Party Time_Raving Arizona Read online

  Mo goes to the bathroom and reappears with a blonde beauty. ‘This is Alexis, Shaun. She’s dying to meet you.’

  ‘Hi, Alexis,’ I say, blushing. Why on earth is she so keen to meet me?

  ‘Your accent’s so cute,’ Alexis says, intensifying my embarrassment. ‘Mo’s been telling me about you being Paul McCartney’s nephew.’

  I look at Mo. She winks.

  I stifle a grin. ‘Er … yeah. Ever been to Liverpool?’

  ‘I’ve never been out of America.’

  ‘Would you like to visit?’

  ‘Hell, yeah! C’mon, let’s dance …’

  In England, over Sunday dinner, I ask my parents for money to invest in British Telecom shares.

  ‘What do you think?’ Mum says, turning to Dad.

  ‘Bugger off,’ Dad says. ‘I’m not supporting Margaret bloody Thatcher’s privatisation programme.’

  ‘It’s only fifty pence a share,’ I say in my best salesman’s voice. ‘Mr Dillon thinks it’ll start trading much higher.’

  ‘No!’ Dad says. ‘We’ve got a Tory in the house now, have we? Just like your grandmother.’

  ‘Of course – Nan! Why didn’t I think of that? Thanks, Dad!’

  After eating, I jog to Nan’s for a second Sunday dinner. The smell of Grandfather Fred’s chicken gravy rekindles my hunger. After mmmming and ahhhing over the meal, I tell Nan about British Telecom shares, and get £50 to invest. When the news reports that BT shares have doubled on their first day of dealings, I pogo like a punk rocker up and down in the living room in front of my family, yelling, ‘Yes! Yes! Yes!’ I sell the shares and keep the profit for the next privatisation.

  Seventeen and I’m up Pex Hill with my two best friends, Hammy – formerly of The Sweats, a year younger than me but built more solidly, and much sought after by the girls – and Dez’s brother, Peter, who never made it into The Sweats and whom we now call Wild Man, a nickname bestowed on him – based on misbehaviour – by his uncle Bob, a whisky-nosed old-timer. We’re sitting on a tree that leans over the quarry; we call it the Thinking Tree.

  Marvelling at the drop below, I ask, ‘What’re you two gonna do when you finish school?’

  ‘I’m going to prison,’ Wild Man says.

  ‘Why’s that?’ I ask.

  ‘I see these red and white dots.’

  ‘Red and white dots! Why’d you see them?’ I ask.

  ‘White dots are fine. They’re normal everyman’s anger. Red dots are slaughter.’

  ‘How often do you see the red ones?’ Hammy asks.

  ‘More than enough.’

  Hammy’s laugh declares how proud he is of Peter’s ability to see dots.

  ‘Are the red dots because of Dez beating you up?’ I ask.

  ‘I can’t even have a wank without getting punched in the face by our Sweat, Dez,’ Wild Man says.

  ‘But look at the size of you!’ I say. ‘I’m surprised you haven’t thrown him through a window by now.’

  ‘The teachers at Fairfield are so scared of Peter,’ Hammy says, ‘they’ve stuck him outside, raking leaves with the caretaker.’ Hammy and Wild Man attend the same Protestant school, Fairfield, whereas I’m at Widnes Sixth Form College doing A Levels.

  ‘What about when you finish school, Hammy?’ I ask.

  ‘I don’t know. What about you, Atty?’

  ‘I’m going to be a millionaire in America.’

  ‘You probably will, with all that stock-market stuff,’ Hammy says.

  ‘Will you take us with you?’ Wild Man asks.

  ‘Yes. I’m not going to stop until I buy my own island. When I make enough money, I’ll fly you two over.’ I have it all figured out: I’m going to repeat the success of the legendary investors I worship.

  ‘If you bring Wild Man over, you’d better build a cage for him first. We’ll give him grub but won’t let him out. When he misbehaves, we’ll poke him with sticks.’

  Wild Man snaps a branch off. His eyes search below. ‘What’s it like in America, Atty?’ He hurls the branch at hikers in the quarry. It misses. They spot us, scowl, shake fists. Wild Man smiles and waves.

  ‘The people talk funny, but they’re really friendly,’ I say. ‘The women buzz off our accents. Everything’s massive. Roads. Houses. Cars. And they’ve got swimming pools in their back yards.’

