Thanksgiving

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Spending Thanksgiving with Sid and Esmeralda at Universal Studios hadn't been amongst my plans, but an inability to make it to Cincinnati for the Holiday with Lydia's family led to this wretched event.

Sadly, my travel problems didn't spiral into a hilarious, sprawling Planes Trains and Automobiles- style madcap adventure; instead it merely involved thirteen tedious hours in a small section of LAX Terminal Five.

Due to a mechanical fault, the flight was delayed initially for four hours, at which point, if we lived in a better world, the women would have turned to the men, shrugged, and said, “Well, I suppose we might as well pair up and fuck on the carpet.” Instead, this being Earth, we chose to resign ourselves to a morning of lonely, excruciating boredom.

When the replacement plane was also delayed with a mechanical fault, the serious drinking began, and by the time the third plane was finally ready, I was judged too inebriated to enter the cabin. After walking for hours through the dark long-term parking lot I eventually sobered up enough to recall that I had taken a taxi that morning, at which point I essentially forced my way into someone's passing car and got a lift to the exit to find a cab.

Sid has grown a scraggly reddish-grey beard over his three week holiday because his disposable razor was confiscated from his hand luggage at Gatwick - “What am I going to do, shave someone?” he said and has told me about four times – and he has refused to buy another on principle. The beard, predictably, makes him look ridiculous.

Esmeralda insists that we go on the Simpsons ride three consecutive times, and I suspect her of falling against me unnecessarily spectacularly and often, which, although it unnerves me, I put down to paranoia.

But when on the Mummy roller coaster her hand gently rubs my thigh, my suspicions become indisputable. I fail to move her hand, partly through shock and partly because no one except Lydia has touched me so intimately for some years, and, as in the pitch blackness I don't have to look at Esmeralda's face, it actually excites me. Only when she slides her hand onto my crotch do I slap my thighs together and turn as far away from her as I can on the speeding coaster.

I am certainly starved of unfamiliar female attention. I have barely even spoken to any women in Los Angeles that haven't been serving me drinks or food. Last week I took my landlady's dog Cash to a park and sat next to a beautiful woman watching her Labrador. We exchanged a smile and I was about to strike up a conversation when Cash did a big shit in the middle of the park and I was forced to shovel it into a trash can. By the time I returned to the bench, the woman was chatting to a muscly guy with a rottweiler and running her fingers through her hair. Their dogs were sniffing each other and nuzzling.

After some animal stunts show, during which I make sure that Sid sits in between us, Esmeralda goes to buy ice cream and Sid starts to sway around with his hands in his pockets like an embarrassed child. He nods at me as though he is agreeing with my thoughts.

“What?” I say.

“She's great,” he says, as though I have been complimenting her via telepathy. He looks over at her. Even from here I can see that she is trying to flirt with the startled teenager manning the snack booth. “She's just...a wonder.”

“Yeah,” I manage. “She's just...wow.”

“Yeah! This holiday has really brought us together. Things have slotted into place.”

“I think she's feeling that guy's abs.”

Sid glances around. “She's just friendly. She doesn't even realise she's doing it, y'know? Just a bit...over friendly. Sometimes.”

I nod but frown. “It didn't seem like she was doing that two weeks ago.”

Immediately, Sid's smile drops and he grabs my elbow. “No, she wasn't, and I don't know why or how to stop it. You've got to help me.”

I had been planning to ride out my final full day with Sid and Esmeralda as quickly and uneventfully as possible and this sudden unwelcome disturbance of this fantasy makes me physically recoil from his grasp. “Are you kidding? What do I know? I've never helped anybody.”

“Come on. You're a ladies man. You're the most world-wise, coolest bloke I know. Just tell me what to do.”

His desperation and his pathetic admission leaves me sad for the state of his life and even absurdly flattered so I am forced into making him feel temporarily and mendaciously hopeful. “Well, she's worth sticking with. You should be with her and I'm sure she knows that too.”

Instantly he becomes cocksure again, a gleeful glint in his eye. “I'm going to ask her to marry me.”

Instinctively, I glance over to the refreshment stand where she is still talking to the terrified clerk, licking her ice cream in an obscene manner. “No,” I almost shout. “I mean, her?”

He nods confidently. “I know she's the one. And we love it in LA. We're going to move here. We're going to buy a place and get green cards.”

A cloak of apocalyptic dread floats over me. “She touched my cock on The Mummy,” I say.

He is momentarily taken aback, then smiles as he would to a confused, potty-mouthed child. “She was scared,” he says. “She didn't know what she was doing.”

