More Ketchup Than Salsa - Confessions of a Tenerife Barman (15 page)

‘Joe, can you just take these four drinks to the table of lads outside?’ asked Michelle from behind the bar. I stood at the bar waiting for her to finish pouring them. I knew that if I loitered too long I’d get collared into conversing with customers and lose this golden opportunity of an early escape.

‘Okay, but then I’m going. Have a good night,’ I said, and picked up the drinks. But the BB had closed in. He patted his rotund affliction in a gesture of smug satisfaction, sublimely managing to slip information about his big boy’s toys into a casual comment about the price of Dorada. The topic then ricocheted from how much money he had to how he was a self-made man, followed by a detailed analysis of where his wealth had been recklessly distributed.

Fantasy Island is one of the pet names for Tenerife, for the very reason that people arrive here, choose a personality, and spend their time convincing themselves and other unfortunate listeners that they
are
that
character.

‘Oh aye,’ the globe continued, ‘I might get me self another, you know, something a bit bigger for the weekends, when all me mates come over. Mind you, I’m not here much anymore. I like to go to me villa in Florida every now and then. It’s got an infirmity pool, you know.’

His bulk blocked the only escape route and my hands were beginning to tremble with the weight of two pints in each.

‘Well, it was nice talking…’ but he was off again.

‘Do you know how much money I made last year? You couldn’t possibly guess. Go on, have a go.’ I had no real desire to, but in the hope that I might just flatten his ego I estimated that it was thousands.

‘Millions, son. Now if you want a tip from me, start early. Invest all your money in a few houses, sell them and then buy bigger ones, then bigger ones, then bigger ones still.‘ He had spread his arms as wide as his chubby body would allow in a demonstration of enlarging wealth, in case I hadn’t grasped his amazing formula for success.

As he bent towards the bar top to take a slurp from the fruit- and vegetable-laden cocktail, I spotted daylight and made my exit. It was an untimely move; a piece of pineapple perched dangerously on the rim of the glass stabbed him on the nose and his whole body jolted back. Four pints of chilled Dorada slopped onto my new trainers and down the back of an old fellow, who was slowly gnawing his way through half a chicken. He stiffened sharply as cold beer raced down the back of his Y-fronts.

‘Watch what you’re doing with those drinks, son,’ said BB. ‘These are Gucci shoes. Had ‘em made specially when I was in Italy. Now there’s a place with style…’

One thing you notice is that despite the abundant wealth, the BBs always drink alone. Money may be able to buy you Gucci, but it can’t buy you buddies and without friends, with whom are these people going to share their success? Well, with me it would seem, though previous experience has taught me that this is no time for British politeness and feigned interest. You move away from a BB like he’s a nuclear reactor on fire.

This wasn’t our first encounter with a resort fantasy character. Two years earlier, Joy and I had wangled an idle six weeks at a family friend’s apartment in Majorca, whiling away a summer in between jobs.

Actually, ‘in between’ is a bit of a misnomer as there were no jobs to be ‘in between’. Joy had just finished drama college and was inactively pursuing her first big break. I had just returned from a stint of drumming in the USA with a band teetering on the verge of mediocrity but dismantled in an untimely manner by the United States Department of Immigration. They had decided that our guitarist, a Sid Vicious look-alike, did not fit their profile of ‘desired persons’. My last communication with him was a phone call informing us that he might be a tad late for our showcase gig in Boston, as he had been deported and was currently thumbing his way from Heathrow airport in a desperate attempt to get his Gibson Emperor guitar, himself and a K-Mart carrier bag of possessions back to Manchester.

Needless to say, our spectrum of sound, somewhat limited as a three-piece, was irreparably hindered as a duo and, as for most wannabe pop groups, dreams of stateside stardom were unceremoniously dunked in the Atlantic. British fame and fortune had proved equally elusive, unless you count having a photocopied flyer of your band on every fifth lamppost in Marple Bridge as a publicity coup.

And so it was, with an air of resignation and a nagging demand from parents to settle down, that Joy and I fled with all the money we could muster. The idea was to see how long we could survive on £200, blagging the odd day’s work whenever the cupboards looked bleak.