  ‘In their back yards!’ Wild Man says.

  ‘Like on The Beverly Hillbillies?’ Hammy asks.

  ‘Yes, exactly,’ I say.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ Hammy says.

  ‘How come they have swimming pools in their back yards?’ Wild Man asks.

  ‘When the plane comes in to land, you see all the swimming pools. America’s the richest country in the world. That’s why it’s easy to be a millionaire there. Even you can get a job as a wrestler or something, and you won’t end up in prison.’ I’ll see to it that Wild Man has a good life in America. ‘There’s no hope for you in Widnes.’

  ‘There’s no hope for any of us in Widnes, Atty,’ Wild Man says. ‘That’s why you’re going to America.’

  Eighteen and I’m visiting Aunt Mo in Phoenix.

  Along a desert road, torrential rain pounds her car, overwhelming the squeaky windscreen wipers. She parks at a video store. Getting out, I slip in my flip-flops, cutting my foot.

  The sight of blood widens Mo’s eyes – but not with alarm. ‘Listen to me, beloved nephew. Do exactly as I say if you want to make a ton of money from an insurance claim. Go in the store, slip again and fall. I’ll do all the talking. Can you handle that?’

  ‘Er, yeah. Sure. I think so.’

  I push the door open, walk in, fall theatrically and end up face down.

  Mo takes charge. ‘Did you see what just happened to my nephew? How can you have a wet floor with no warning sign or anything to prevent slips? I want to see the manager!’

  The clerk’s round, rosy face pales into a full moon. She fetches the manager, who agrees – in the tone of someone trying to placate a bomb-strapped terrorist – with everything Mo says and surrenders the insurance information.

  Mo speeds to a hospital. The doctor says the cut doesn’t need stitches.

  Thank God!

  ‘He’s here on holiday from England. We can’t take any chances. He needs stitches …’ Mo all but puts the doctor in a headlock until he produces a needle and thread.

  On a sore foot, I limp from the hospital.

  Mo puts a reassuring hand on my shoulder. ‘The bigger the medical bills, the bigger the compensation.’ She details what to say to the insurance adjuster.

  I get $5,000 from the insurer and £1,500 on a claim from my travel insurance. After the crash of ’87, I invest the money in drugs by way of shares in Glaxo Pharmaceuticals.

  In my late teens, having recently passed my driver’s test, I’m taking my mother’s little red car to a petrol station to fill it up. On the forecourt, four drunks in their 20s built like rugby players start kicking the car. Instead of getting in the car and driving off, I decide the bravest thing to do is to yell at them to stop.

  They surround me. Immediately, I regret not fleeing. Helplessly trapped, I feel my stomach plunge. How bad is this going to get? One lunges. I leap out of his way, but almost back into another. Trying to keep an eye on all of them, I swivel from side to side with heightened awareness and my pulse roaring in my ears. Whichever direction I shift towards, they shadow me so that I’m constantly surrounded. The force of a shoe against the back of my knee takes my leg out. They fall upon me. I’m flattened against hard concrete. I scramble to get up, but their painful blows keep me down. My initial instinct is to resist and try to flee, but every direction I flip and flop towards exposes my stomach to kicks. Switching into damage-limitation mode, I stop resisting. My front can’t take any more blows, so I curl my body forward.

  They focus on my head, kicking it like a football. Each time a shoe makes contact with my skull I feel an explosion of pain as if I’m getting shot in the head. There’s blood o
n my hands. I pray that their aggression has peaked. One swings an iron bar that I don’t see until it hits my face, knocking pieces of my teeth out, sending a scalding pain through my jaw, skull and down my spine. I see white flashes and stars. It dawns that they’re not beating me up. I’m getting murdered. Going into shock, I try to shield my face from the iron bar. It strikes my arm, which burns with hot pain. I clench my eyes the tightest they’ve ever been. I hug my head and bury my face in the joints of my arms. Blow after blow rains down, each one sending a scorching shockwave of pain down from my skull and leaving a ringing noise in my ears as if gunshots are going off. My entire body heats up, absorbing the pain until it’s no longer felt. I feel as if I’m abandoning my body to escape from the blows. This is what dying feels like.

  Appalled at myself for yelling at the drunks, I can’t believe my life’s ending so unexpectedly at such an early age. I can still feel blows making contact, so I don’t remove my arms from my head, but there’s no pain. The longer they carry on, the more I feel my life ebbing away. It reaches a point where I just want it to end. Feeling warm and no longer afraid, I surrender to the inevitable and pass out.

