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

inadvisably fast. I was thirsty, and tired. I ordered another, and then another. Every time I ordered, and left the obligatory tip, the guy in the beanie did his little celebratory drum roll. It wasn’t so much annoying as incongruous. Why the drumming? Why only when I tipped? And why wasn’t the girl behind the bar telling him to stop being so fucking annoying? Judging by the attention he was paying her, the guy in the beanie hat would do anything the cute blonde girl told him to do.

    I ordered another one-drink round—I still hadn’t texted Michael—and headed down the bar.
    “Hey, man,” said the drummer as I sat down beside him.
    “Hi,” I said.
    “I’m Paul.”
    “Matt.” He raised his glass.
    “Hi, Matt. Sorry to bother you but I have a theory I wanted to run past you.”
    “Shoot.”
    “Well, I was sitting down there listening to you drumming on the bar every time I leave tip and I thought—Hmmm; that guy is being really fucking annoying. And …”
    Matt leaned in closer.
    “And?” He had looked smaller from the other end of the bar. And less likely to punch me in the face. But I was six drinks in, so I pressed on.
    “… And … well…I thought to myself, the only way anyone could get away with being that annoying without being asked to stop is if either a) he owns the bar, or b) he’s sleeping with the bartender.”
    Matt didn’t say a word. He just stared at me, and then looked over at the blonde girl who had stopped cleaning the glasses. She looked horrified. Had I really said that? Matt leaned in even closer, and then put his arm around my shoulder. With his free hand he picked up my empty glass. Uh-oh.
    “Where you from, Paul?”
    “London,” I said. I figured he didn’t want to hear my whole hotel living story. Not right before he glassed me in the face.
    “Well, Paul from London … as it happens you’re right on both counts. This is my bar and that,”—he pointed my glass towards the blonde girl who had turned a bright shade of red—“is my bartender. Didn’t mean to annoy you, man; just messing around; let me get you another drink.”

    We drank another round—rum for me, whiskey for him—and then moved onto shots of tequila, as only seemed proper. I told Matt that I was a writer and that I was planning to live life on the road, moving from hotel to hotel, blagging my way into parties and generally living like a king for the same as I was spending languishing in London. Then I explained to Matt what “blagging” means.
    “Blagging. I like that. Well, Paul, I might be able to help you out there.”
    He walked behind the bar like—well, like he owned the place—and grabbed a handful of bills from the register and a bunch of car keys lying next to it. Then he kissed his girlfriend goodbye—for just long enough to make me feel uncomfortable—and headed to the door.
    “Follow me.”
    Follow him? Some guy I’d just met in a bar in LA who had picked up his car keys despite drinking more than me? Sure. OK. There were only two cars in the parking lot: a busted-up gold Toyota and a gray Aston Martin DB7. The alarm on the DB7 blipped, the lights flashed and the doors unlocked. No way. The DB7 is one of my top three dream cars after the DB5 and the Vanquish. All Aston Martins, obviously. Never trust a man whose top three cars aren’t all Aston Martins.
    I explained my Aston Martin theory to Matt. I was drunk, and apparently starting to ramble.
    “You wanna drive it?”
    “Oh please.”
    “I’m serious. If you’re really a writer, I want to make sure I make it into your next book.”
    For a moment I really considered taking the keys. But two decades of British drink-driving ads had had their desired effect and I realized that driving on the wrong side of the road, in a foreign country, while borderline wasted would probably be a bad idea. There was also the matter of the sweepstake.

    “No, thanks, I’m happy in the passenger seat.”
    As Matt drove, down some