In times of trouble, faced with the prospect of having to go and find work, it’s amazing just how far you can stretch a measly subsidy. Mealtimes forced a creative compromise between economy and edibility. One-pan cooking was the trend, the ingredients being relatively inconsequential. Tuna, sausages, cheese, potatoes, eggs, rice, tomatoes, peppers, vinegar and oil were united in what we called ‘stir-fry surprise’ and what usually proved to be only palatable if preceded by copious quantities of carton wine. The ingredients were donations from kind holidaymakers who we befriended by the resort pool. ‘Meet us on the hotel steps on Friday and we’ll give you whatever food we’ve got left over,’ they would say. Fridays were like Christmas, racing home to see what presents had been left in Santa’s supermarket bags.

In the evenings, Travel Scrabble saw a lot of action and when word blindness set in, we would master an ability of seeing how many coins we could simultaneously spin on the apartment’s marble floor. Occasionally we would babysit for holidaymakers, introducing their toddlers to the wonders of Monopoly or impressing them with our coin-spinning prowess.

During our stint, Joy did manage the odd shift in the local supermarket and I was promised a job with one of the island’s pioneers in bullshit.

We were savouring the sterility of the hotel bar in celebration of a new world record in gyrating 25-peseta coins – eleven, if you’re interested. All the furnishings were from the ‘sit on the fence’ school of design, created to neither offend nor favour any particular taste. The tables and chairs were busily patterned with green and white leaf motifs, the tables faux bamboo. As much thought had been given to mood lighting as to the gallery of pictures hung on the wall. Spanish tourism posters showing impossible-to-find coves were clipped behind smudged Perspex.

We made two pints of beer last as long as possible so that our bowl of complimentary peanuts was kept replenished. A conversation in the adjacent quartet of armchairs had caught our attention. An orange-tanned man in his mid-forties was trying to play it cool with a young, suited Spaniard. No easy feat when you’re wearing Elton John sunglasses.

‘You tell me,’ said Elton. He raked his fingers through his thinning hair. ‘I’ve shot films with three cameras, four cameras, a dozen cameras. It all depends on the budget, baby.’ The Spaniard was clearly unsure what to make of this extraordinary Englishman.

‘Well… I thought… er… we’d need at least three crews. We need to put on a big show for the ministers.’

‘Three?’ Elton extended an upturned palm at the man and turned his head towards a lady slumped in the next chair. She was either his secretary or his long-suffering wife. Perhaps both. He threw her a ‘see what I’m dealing with look’, which was reciprocated with ‘I really don’t care’.

‘Sure, I can put out three crews but between you and me, you’ll still get a better effect with just the one. Besides, all the other cameramen are tied up with my other movies.’ Elton leaned into the man revealing a lopsided stump of a ponytail that protruded beneath a bald patch like a capital Q. ‘There’s a lot of exciting stuff in the pipeline,’ he whispered.

‘Okay, I’ll have to get back to you when I’ve spoken to my boss,’ said the Spaniard hurriedly. He stood up and shook hands.

‘These people,’ sighed Elton. He shook his head as the man made a sharp exit.

‘Can we go now, Norman?’ whined the lady. ‘I’m starvin’.’

Elton snapped his fingers in an attempt to attract the waiter. ‘Fuck. Where am I going to get a crew from.’

Joy and I stopped crunching.

‘I hope you don’t mind us eavesdropping,’ said Joy, ‘but I heard you were looking for crew?’

The man switched back into Hollywood mode. ‘Yes, all my regulars are finishing off my latest film. I’m Billy Rhodes, Billy Rhodes Productions. This is my wife, Margaret.’

‘Hi. Pleased to meet you.’ Margaret slowly lifted a hand without disturbing her slump.

‘We’re looking for work over here. Joe’s worked in video production before if you need any extra crew,’ said Joy.

It was true. While in America I had managed to get part-time work with a video production company in Boston. I’d been given the opportunity to help in various departments including camera, lighting and sound but due to circumstances, namely my lack of ability in all three, my role generally fell under the title of gofer, fetching and carrying for whoever demanded on set.

The catalyst that finally convinced me the glamour of tinsel town wasn’t coming my way came during a blizzard while shooting a car commercial. I was assigned the responsibility of persuading a dog to pee on cue at a pre-lit spot.