  On the pavement, I wake up covered in blood. Remembering what happened, I raise my sore, weary head to scan the area for my assailants. No sign of them. I spit out teeth parts and strings of blood. I run my thumb over my front teeth and feel jagged pieces. The car windscreen is smashed. A police car speeds past with a siren blaring. Terrified my assailants might return, I limp to the car and drive home. Shocked by the state of my face, my parents insist on a trip to a hospital. After the incident, I have anxiety. I won’t dance or chat to women in pubs and clubs. In the rave scene, I discover that Ecstasy melts all of my anxiety away.

  Twenty and I’m driving home with Wild Man from a rave at the Eclipse club in Coventry; we’re dancing in our seats to the acid-house beat of DJ Stu Allan. The engine warning light turns on in the old Talbot Horizon I inherited from Mum. I park on the shoulder. In the early- morning chill, Wild Man and I shiver off our Ecstasy highs. I use a screwdriver to open the bonnet. As usual, the car needs water. We wander off with an empty bottle and stop at a canal hemmed in by steep walls.

  ‘There’s no way we can get to that water,’ Wild Man says.

  ‘Yes, there is: if you hold one of my arms tight and dangle me over the edge.’

  ‘If I drop you, you’re fucked. Look how deep and fast it is.’

  ‘Then don’t drop me. If we drive for much longer with no water, it’ll destroy the engine.’

  ‘OK.’

  Holding out an arm, I say, ‘Grab me and lower me down.’

  Wild Man’s big hands fasten around my wrist with the strength of a gorilla. I flash him a look that says, Don’t let go. Digging my sneakers into gaps in the wall, I work my legs down, descending steadily, leaning my arm out with the bottle, gagging on the smell of chemicals ascending with mist from the canal surface, my heartbeat vibrating in my ears louder than the water whooshing.

  ‘You’re almost there. Try it now!’ Wild Man says, my weight destabilising him.

  Tilting as far as possible, I feel blood rush to my head. I submerge the bottle. ‘It’s full! OK. Please get me up.’

  ‘Yes.’

  The force of his pull almost wrenches my arm from its socket.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘We did it.’

  ‘You’ve got the brains and I’ve got the brawn,’ Wild Man says.

  Twenty-one. I graduate from the University of Liverpool with a BA in Business Studies, a 2:1. Researching employment in America, I discover it takes years to get a work visa – shattering my dream. I apply to be an investment analyst in London, convinced the American brokerages can magically transfer me over to Wall Street. Certain of being hired on the spot due to my passion for the stock market, I go through months of gruelling interviews. Each rejection crushes my optimism. I call Mo for advice.

  ‘Phoenix is booming. It’s expanding so fast, the city limits are like shifting sand. Ten thousand people moved here last winter. It’s the place to be for good jobs in every field. Why don’t you move in with us and give yourself a year to see if things work out? Worst-case scenario you’ll get a suntan.’

  ‘But I have no work visa.’

  ‘I know one of the top immigration attorneys in Phoenix. If you come on a visitor’s visa, we can apply to change it to a temporary work visa or another visa allowing you to work in a specific field. Just jump on a plane and we’ll sort all that out when you get here.’

  She’s right. I can go a long way in Arizona with my English accent.

  In 1991, Mum waves me off from Runcorn train station. ‘My whole life’s in that suitcase,’ I tell her, sad to leave but buzzing at the prospect of conquering the stock market. I’ll make my first million within five years. Nothing will stop me. Nothing at all.

  Chapter 3

  ‘What’s your reason for coming to America, Mr Attwood?’ asks a stern-faced immigration officer in May 1991.

  ‘Visiting my aunt and uncle.’ My heart somersaults over the lie.

  ‘How long do you intend to stay in America?’

  ‘A month.’

  ‘How much cash have you brought?’

  ‘Not much.’

  ‘Then how do you intend to support yourself in America?’ he asks, grimacing.

  Unnerved, I fish my credit-card holder from my pocket and open it like a concertina. ‘With these.’

  He nods and stamps a visa. ‘Have a good stay in America, Mr Attwood.’

  Oh, yes, in America money is king!

