Free The Upgrade: A Cautionary Tale of a Life Without Reservations by Paul Carr

Michael’s bag into the car’s tiny back seat, wedging her suitcase in beside her.
    “Oh my GOD yes!”
    “You didn’t seem to be in your room when we called earlier,” Michael said, with a smile.
    Michelle’s grin broadened. “I met someone last night. He was amazing!”
    “We probably don’t need to hear the details,” said Michael, trying to figure out how to get some music out of the satellite radio. But Michelle couldn’t help herself.
    “Oh my God, babes, I’m not kidding, he was so hot. And he had these amazing arms. He just picked me up and threw me around the bed like a rag doll. It was the best sex I’ve ever had. I think he was Australian—Nikki and I met him in the hotel bar. You won’t believe what he was drinking … He put this line of salt on the bar and … what?”
    With a screech of expensive tires, I gunned the Mustang out onto the Strip, Michael gripping the armrest with both hands.
    “You have driven on the right before, haven’t you?” he yelled, with only a hint of panic.
    “The right? Oh, yeah—shit—thanks.”
    Even when lurching across four lanes of traffic to avoid a head-on collision with a stretch Hummer, the Mustang V8 handles like a dream. After only a couple of wrong turnings and a misunderstanding involving a stop light and some more oncoming traffic, we were
soon heading toward Interstate 15, on the correct side of the road.
    In a few hours we’d be in Los Angeles. The City of Angels—where every day a dozen dreams are realized and a thousand are shattered; where every cab driver has a screenplay on the passenger seat and all the waiters are just “resting”; where even the dorky girls are ten feet tall and where they sell casting couches in Ikea. And where I’d decided to open up the throttle on my new life as a permanent, hotel-dwelling nomad. A man bouncing from adventure to adventure, supporting himself through a combination of writing gigs and bullshit.
    A man with no responsibilities, just a determination never to get stuck in a rut again. A man without a plan. Ticket bought, let the ride begin.

Chapter 400
    What the Hell Was I Doing, Drinking in LA?
    F ADE IN …
    PAUL (VO)
    “We were somewhere outside Barstow, on the edge of the desert, when I pulled over to update my Facebook status. I remember Michael saying something like ‘you really are a dork, you know that? I’m going into the gas station shop to buy some root beer and a pack of Junior Mints.’”
    OPENING CREDITS—A MONTAGE OF SCENES FROM A ROAD TRIP
     
    A rented black convertible Mustang tears along a desert road. PAUL is driving, MICHAEL is in the passenger seat while MICHELLE sleeps on the back seat, a ridiculous grin on her face. For some reason.
    They arrive in LA, three hours late, after sitting in ten miles of traffic outside the city. MICHAEL leaves the car and walks into his luxury hotel in downtown LA, paid for by the company he’s meeting in town. The hotel has no more vacancies.
    PAUL and MICHELLE drive around for another hour before, battered by tiredness, PAUL insists they check into the next hotel they see: the Super 8 Motel. The Hollywood sign can be seen in the distance.
     
    INT. HOTEL ROOM—NIGHT
     
    PAUL and MICHELLE sit in their hotel room. It’s like the inside of every motel room you’ve ever seen: two double beds with faded top sheets, a small bathroom with a bare light bulb. The Wi-Fi is broken.
Paul is hunched over, trying to check his email on his phone while Michelle eats the yogurt that she insisted PAUL stop to buy even though she knew he was fucking exhausted and just wanted a beer.
    PAUL
    The good news is the Guardian replied to my pitch. They’re interested in a piece about the tech industry in LA if I can find a good angle. I was thinking I might write it in the style of a screenplay.
     
    MICHELLE
    Why, babe?
     
    PAUL
    Because we’re in Hollywood. It’ll be funny.
     
    MICHELLE
    Or just annoying. People will think you’re trying to be clever, like