I soon realised that a friendly word in its ear was not going to work and was reduced to trailing after another dog that happily wandered the street where we were filming. With bucket and spade at the ready I kept my eyes firmly fixed on the mutt’s butt waiting for signs of bladder action. Every three or four paces it would cease sniffing at the ground, stand still and look nervously over its shoulder at this strange two-legged stalker. The idea was to scoop a bucketful of pee-coated snow and deposit it next to the parked Buick that we were filming. When the cameras rolled, I’d then release our actor-dog who, if he ever wanted to work in TV again, would toddle straight over to the alien scent and cock a leg up to regain his territory.

I had become so engrossed in tailing the rogue up a nearby driveway in pursuit of its urine that I didn’t notice the door of the house open or the family of four that peered anxiously from behind it.

‘Aha,’ I muttered to myself as the dog delivered the liquid prop, ‘good boy. Now if I can just have that…’

‘Can I ask what in Christ’s name you’re doing?’ said the head of the household, arms firmly folded.

‘Ah… I’m… er… collecting dog pee to film… for…’ I backed off waving my plastic spade apologetically as the winter storm carried the words ‘crazy fucking limey’ into my hood.

‘I might just be able to help you out, then,’ said Norman, Billy or whatever his name was. ‘I run a production company here in Spain. My last film was a big hit, shot entirely on location in Majorca. I was just negotiating a deal for another one but to be honest I’ve got that much work I’m only going for the big bucks. What have you worked on? Anything I’d know?’

‘Well, probably not. I’m just a production assistant really, but…’

‘Great, I need a cameraman for a film I’m making next week.’

‘I have to admit I’ve not really had much experience as a cameraman…’

‘That’s okay, I’ll book you in anyway. Probably three days shooting. How are you at editing?’

‘I’ve done a few rough cuts but…’

‘Fantastic. I’ll put you down for a week in the studio as well. How about you, babe? What do you do?’

‘Uh, I’m an actress?’ tried Joy.

‘Hmm, talent eh? Done any presenting?’

‘No, not really.’

‘Never mind, you’ll be fine. It’s all simple straight to camera stuff. How about you both come round to the house tomorrow and we’ll sort out the details?’ He wrote his address on the back of a flimsy business card and strode off, leaving his wife to pay the bill.

The following day we decided to save costs we’d walk to the village where the film mogul had told us he lived. Even in a straight line it took us the best part of three hours to reach the old part of this hillside town. It was mid-afternoon and the place was deserted. Doors were closed and shutters were down. The only sign of life was a lone buzzard that circled overhead like an aerial undertaker in search of clients. Dehydrated and glowing red from the sun, I tapped on the door of Norman’s house. There was no answer. I rapped harder. Still nothing. Joy and I looked at each other in despair, still panting.

‘Try one more time,’ urged Joy.

A voice answered from within. ‘Just a minute.’ It was Margaret.

We heard a shuffle of commotion and Norman hissing at her,
‘You
get it’.

‘Sorry about that. God, you look hot. Come in, I’ll get you a drink.’ Margaret led us past a stairway into the cool dark interior. The furnishings were surprising. As with many Spanish houses, the exterior promises little. Unlike the British, the Spanish aren’t obsessed with what the neighbours think. They don’t care if the place looks like the remains of a Baghdad barracks from the outside, all the love and attention is lavished within. Comfort is the key, not vanity.

Norman and Margaret’s house was not exactly Malibu beachfront but the black leather furniture and dark wood furnishings were obviously not inferior products. The kitchen was open-plan, revealing a large American-style fridge and a plethora of modern appliances.

‘Beer, Coke, water, wine?’ asked Margaret. We both gratefully accepted ice-cold beers. ‘Billy’s on the roof, he’s on the phone.’ She rolled her eyes then motioned towards the staircase. ‘He said to go up.’

With beers in hand we emerged onto a large rooftop terrace. Norman was reclining on a sunlounger in the centre of a barren rooftop. A can of beer rested on his purple, Hawaiian shorts, a thick gold chain looped across his chest. ‘Hi guys,’ he shouted. He covered the mouthpiece of his mobile phone. ‘Just on the phone to the States. I’ll be right with you.’

On one side of the roof T-shirts, tea towels and oversized underwear hung motionless on a washing line strung across his neighbour's roof. They obliterated the best view, which was back down towards the ocean. On the opposite side, the village climbed further up the hill to the point where a dark green mountain soared skywards, culminating in a jagged double point.