  I fly from Chicago to Phoenix. Getting off the plane, I’m ambushed by heat. My dazzled eyes slam shut. Opening them partially, I see desert air shimmering on the runways. As I walk towards the building, the sun stings my shaved head and a gust of wind deposits dust in my mouth. I spit and switch to breathing through my nose. By the time I get to the terminal, my brains are boiling like an egg. I hug Mo and retrieve my luggage.

  On the drive home, Mo stops at a Circle K convenience store. My excitement at being in America somehow blows the lid off my 54-oz Thirst Buster. Pink lemonade spreads across the counter and drips on the floor.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I say, throwing my hands up.

  ‘I’ll clean it up, dude,’ the clerk says.

  Mo shakes her head. Outside, she yells, ‘Don’t ever fucking apologise! Blame the cup! Blame the lid! Blame the staff! Demand fucking compensation!’

  ‘You’re so right. What was I thinking?’

  From Mo’s house, I mail my résumé to the stockbrokerages in the phone book. In a race to make money before I run out of credit, I must find work fast. Days later, I find a letter from Kruger Financial in the mailbox. I dash inside, tear it open and announce to Mo that I have an interview.

  A week later, speeding down the I-10, Mo says, ‘If they ask to see your Social Security card, tell them your aunt has it in safe keeping, but you’ll be happy to bring them a photocopy for their records.’ On a previous visit, Mo had guided me through getting various other forms of ID.

  ‘But it has “NOT VALID FOR EMPLOYMENT” printed on it,’ I say, perspiring in my shirt, suit and tie.

  ‘I’ll fade that out of the copy.’ A car cuts us off. Mo lowers her window and offers a middle finger. ‘Motherfucking daft git!’

  ‘And what if they ask for a work visa?’

  ‘We’ll get a printing set from Toys “R” Us or any stationery store, and stamp “H-1B professional-level job visa” into your passport. That should satisfy employers. I did the same in Chicago. I had no work visa. My immigration attorney advised me to file my tax returns correctly and on time. I did and the government left me alone. If you don’t mess with the IRS, you’ll be just fine.’

  ‘You’ve got it all figured out,’ I say, elevating her up the ranks of business geniuses. It’ll all be so easy with her guidance.

  ‘And just remember when you go into this interview: it’s fuck or be fucked in the business world. Be hon
est about your abilities. The Americans have no time for the British attitude of being reserved. Build yourself up to the hilt, so they’d feel pretty fucking stupid if they didn’t hire you.’

  We sign in at a security desk and take the elevator to the 13th floor. Mo stays on a sofa. I’m shown into a conference room.

  I stride past a long mahogany table and stop at full-length windows, impressed by the view. Below a sky so clear it looks like a window into outer space, palm trees and buildings are scattered across the desert, shrunk to the size of matchsticks and boxes. Nearby is a cluster of high-rises – monuments to financial success, my kind of Stonehenge – and, further away, a mountain shaped like a camel with mansions riding its humps. I belong there. It’s just a matter of time. The height gives me a sense of power over everything below.

  A broad, chubby man swaggers in with the air of a Mafia don. Olive skin. Slicked hair. Silky cashmere suit. Facial shape and eyes like a Saint Bernard’s. ‘I’m Johnny Brasi, the boss of Kruger’s Phoenix office,’ he says in a New York Italian accent.

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ I say, accentuating my Englishness.

  Grinning, he gives my hand a few firm pumps. ‘Take a seat. So, Shaun, tell me, why do you wanna be a stockbroker?’ He rests his elbows on the table, leans forward and gazes as if reading my thoughts.

  I launch into describing my adventures in the stock market, convinced my enthusiasm will win him over.

  He listens patiently. ‘Analysing stocks and selling them are two entirely different things. Do you have what it takes to be a salesperson?’

  ‘I can succeed at anything I put my mind to.’

  ‘I like your attitude, and I like your accent. That accent will really help you on the phone. So, here’s what I’m willing to do for you: I’m gonna offer you a job as a stockbroker with Kruger Financial.’

  ‘Thanks very much,’ I say, delighted. Everything’s falling into place so quickly. ‘When can I start?’

  ‘To work as a stockbroker, you need a Series 7 licence. To get a Series 7, you need to pass an exam. To pass the exam, I recommend you sign up for the classes the next bunch of trainees are attending. If you do the classes and pass the test, you could have your licence as early as two months from now.’