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

Douglas Coupland or someone like that. “Ooh, look how I play with the format and break through the fourth wall. Look at my pop-culture references that maybe three people will get …”
     
    PAUL
    Douglas Coupland? Fuck off. I’m nothing like Douglas Coupland.
     
    MICHELLE
    I’m sorry, babe, you’re right. You’re nothing like Douglas Coupland. People have heard of Douglas Coupland. Douglas Coupland has sold millions of books. Doug …
     
    PAUL
    Fuck offfff.

     
    MICHELLE
    So in this screenplay of yours, will you be mentioning the ridiculous stripe of sunburn across your forehead? I think that would add … what’s the word you use? Color.
    PAUL looks up from his phone and we see he has a thick stripe of sunburn running, like an angry red sweatband, across the top of his forehead. He does look ridiculous.
    PAUL
    It’s not funny. How was I supposed to know the sun was burning me over the top of the windscreen?
     
    MICHELLE
    The car has no roof, babe. And we were driving through the desert. At noon. What did you think was going to happen? You should have asked to borrow my baseball cap.
     
    PAUL
    Technically, it’s still Jonesy’s baseball cap. Anyway, I need a beer. You coming?
    PAUL picks up the baseball cap, pulls it over his burnt forehead and heads for the door.
    MICHELLE
    No thanks, babe—early night for me.
     
    PAUL
    Suit yourself. The less time I spend in this shithole the better. Still, at least it only cost us sixty dollars a night. Fifteen quid
each. I’m back on budget.
    SLAM. PAUL closes the door behind him.
    MICHELLE
    (Shouting through the door): Nice exposition, babe.
     
    PAUL (OS)
    Fuck off.
    FADE OUT.

401
    I called Michael. It went straight to voicemail; either his meeting had run very late, or he had decided to crash early too. Lightweights, both of them.
    Ah well, I’d just find a bar, text him the address and see if he turned up. I walked the length of the street—something unheard of in LA—but could only find one place that looked like a bar; literally a hole in the wall with an old Mexican man selling beer to patrons sitting on plastic stools.
    I decided instead to rely on the old taxi driver recommendation trick. I hailed the next cab that passed and hopped in the back. The clock on the dashboard said 11 p.m.
    “Hi, I’m looking for somewhere to get a drink—something not too touristy. Where do people go around here?”
    The cab driver looked at me through the rear-view mirror. “What you like? You like girls?”
    “Not if I have to pay for them. I just want a bar that stays open late.”

    “Everywhere shuts at two a.m.—California licensing laws. But I know a good place.”
    We drove for ten minutes, although I couldn’t say in what direction. I was too busy looking at TripAdvisor on my phone, hoping to find a better hotel for the next night. At one point we turned onto the freeway, which worried me slightly—either that I was being kidnapped or that his “good place” was in a different state—but before long we were back on a residential street, pulling up outside what seemed to be a closed bar. Just a black door and a window containing a broken neon light spelling out the word Coors.
    “Here?”
    “Here!” I paid the driver—$20 including the tip—and pushed open the black door.
    The bar was empty—just me, a super-cute blonde girl cleaning glasses and one other guy, wearing a faded blue t-shirt and a beanie hat, sitting at the far end of the bar. I sat at the other end—near the door—and ordered a rum and Diet Coke. I’d just have one drink then I’d text Michael.
    The cute bartender came back with my drink. “Six dollars.” I gave her a ten and slid my change back across the bar as a tip. She picked it up and dropped it in a tip jar, at which point the guy at the other end of the bar drummed his hands, hard, against the bar. A sort of mini-drum roll—like he was celebrating my having left a four-dollar tip. Weird.
    I finished my first drink