“She told me she wanted to fuck me,” I lie.

Sid gives me a disapproving look. “You're married,” he says, as though that, if it had happened, would have been my fault.

She rejoins us and gives us our ice creams. Mine looks as if it may have been the one she licked, and when they are exchanging smiles, I flick mine off the cone and swear.

“Ohhhhh,” Esmeralda says, and offers hers for me to lick.

I take a shuddering taste and force a smile.

“Let's go on The Mummy again,” Esmeralda says, and we head off again to the terrifying roller coaster.

The Director Shouts

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I am standing in a short, dark tunnel at the MGM Grand Garden Arena, Las Vegas, Nevada, with a television camera on my shoulder. Six feet in front of me, a world champion boxer is shuffling his feet and tapping his gloved fists together as he waits for the deafening music to dip and an announcer to complete a ludicrously extended recital of his name. Above and behind me, seventeen thousand people are screaming in anticipation of the battle to come.

In a few seconds, a red light will blink on above my small black and white viewfinder, indicating that the image is being beamed live to tens of millions of television sets across the globe, perhaps in high definition, perhaps just in standard def colour, but almost certainly in much better quality than I, its composer, am experiencing. The boxer will be cued to move forward, at which point I will begin to walk backwards, attempting to match the fighter's pace. Someone will have a hand tucked through the back of my trouser belt, and I will attempt to differentiate between his purposeful tugging and accidental hand movements as he guides me between two rows of steel barriers and the huge security guards that line the narrow walkway. I will try to make the shot interesting by varying the focal length, zooming into a tight shot of the fighter's face whilst attempting to keep him pin sharp in the wildly fluctuating light, then widening to capture the entire entourage in the standard 4:3 aspect ratio while remaining vigilant that the widescreen viewer also has a pleasing composition to regard. I will be straining to concentrate on what the director is saying through my headphones, waiting to take in the few relevant words he will send my way amongst the general stream directed at others. Unfortunately, the headphones will be sliding down my sweaty head, threatening to lose their grip entirely and flap about under my feet, creating a new tripping hazard. A spotlight circles the boxer. This is largely for show. The small LED light attached to the top of my camera is providing the illumination necessary for television.

For its last pay-per-view fight three weeks ago, the TV channel for which I am currently working sold two million subscriptions at sixty dollars a pop. They have sold more for tonight's bout. So why, when my senses are already at overload, do I have to worry about the fifty dollar plastic arm that is supposed to hold my LED light in a steady, upright position, but is it in fact sagging against the gaffer tape that I wrapped around its joints as a desperate and failed temporary fix? Just like I did last time. And the time before. It becomes my main concern as the tension builds and the seconds tick down, and I am forced to remove my left hand from the focus ring and hold the light steady instead.

Everything happens in a one-hour stress and adrenaline explosion. Up until this point I have been hanging around backstage outside the dressing rooms, listening to my cable bashers' stories of the LA students who fly to Las Vegas for the weekend to turn tricks to pay their way through college. “Better than the jaded old local hags,” apparently. “And cheaper.”

Every now and then I have to force my way into the dressing rooms to get live shots of the fighters wrapping their hands or shadow boxing. This is usually a last-minute, panicked order over the headphones, requiring immediate action. Earlier this year I forced an old man out of Ricky Hatton's dressing room doorway with a curt “excuse me,” before he spun around and I realised that I had just manhandled Tom Jones. “Sir Tom,” I added with a nod, before moving on.

But mostly we sit and get ready to get ready. Someone else is on 'Celeb Cam' tonight and I am grateful. It is Jason's job to scramble over people with ten thousand dollar tickets to get close ups of the famous who probably got in for nothing. The only time the producer made the mistake of assigning me that position turned out less than favourably, as I was unable to recognise the majority of the American sports stars. When asked to get a shot of Manny Ramirez I was utterly at a loss, and ended up zooming into random strangers surrounding him. With American footballers, I would guess by shooting the biggest men in the general area, invariably choosing their bodyguards and receiving tired reprimands from people in charge. It would be the same, I presume, as someone in Britain failing to recognise Ronnie O' Sullivan or Eric Bristow.

As I take my place for the ring walk, my LED light already sagging against the gaffer tape, I ask my cable bashers for a practice walk. As we start to move backwards, an unsuspecting Arnold Schwarzenegger strides into the tunnel, surrounded by a massive entourage. Spying the shining light and the moving camera crew, he is momentarily surprised, then immediately adopts his politician's smile and waves into my lens as I inadvertently lead him to his seat by the ring. No one in the control room notices that I practice my ring walk on the most famous man in the building.

