The Incomparable Hamilton
On a dreary Thursday night in early February 2015, Curtis Oakland III was not feeling terribly well. The decision to go cold-turkey on the consumption of alcohol and other substances was proving to be a great deal more challenging than he had expected. The trouble was that retaining the affections of Jackie, his drop-dead-gorgeous 23 year old girlfriend at the slightly more mature age of 63 was something he prized more greatly than the enjoyment he had squeezed out of Mr J. Walker’s amber nectar and Reliable Sam’s excellent coke for well over forty years. When Jackie said that either she or the substances went, Oakland had grudgingly accepted that the game was up. Still, Jackie’s invigorating presence daily in his house, while delightful, did not all together compensate him for the joys he had forsaken. He could just about put up with the odd jerky wrist and the mind-numbing headaches, but the insomnia was excruciating. Staring at the ceiling for hours on end can be very trying for any man, beautiful naked woman by his side notwithstanding. So, on that Thursday, Oakland chose to do what any self respecting denizen of Los Angeles would and got into his Buick Lucerne for a refreshing late night drive.
Cruising sedately in the Marina del Rey, Oakland decided to stop outside the Ritz Carlton Hotel for a smoke. Jackie hated the smell of cigarette smoke, so smoking in the Buick was out of the question. As he leant against the Buick’s door puffing at the first of several Winstons, Oakland caught sight of something peculiar. A slight figure in dark glasses – at 3 am? – and a hooded sweatshirt was standing just outside the main entrance to the Ritz Carlton. The figure furtively glanced left and right before swiftly darting off on foot to God-knows-where. Curious, Oakland thought. Who comes out of a plush hotel in the middle of the night in LA and dashes off anywhere on foot?
Oakland forgot about the Marina del Rey incident until Sunday 25th October 2015. Bored in Jackie’s absence – having her nails done yet again! – he grabbed hold of his cable television remote control before noticing that the DVR was recording something. Interesting, he thought. He switched on the television to see what it was that was of such importance to a woman who seemed to be interested only in her appearance. Jackie had set the DVR to record an art documentary on 20th Century painters entitled From Francis Picabia to Jackson Pollock: The Enduring Mystery of Drip-Painting. “What the fuck!” cried Oakland. “Jackie is interested in this shit? Jackie? I don’t fucking believe it!”
Francis Picabia 1913, Udnie (Young American Girl, The Dance)
Jackson Pollock 1943, Guardians of the Secret
Angrily, Oakland began aimlessly flicking through channels. He got to something unfamiliar but with the name of the world’s greatest country in it. “If it’s called The United States Grand Prix and is about men and their vehicles, I am in!” said Oakland, apostrophising the television. As any proud Vietnam-vet would be, Curtis Oakland III was a diehard American patriot. To him the words “United States of America” were sacred. A set of words like none other in the American language. (While stationed on a US army base in Germany in the early 80s, Oakland had argued with a British army officer in a bar about English and delivered this final conclusion as the clincher: “It’s all very well you fucking limeys claiming you own the language, but tell me this, why don’t anybody want to speak like a Brit and everybody in the Goddamn world wants to talk like me? Why, huh?!”). He decided to fetch himself a can of Coca Cola (no beers allowed, you see) and settle down to watch the race.
When it came to the podium ceremony and the ritual wastage of good champagne after the trophies had been handed out, Oakland sat ramrod straight and stared hard at the winning driver. “I know that brother,” he said. “I am sure I have seen his ass somewhere. But where?” He cast his eyes towards the ceiling and knitted his brow. Realisation came quickly. He suddenly struck his forehead and exclaimed:
“Shit! The Ritz Carlton guy!”
Years of work as an army sharp-shooter had taught Oakland that no two people had the same body shape or movement pattern; disguise was irrelevant. He knew from observing this excited young man’s movements that he and the shifty character he had seen shimmering out of the Marina del Rey Ritz Carlton and disappearing into the LA night were one and the same. Oakland was intrigued.
What Oakland did not know was anything about the events which precipitated the young man’s exit in the middle of the night from a comfortable suite at the very glamorous Ritz Carlton. Had he known, he would, doubtless, have agreed that it was as woeful a tale as any he had witnessed in his 63 years of existence.
A young woman in a highly agitated state was standing over an exhausted young man lying in bed and desperate to get some sleep.
“Please, my darling,” the young man said, “I do not love you any less than you think. Probably more. I am just not ready…”
The young man was interrupted in mid-flow.
“Every time!” she screamed. “Every fucking time, the same chicken-shit thing! I have had enough of this!”
