girl in a wet bikini is waiting for someone to pick her up or dry her, and Stacy opens a metal gate to reveal another set of elevators. Everyone is talking, but I'm too busy imagining what this SkyLOFT is going to look like. I want it to be insane and have some sort of a retractable roof. I want to feel naive and awestruck. I want David to have falcons and be wearing all black. I imagine him serving champagne and some weird fruit I've never heard of that he's cultivated on his private island. I grew up watching David Copperfield specials. I know he can fly.