Just before the fight begins, the director suddenly decides to have me permanently stationed in front of one of the boxer's family. I hold my camera in the air and stumble over the front row's feet to the far corner, kneeling between the photographers and Nevada's Finest and training my camera on what I am told is the relevant party. The bell sounds for round one and immediately a security guard taps me on the shoulder. I ignore him, as though he will go away. These people never go away.

“Sir,” he says. “You cannot stay here.”

I still ignore him.

“Sir,” he says again. “Don't make me angry.” He reaches for his radio.

“I'm with the telly,” I tell him. “We're running this fucking thing.”

He starts to mumble into his radio so I get to my feet and push my way out of the corner, sweating through my shirt and onto my viewfinder. Flustered, clasping my camera, I trip over someone's feet and fall into another's lap, unable to break my fall with my hands. I am pushed upright and I'm staring into Mickey Rourke's mangled face. He is looking at me as though... well, as though I've just fallen in his lap at the start of the biggest fight of the year.

I apologise and hurry on, treading on famous feet. Jeremy Piven pushes me out of the way and his co-star, Turtle, tells me to 'fuck off'.

“You didn't make the celeb montage,” I respond, before clambering out of the posh seats and crawling around the arena towards the fighter's family.

I arrive just in time, getting a great shot of them just before the director looks at my camera. “Excellent, Daniel,” he says. “I'm coming to you at the end of the round.”

I maintain my position, my arms already trembling with the effort of holding my heavy camera pointing upwards from a kneeling position. The family are reacting to the action with cartoon enthusiasm; perfect for TV.

But the fire marshal has already found me blocking the aisle and is ordering me to move. A moment's hesitation and he is threatening to shut the event down. I have to interrupt the director to inform him that he can no longer use my shot. He seems disappointed; angry even.

“How am I a fire hazard?” I ask the miserable marshal. “If there's a fire I'm not going to stay on the floor blocking people. I shall be up and moving towards the exit like everyone else.”

“Move,” is all he says.

Suddenly the fight is over and I am caught in a mad scramble of excitement as I race to get to my post-match position. I literally fight past everyone in my way, accidentally shoving Garry Shandling into the slutty one from Desperate Housewives.

And finally, just in time, I make it to my roped-off corner section with a tripod where no one can move me on or shout at me. I regain my composure and wipe the sweat from my face. I am calm and focused. The presenter faces my camera, smiling. My red light blinks on. The presenter begins to talk to the American audience. I maintain a steady shot. And then the gaffer tape I applied earlier to the dodgy leg on my tripod gives way and my camera slowly but surely begins to sink to the left.

The director shouts.

El Sid

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Sid and his 'lady partner' Esmeralda sit opposite me in the Santa Monica Barney's Beanery. They are huddled unnecessarily close to each other, their heads pressed together so as to be tilted in the manner of curious pigeons.

While separately neither is entirely repellent, their combined effect as a couple in love is somehow entirely disagreeable – repulsive even. The concept of a contented, fulfilled Sid – even in just one aspect of his life – seems entirely unnatural. In a bar such as this, it always seemed to suit him to be peering out from behind a large drink at the waitresses with a frustrated, desperate longing that bordered on anger. This afternoon he has barely acknowledged the slim, sparsely-attired work of natural art that brought him his one beer and salad. It has been left to me to drink recklessly and ogle the staff, a job that, if it is to be done adequately, needs at least two people.

“Is it gay to pet a male dog?” Sid decides to ask.

He and Esmeralda have been droning on endlessly about their new 'baby', a two year-old French Boxer they rescued from Battersea Dogs Home. Due to mistreatment and neglect by his previous owner, Buster has severe abandonment issues. Sid has put him in a Dagenham kennel for the duration of their three week US holiday.

He glances from me to Esmeralda, although as he doesn't move his head away from hers, even with his eyes strained so far to the side that half of his pupils disappear behind his skull, he can surely see no more of her face than a blurry white smudge.

Esmeralda gives his question serious thought. “I don't think so...” she says after a while. “Do you think so?”

“I hope not,” Sid says. “But, y'know, it might be. I wouldn't touch a man that way. So why a dog?”

“Oh,” Esmeralda says. “I've never thought about it. Maybe I shouldn't be touching girl dogs then.”

“I'm talking about when you really get into the petting. Rolling around on the floor with them and rubbing their bellies.”