“Testing starts in Barcelona tomorrow, my sweet. I can’t turn up there and do any good if I haven’t had any sleep. Could we please leave this for now? Please?”
“Leave what exactly? Leave the fact that I am nearly thirty-fucking-seven? Leave that I have told you a thousand fucking times that I want to be “Mrs” and not “Miss on-off-chic”? Leave that my body clock is screaming at me? Leave that my fucking career is over because of you? Leave what, chicken-shit? Leave what?!”
“Babe, I’ll be retired in five years’ time, my love. There’s plenty of time…”
The conversation – or rant, depending on your point of view- carried on in similar vein for a good while longer.
“Please, my love, for pity’s sake, let me sleep,” the young man eventually said plaintively while kneeling at the woman’s feet.
The young woman took this in silently. Realisation had dawned on her. She had become aware that she was in the throes of an emotional crisis which was incapable of resolution. A sudden feeling of calm washed over her.
“I am going to powder my nose,” she said. “When I come back into this room, you will be gone. This is finally it. I will never speak to you or lay eyes on you again for as long as I have breath in my body.”
The young woman did not know it then but far from being wounding, her parting words proved to be a tonic in the Formula One career of Lewis Carl Davidson Hamilton. By the time of the British Grand Prix at the beginning of July, there was no doubt in the mind of even the most mean-spirited of pundits that he was motoring towards his third world championship. Whereas he had struggled somewhat against his team-mate, Nico Rosberg, in 2014 but emerged victorious nonetheless, in 2015 he was in a different class of driver from anyone else in the F1 paddock. He was like a snake that had sloughed off its skin. Imperious. Untouchable. It was, therefore, little surprise to anyone that on Sunday afternoon on 25th October 2015 in Austin, Texas, Lewis Hamilton was crowned 2015 world champion with three races to go in the 2015 F1 calendar. A remarkable achievement.
The news was not universally well received, it must be said. On the morning of Monday 26th October 2015 in the New York offices of Jones & Spalding - an agency for performing artists (Slogan: “If Jones & Spalding can’t place you, nobody can”) - an excitable young lady with flaming bloodshot eyes was sitting opposite Mr Hywel P. Jones asseverating volubly.
“I asked you to get me some work, Jones. Some work. Not shit. You want me to play Mother Goose at a fucking Christmas pantomime in some Mickey Mouse theatre in Shitsville? Are you out of your mind?”
“I believe the town is called Lock Haven, Pennsylvania and the theatre is The Playhouse, a venerable institution with a distinguished history and reputation,” Mr Jones said calmly while locking his hands together behind his head and leaning back in his chair.
“You’ve gotta be kidding!”
“Well, madam,” continued Mr Jones in his most avuncular manner, “I do not mean to patronise, but you haven’t worked for a fair while now, your record label has dropped you and all The Playhouse needs is a three month commitment to cover rehearsals and the Christmas pantomime through December to mid-January. They will pay you handsomely - $50,000 if my memory serves me correctly. Not bad in the circumstances, I think.”
“Fifty thousand bucks for me? For me? I think you’re getting old, Jones. You’ve got me mixed up with someone else.”
Mr Jones leant forward. “My dear young lady, I do not get things like this wrong. My age, as it happens, is of some benefit to me in this career. You are at liberty to reject the offer, of course. But please let me assure you that it is by far the best anyone will make you. And, I should add, I did not receive it from a very willing mouth.”
The young woman stared fixedly at the older man for about thirty seconds before producing a loud snort and bursting into pitiful tears.
Mr Hywel P. Jones, although the father of three grown-up daughters, had never fully understood what a man was supposed to do when confronted by the disturbing sight of a weeping woman; especially one who wept as loudly and produced as much liquid as this one was doing. He cleared his throat and tried to change the subject.
“It’s not all doom and gloom, my dear. Not a bit. You will probably enjoy it. And anyway, I don’t know what all the fuss is about. Didn’t your boyfriend just win the F1 world championship in Texas yesterday? You probably have a lot of celebrating to…”
Mr Jones was not permitted to finish his sentence. Before he could do anything to avoid it, a stiletto heeled shoe had struck him squarely in the face.
Experienced at these matters, Mr Jones grasped the significance of the situation instantly. “I take it that things are not as good as you would like them to be,” he said slowly. “The troubles of the lovelorn. Not ideal. Nevertheless, these things can always be fixed, I find. Have you thought about a present?”
“Eh?”
“I mean giving the guy something to remind him of your irreplaceability.”
