The VIP of the Rehab, the Vegas Hard Rock Hotel pool party, is crowded out.
It’s hot, the alcohol flows abundantly and a few dollar bills twist in the air like dead leaves, certainly thrown to the crowd by a mad celebrity who sees in his abject gesture a symbol of success.
Jerome and I have absolutely nothing to do there.
Neither in the VIP area in which we sneaked in by making light of the gorilla at the entrance, nor even in Las Vegas. We are officially on a business trip for appointments in Chicago and Montreal.
Right. But after a short stay in jail for domestic violence, Floyd “Money” Mayweather makes his homecoming bout against Roberto “The Ghost” Guerrero just before our first appointments and during our birthdays, which are respectively May 3rd and 6th.
The reunion of these criteria naturally led us to judge that a small hook by Vegas, on expenses of course, was de rigueur.
As soon as I entered the VIP zone, I came face to face with Danny “The Swift” Garcia and Adrian “The Problem” Broner, in midst of a conversation. I immediately understand that the flying bills are the work of the latter. But as a big boxing fan and already very tipsy, I stand rooted to the spot and enjoy this moment in the company of two undefeated world champions (at the time).
In order to extend this moment, I try a nice “You’re gonna knock him out” in the ear of Danny Garcia as soon as Adrian Broner turns his back, which is far from having the expected effect since he glares at me as an answer, before he goes away too.
The mojito litters we’ve been drinking since 11am help me to quickly forget this failure and put on my ‘Pool Party King’ costume. The one that makes you dare everything, that gives you unshakeable confidence and therefore gives you the feeling of being irresistible. I feel that this VIP space belongs to me, I feel like home and all the people there are my friends.
I am therefore extremely surprised when one of the bouncers comes to disturb this moment of joy and happiness by asking me to leave the VIP zone for a reason that I still ignore. What could I have done wrong? Perhaps he was fed up with seeing me inviting everyone in the sacred square. Or maybe he thinks that my level of intoxication is too advanced… The fact remains that the discussion does not seem allowed with this charming gentleman with dissuasive build and Jerome and I are asked to clear the floor. So we decide that it is time for us to leave the pool party.
After forcing our way through a door yet blocked by a security guy – I still wonder how we did it – we stop at the toilet for a pee break where we are joined by two enraged people who get in fury and snapping the doors. I have always been exasperated by individuals without delicacy. How is it that some people are not able to open a door without breaking it against the wall? Or do not get up to let a woman or an elderly person sit in the bus? Or else rush into the metro without letting out those who come down? What are they trying to prove?
This one comes pissing right next to me. “Perhaps I should ask him,” I say to myself, turning my head towards him.
Adrian Broner! Him again!
While we are relieving, Jerome takes the opportunity to ask Broner’s friend if he can take a picture with me. Proposal declined by him with a movement of the head, a gesture of the hand and a “No no no no no” worthy of celebrities whose success turned their heads and who think they are the kings of the world.
Amused by the situation, I suggest Jerome that we follow Broner’s crew, what we did until being totally part of it, walking and talking with them in the corridors of the Hard Rock Hotel. The scene is absolutely ridiculous, we are two small Parisian white asses in the middle of a dozen Afro-Americans much heftier than us and with the street-credibility of which we are totally devoid.
For my part I enjoy every second!
But if you go looking for trouble you’ll find it!
Having great self-confidence is a definite asset but it can definitely turn against you when used with the wrong person.
Outside the hotel, I eventually managed to capture Adrian Broner’s attention and get in touch with him. Physically in touch. According to Jerome, he would not have appreciated that I catch him by the neck ant tap it to shout in his ear whatever shit I had to say to him. It must be said that the boy is rather warlike.
My memories of the whole afternoon are not very clear, alcohol obliges, but I remember perfectly the speed at which Broner disappeared from my field of vision. Without even noticing it, he had shifted to 90 degrees and sent me a quick but fortunately powerless punch to the thorax. From one moment to the next, I literally found myself looking in the direction of a person who was no longer there and felt my rib cage heating up without even knowing why. How fast! Welcome to the world-class! Alcohol may slow down psychomotor skills, but I must admit that I had never witnessed such speed of execution.
Then, seeing this boxing world champion becoming agitated and certainly insulting me – I was too drunk to understand what he was saying – was for me a satisfactory continuation of the course of the story as I was looking at him yelling at me with a big smile on my face. Certainly suffering from Stockholm Syndrome, I suddenly felt sympathy for my aggressor when he checked me with his closed-fist, as if to say that we could stop there.
This guy doesn’t know me!
I then had to get expelled from the van in which I had thought it would be a good idea to follow the crew, so that I give up the idea of making friends with them and Jerome and I hit the road for new adventures in the warm night of Vegas.
