Different Circles

“I’m paraphrasing a bit,” he replied, “but that’s the general gist of the situation. I haven’t paid any state or federal taxes on my solo income since I started getting it.”

“None at all?” Jim asked, astounded.

“That fuckin’ scumbag accountant I had doing my taxes told me I didn’t have to,” he said. “And then the motherfucker skipped off to South America with another sixteen million of my dollars when the shit hit the fan.”

“That’s fucked up,” Jim said, unable to think of anything else.

“That’s a good way of putting it,” Matt said. “I’ll tell you one thing, if I ever catch up with that motherfucker down there ... or anywhere ... his ass is fuckin’ lunchmeat. And I mean that shit literally. I will kill him where he stands and then grind him up and turn him into hamburger and feed him to the fuckin’ dogs in the dog pound.”

Jim felt a little chill as he heard this. He had no trouble envisioning Matt Tisdale doing exactly what he just said to someone who had wronged him in this manner.

Matt dozed off a few minutes after finishing his drink. Jim watched the scenery passing by outside his first-class window (on UIA, first-class meant you got free drinks, got to sit up front, board first and exit first, and your seat was slightly bigger than the common person’s seat). He still enjoyed looking at places he had never been before. They landed on time at Heathrow and then spent the two-hour layover in the British Airways first-class lounge drinking Jack and cokes and gin and tonics, respectively. Finally, it was time to board one of the new 777 aircraft for the long flight to Los Angeles.

“Now this is fuckin’ class,” Matt said as they were directed to their seats. He had chosen British Airways specifically for the first-class arrangements.

“That ain’t no shit,” Jim said, impressed. Their seats were next to each other at the very front of the aircraft. They both had twenty-inch television screens and the seats were plush, separated from each other, had dedicated armrests, and were capable of fully reclining into the supine position. It was like sitting in a recliner in front of the TV at home.

Matt took the aisle seat—he had no interest in looking out the window in flight—and tried it out for a few minutes while other passengers streamed by on their way to their own seats. Some recognized him and a few greeted him, but no one asked for his autograph. Apparently, there was some taboo against doing that on a boarding aircraft.

When the boarding was pretty much complete but the door to the plane was still open, Matt suddenly stood up and got the attention of one of the British flight attendants.

“Can I help you with something, Mr. Tisdale?” she asked politely, her English accent quite strong and aristocratic sounding.

“Yeah,” Matt said. “Where’s the pisser? I gotta offload.”

She directed him to the facilities. While he was in there, the flight attendant took a moment to check out Jim. “Are you one of Mr. Tisdale’s band members?” she asked.

“No,” Jim said. “I’m his paramedic.”

“His paramedic?”

“It’s a long story,” he said.

She smiled at him. “Maybe you’d like to tell it to me sometime?”

“How’s that?” he asked, confused.

“Or any other story of your travels,” she said, a saucy smile on her face. “I have a three-day layover in Los Angeles. Perhaps we could get together during that.”

Jim looked her up and down for a few moments, taking her in. She really was quite attractive. Brunette hair, brown eyes, a feminine, curvy body. A woman who would have been quite out of his league before he was on the payroll of Matt Tisdale. And now she was propositioning him just minutes after meeting him for the first time. “I think I would like that,” he said with a smile of his own.

“Lovely,” she said. “They’re putting us up in the Hilton at the airport. Two to a room. Maybe you have someplace a little more ... oh ... private?”

“Uh ... actually, I’m going to be staying at Matt’s place in Orange County. You see, I gave up my apartment when we went out on tour.”

“Will Mr. Tisdale mind if you have a guest over?” she asked.

“You know, I don’t think he will.”

Matt did not have a problem with this. In fact, he was quite proud of his medic. “The English stewardess, huh? And she just came out and asked for it?”

“That’s how it went down,” Jim told him.

“Out of fuckin’ sight,” he said, impressed. “She’s definitely doable. Hell yeah! Bring her on over. I was going to have a talk with you about how you can’t fuck Kim the first night we’re home, but now I don’t have to.”

“Only the first night?” Jim asked.

“Yeah. I’m sure she’ll want my schlong on that first night, and I’ll want her snatch. But after that, all of LA is open to me. And while this foreign gash we’ve been getting is pretty good—particularly the Ukrainian gash—there’s still a lot to be said for good old, Grade A rated American gash. Am I right?”

“You are right,” Jim had to agree.