“Stop gibbering, Jones! What do you give someone who has everything?” the young woman snorted.
What about a painting? Yeah, I know. A print of Andy Warhol’s Cars would probably be just the thing. That’s pretty sure to appeal to a successful racing driver. It has the added benefit of being American. Trust me on this one, my dear, do. I have three grown-up daughters and two ex-wives.”
Andy Warhol 1986, Mercedes Benz Typ C111, Versuchswagen, 1970
“Hmm,” murmured the young lady.
Gitau
28th October 2015
Cruising sedately in the Marina del Rey, Oakland decided to stop outside the Ritz Carlton Hotel for a smoke. Jackie hated the smell of cigarette smoke, so smoking in the Buick was out of the question. As he leant against the Buick’s door puffing at the first of several Winstons, Oakland caught sight of something peculiar. A slight figure in dark glasses – at 3 am? – and a hooded sweatshirt was standing just outside the main entrance to the Ritz Carlton. The figure furtively glanced left and right before swiftly darting off on foot to God-knows-where. Curious, Oakland thought. Who comes out of a plush hotel in the middle of the night in LA and dashes off anywhere on foot?
Oakland forgot about the Marina del Rey incident until Sunday 25th October 2015. Bored in Jackie’s absence – having her nails done yet again! – he grabbed hold of his cable television remote control before noticing that the DVR was recording something. Interesting, he thought. He switched on the television to see what it was that was of such importance to a woman who seemed to be interested only in her appearance. Jackie had set the DVR to record an art documentary on 20th Century painters entitled From Francis Picabia to Jackson Pollock: The Enduring Mystery of Drip-Painting. “What the fuck!” cried Oakland. “Jackie is interested in this shit? Jackie? I don’t fucking believe it!”
Francis Picabia 1913, Udnie (Young American Girl, The Dance)
Jackson Pollock 1943, Guardians of the Secret
Angrily, Oakland began aimlessly flicking through channels. He got to something unfamiliar but with the name of the world’s greatest country in it. “If it’s called The United States Grand Prix and is about men and their vehicles, I am in!” said Oakland, apostrophising the television. As any proud Vietnam-vet would be, Curtis Oakland III was a diehard American patriot. To him the words “United States of America” were sacred. A set of words like none other in the American language. (While stationed on a US army base in Germany in the early 80s, Oakland had argued with a British army officer in a bar about English and delivered this final conclusion as the clincher: “It’s all very well you fucking limeys claiming you own the language, but tell me this, why don’t anybody want to speak like a Brit and everybody in the Goddamn world wants to talk like me? Why, huh?!”). He decided to fetch himself a can of Coca Cola (no beers allowed, you see) and settle down to watch the race.
When it came to the podium ceremony and the ritual wastage of good champagne after the trophies had been handed out, Oakland sat ramrod straight and stared hard at the winning driver. “I know that brother,” he said. “I am sure I have seen his ass somewhere. But where?” He cast his eyes towards the ceiling and knitted his brow. Realisation came quickly. He suddenly struck his forehead and exclaimed:
“Shit! The Ritz Carlton guy!”
Years of work as an army sharp-shooter had taught Oakland that no two people had the same body shape or movement pattern; disguise was irrelevant. He knew from observing this excited young man’s movements that he and the shifty character he had seen shimmering out of the Marina del Rey Ritz Carlton and disappearing into the LA night were one and the same. Oakland was intrigued.
What Oakland did not know was anything about the events which precipitated the young man’s exit in the middle of the night from a comfortable suite at the very glamorous Ritz Carlton. Had he known, he would, doubtless, have agreed that it was as woeful a tale as any he had witnessed in his 63 years of existence.
A young woman in a highly agitated state was standing over an exhausted young man lying in bed and desperate to get some sleep.
“Please, my darling,” the young man said, “I do not love you any less than you think. Probably more. I am just not ready…”
The young man was interrupted in mid-flow.
“Every time!” she screamed. “Every fucking time, the same chicken-shit thing! I have had enough of this!”
“Testing starts in Barcelona tomorrow, my sweet. I can’t turn up there and do any good if I haven’t had any sleep. Could we please leave this for now? Please?”
“Leave what exactly? Leave the fact that I am nearly thirty-fucking-seven? Leave that I have told you a thousand fucking times that I want to be “Mrs” and not “Miss on-off-chic”? Leave that my body clock is screaming at me? Leave that my fucking career is over because of you? Leave what, chicken-shit? Leave what?!”