They both look at me for a response, as though there is anything reasonable one could add to this conversation. But I am forced to try.

“It's only gay if you're experiencing some sexual thrill from the experience. And if that's the case, I don't think you should be petting any dogs. Or any animals. Or anything, really.”

“I don't get a boner, Daniel.” He takes a minute sip of his beer, twisting his lips awkwardly around the glass rim so that he still doesn't have to leave the warmth of Esmeralda's hair and face even for a second. “Sometimes the dog does, though.”

“Where are you stroking this dog, Sid?” I say.

“Just at home,” he tells me. “Sometimes the park.”

I drown a silent scream in my vodka and Sprite and nod at the waitress for another. She doesn't remember me. The girls are far too busy and beautiful for me to have a story here.

After a few seconds, Esmeralda suddenly grins. “Silly. He means where on Buster are you touching.” She looks at me for confirmation. “Right?”

Agreeing with her suddenly feels as if it would alter and spoil the already tenuous relationship between me and Sid, which has always involved a fair amount of confusion and ignorance, and is something I realise I have got used to.

“No,” I say, shaking my head for needless emphasis, and the almost relieved expression that shapes Sid's blank face confirms that I have made the right choice.

“Tell Daniel about our business idea,” Esmeralda says, nudging Sid's head with hers. She looks at me. “Just in case being an agent doesn't work out for Sid.”

I only just manage to stop myself from snorting laughter. I want to ask her if having one unsuccessful client for a year and then nothing for the next eighteen months doesn't constitute a failure, when exactly is the line drawn? But I don't, and I realise again that Sid is the only person for whom I censor myself, which must mean something. With a new element thrown into the equation, things have become more complicated, and, oddly, I am suddenly resentful of Esmeralda's intrusion into my relationship with someone I have never particularly cared for.

“What are you getting Sid into?” I ask with barely disguised animosity that she fails to pick up on.

“It was both our ideas actually,” Sid says, beaming at his own cleverness. “You know how cute puppies are? Everyone likes puppies, right?”

“You're going to sell puppies? I think it's been done.”

“No,” Esmeralda says. “People want cute little puppies but then they grow big and expensive and unmanageable. Especially big ones like those Dulux and Marmaduke dogs.”

“So you know those DVD rental websites where you have a list of films and then you watch them and send them back and get a new one?” Sid says, his excitement building. “Like that but with puppies!”

“Yeah!” Esmeralda says. “You pay a subscription and you get a puppy a couple of weeks old or whatever, fully house broken. Then after a few months when it starts to get big and lose its cuteness, you send it back and we send you the next puppy on your list!”

“You don't need to worry about getting it shots or vet bills or anything. If it gets ill you just send it back and you get another one. Like when the DVD is scratched.”

“It's a big problem of course,” Esmeralda says, “People abandoning dogs or not taking proper care of them because they're too much for the family or people get bored of the same one. Now it's no longer a problem.”

“Hang on,” I say, rubbing creases on my forehead that have been deepening over the last year. “This doesn't solve anything. I mean, I can see the benefit for the customer, but what happens to the dogs when they're sent back to you?”

Sid and Esmeralda look at each other – as best they can – as though they actually haven't thought about this. “Well...” Sid fumbles. “There must be something...”

“Horse food?” Esmeralda says very quietly.

“Huh?” Sid says.

“Well...dogs eat horses. Do horses eat dogs?”

“Hmm...”

“There's no way,” I say, utterly incredulous at their naivety. “What about PETA?”

“Peter who?” Esmeralda says, predictably enough.

“The fucking animal people,” I say. “Those people will kill you. They're fucking insane. They think blind people shouldn't even have guide dogs. How do you think they're going to react to the mass culling of adolescent dogs?”

“Ah!” Sid says, delighted with himself. “Asia. Vietnam, Korea, they eat dogs. Put them on a boat, ship 'em over, make a bloody fortune.”

“Why not just sell them in London?” Esmeralda suggests. “Chinatown, I mean. There're loads of restaurants. Chinese, mostly.”

“Because this way,” Sid says, “We can claim ignorance. 'It's not our concern where they end up in Asia', we'll say. 'As far as we know, they're living in doggy luxury in rich people's mansions'. We'll have international protection. Probably.”

“God you're brilliant,” she tells him.

They roll their heads around until their lips meet and they exchange a sloppy kiss that makes my stomach turn.

“Let's go to the beach then,” Sid says, and when Esmeralda picks her bag up a bikini almost spills from it. I gasp, and order another shot with the check.