“Babe, I’ll be retired in five years’ time, my love. There’s plenty of time…”
The conversation – or rant, depending on your point of view- carried on in similar vein for a good while longer.
“Please, my love, for pity’s sake, let me sleep,” the young man eventually said plaintively while kneeling at the woman’s feet.
The young woman took this in silently. Realisation had dawned on her. She had become aware that she was in the throes of an emotional crisis which was incapable of resolution. A sudden feeling of calm washed over her.
“I am going to powder my nose,” she said. “When I come back into this room, you will be gone. This is finally it. I will never speak to you or lay eyes on you again for as long as I have breath in my body.”
The young woman did not know it then but far from being wounding, her parting words proved to be a tonic in the Formula One career of Lewis Carl Davidson Hamilton. By the time of the British Grand Prix at the beginning of July, there was no doubt in the mind of even the most mean-spirited of pundits that he was motoring towards his third world championship. Whereas he had struggled somewhat against his team-mate, Nico Rosberg, in 2014 but emerged victorious nonetheless, in 2015 he was in a different class of driver from anyone else in the F1 paddock. He was like a snake that had sloughed off its skin. Imperious. Untouchable. It was, therefore, little surprise to anyone that on Sunday afternoon on 25th October 2015 in Austin, Texas, Lewis Hamilton was crowned 2015 world champion with three races to go in the 2015 F1 calendar. A remarkable achievement.
The news was not universally well received, it must be said. On the morning of Monday 26th October 2015 in the New York offices of Jones & Spalding - an agency for performing artists (Slogan: “If Jones & Spalding can’t place you, nobody can”) - an excitable young lady with flaming bloodshot eyes was sitting opposite Mr Hywel P. Jones asseverating volubly.
“I asked you to get me some work, Jones. Some work. Not shit. You want me to play Mother Goose at a fucking Christmas pantomime in some Mickey Mouse theatre in Shitsville? Are you out of your mind?”
“I believe the town is called Lock Haven, Pennsylvania and the theatre is The Playhouse, a venerable institution with a distinguished history and reputation,” Mr Jones said calmly while locking his hands together behind his head and leaning back in his chair.
“You’ve gotta be kidding!”
“Well, madam,” continued Mr Jones in his most avuncular manner, “I do not mean to patronise, but you haven’t worked for a fair while now, your record label has dropped you and all The Playhouse needs is a three month commitment to cover rehearsals and the Christmas pantomime through December to mid-January. They will pay you handsomely - $50,000 if my memory serves me correctly. Not bad in the circumstances, I think.”
“Fifty thousand bucks for me? For me? I think you’re getting old, Jones. You’ve got me mixed up with someone else.”
Mr Jones leant forward. “My dear young lady, I do not get things like this wrong. My age, as it happens, is of some benefit to me in this career. You are at liberty to reject the offer, of course. But please let me assure you that it is by far the best anyone will make you. And, I should add, I did not receive it from a very willing mouth.”
The young woman stared fixedly at the older man for about thirty seconds before producing a loud snort and bursting into pitiful tears.
Mr Hywel P. Jones, although the father of three grown-up daughters, had never fully understood what a man was supposed to do when confronted by the disturbing sight of a weeping woman; especially one who wept as loudly and produced as much liquid as this one was doing. He cleared his throat and tried to change the subject.
“It’s not all doom and gloom, my dear. Not a bit. You will probably enjoy it. And anyway, I don’t know what all the fuss is about. Didn’t your boyfriend just win the F1 world championship in Texas yesterday? You probably have a lot of celebrating to…”
Mr Jones was not permitted to finish his sentence. Before he could do anything to avoid it, a stiletto heeled shoe had struck him squarely in the face.
Experienced at these matters, Mr Jones grasped the significance of the situation instantly. “I take it that things are not as good as you would like them to be,” he said slowly. “The troubles of the lovelorn. Not ideal. Nevertheless, these things can always be fixed, I find. Have you thought about a present?”
“Eh?”
“I mean giving the guy something to remind him of your irreplaceability.”
“Stop gibbering, Jones! What do you give someone who has everything?” the young woman snorted.
What about a painting? Yeah, I know. A print of Andy Warhol’s Cars would probably be just the thing. That’s pretty sure to appeal to a successful racing driver. It has the added benefit of being American. Trust me on this one, my dear, do. I have three grown-up daughters and two ex-wives.”
Andy Warhol 1986, Mercedes Benz Typ C111, Versuchswagen, 1970
“Hmm,” murmured the young lady.
Gitau
28th October 2015
posted by Gitau at 11:50 am
1 comments
