Worst. Person. Ever. (3 page)

“What do you mean, Ray?”

“I mean, how many fucking crumbs can there be on this street—or any other given street in the world?”

“Go on, Ray. I’m listening.”

“I mean, it’s not like there’s a mobile croissant-shredding machine that trundles about the city strewing fresh, delicious crumbs all over the place just to feed pigeons.” A pigeon ventured close to my face, cooing dementedly. I blew at it and it skittered away. “And yet look at the little monsters everywhere: very plump, likely juicy, too.”

“Very roastable indeed.”

“Not only are these pigeons plump, Neal, they shit like leaf blowers, and they do all of this on a diet of, essentially, nothing.”

“Makes you think, Ray.”

“It does, doesn’t it, Neal?”

The mood down on the sidewalk was relaxed now. I caught a whiff of piss. “Christ, just smell the piss here. What is wrong with this city? Someone couldn’t wait seventeen extra seconds to find a shrub or a loo?”

“You should give urine a chance, Ray. You’re reflexively negative about it. Think of all those people in India chugging down bottles of urine every day. Piss is practically a food group over there, it is.”

“Neal, there’s a reason it’s called piss—it’s because your body doesn’t want it inside you anymore. If we were meant to drink piss, it’d come out of tits. Think about it.”

“Good point, Ray.”

“Thank you. Just one question, Neal …”

“Yes, Ray?”

“A minute ago, when you were talking about giving your hair a name and all that—were you serious?”

“Good God, no. People expect crazy people to ham it up, so I give what I think the audience wants. But I can see you understand me, Ray. I’d never try a stunt like that on you again.”

“Thank you for your refreshing candour.”

Neal stood up, looming over me on the diseased concrete. “Okay now, Ray, stop being a cunt to the world, and the world will stop being a cunt to you.”

And with that, Neal was gone.

Kind of liked him, actually.

I got home to my cramped top-floor flat in my building, a forgettable heap with about as much visual magnificence as Margaret Thatcher’s morning coffee dump. Unwashed dishes in the sink had gone bacterial and were on the brink of growing fur. Six light bulbs in the room needed replacing. I suppose, were I to wax poetic, the absence of pets or loved ones amplified my sense of aloneness in the universe.

The phone rang: “Hi, Ray. It’s Tabitha from Fi’s office. She wanted me to prep you for Kiribati.”

Tabitha!
Tabs! Fi’s gofer, a sweet delicate fawn. But the question in my mind about Tabs is: Has, or has not, Fiona tongue-nabbed Tabs in the ladies’ room in between her PowerPoint casting suggestions for a Ford Fiesta commercial or the Afghanistan war or God-only-knows what other appalling clients? “Hi, Tabs. What do I need to know?”

“Do you have a valid passport?”

“I do. I never know when an overseas gig might come up.” Implicit in this?
Raymond Gunt is a man of the world.

“Okay, good. Umm. Like, ummm. Well …” Typical useless young person, language-wise. “Fi has asked me to drop papers off at your place tonight. Our server’s down and you’re not far from where I live. Will you be home at seven o’clock?”

Will I?
“Yes. Please do drop by.”

“See you then.”

Fucking hell: my place looked like cat shit in a litter box. The last thing I ever have on my mind is visitors. I began to cull through the worst of it, but I realized a few minutes in that the worst of it was actually a fucking
lot
of it.

I needed to convert my bachelor’s dump into a fuck hut, and quick. Who among us hasn’t been in this situation?

How to mask the odour of furniture covered in years of rogue jizz blemishes, countless sour-smelling empty wine bottles, a sea of dead remote control batteries and Zantac packaging, a rack of never-used barbells, a Katrina-like swath of take-away food packaging, plus whatever civilization of insects was brave or stupid enough to try to forge a new world within the haphazardly created ecosystem that was my flat?

I lost some of my cleanup speed in the face of all this, but then refocused on why I was doing it:
Tabs
, the milky-skinned naive little doe who would look at a worldly, not-unstudly fellow like me and say, “Please, sir, I need someone to coach me on how to properly perform, as I have almost no experience and would prefer to learn from someone who can obviously teach me thoroughly and with great attention to detail.”

In the end it was simply easiest to huck it all out the back window onto the landlady’s herb garden. Fucking
herbs are indestructible—it’s how they got to be herbs in the first place—nature loves nothing more than throwing a species a challenge. Technically, by nature’s standards, smothering Mrs. Radley’s herb garden was doing it a favour by speeding up evolution. In any event, that bloated pension-sucking hag was away in Penzance at a family funeral. Recent contact with death would likely make her appreciate herbal trauma all the more.

Ding-dong.

Fucking hell, seven already? Christ.

I buzzed the street door, shouting into the speaker, “Tabs, luv, come in.”

As I held the door open, I cast a glance behind me at the main room, which was actually looking okay without most of my defenestrated crap. Those monks might be on to something with minimalism and all that meditating and shit, but fuck monks, I was after
pussy.
“Fancy a drink, Tabs?” I said as soon as she was in the door.

“Do you have a white wine spritzer, maybe?”

White wine? Does she think I’m some bender who rises every morning in pursuit of winking boy cherry?
“I’m out of white wine. Fancy a lager?”

“Lager? Oh, um … sure. I really just need to drop these off and explain one or two things.” She was looking at me funny—she was intrigued by me. I could tell.
Hot dang! This might be the night!

Through the mercy of God I was able to find two actual Pilsner glasses that were clean—this could only add to my Jason Bourne–like air of urban cool. “Here you go, Tabs.
Skol!
” (Toasting: manly.)

“Oh, um … 
skol!
”

Again, she was eyeing me in a way that meant more than her counting my blackheads. We clinked glasses.
Soon we shall be one.

“Raymond—”

“Ray.”

“
Ray
 … a bit of info for you. You’ll be flying through Los Angeles and passing through immigration, but that should be no problem. From there, you hop to Honolulu and then some other island in order to get to Kiribati. It’s a long slog—thirty-seven hours, all told.”

“Lovely sunsets there, I bet.”

“Huh? Oh, yes, I suppose so. In any event, I checked and you won’t require any vaccinations or a visa. The other camerapersons who’ve worked there suggested that you bring as many topical antifungals with you as possible.”

“Tabs, hang on a sec, luv. Exactly what show is it I’m working on?”

She gawped at me. “You don’t even know what show you’re working on?”

“It’s American, so it’s bound to be shit. It didn’t occur to me to ask.”

“It’s one of those reality shows where people stuck on a remote island shag each other over the course of a few weeks and then, I don’t know, turn into cannibals at the end when they get desperate for food.” She sipped her lager. “And then the last person standing gets a big bag of money. Here’s some information about the show, as well as your contracts. We’ll need to sign them right now.” Her forearms were twitching … her forearms connected to her shoulders connected to her magnificent rack. She spread out some papers, and I edged
closer to her on the sofa to sign them. She smelled so clean, and her perfume was heaven: Fuck Factor Five or whatever overpriced gonk it is they’re pushing at office tarts this season.

She smiled at me—the Look! The Look! She was giving me the Look! “And you’ll be getting American union rates, which, after two months—”

Good God.
“What? Two fucking months in the middle of nowhere?”

“But it’ll be so beautiful, and if it works out, it could be a long-running gig. Fiona worked very hard to get you this slot.”

“She did, did she?” Not a good sign.

“It’s not my place to discuss this, Raymond, but I think she might still be sweet on you.”

Dear God.
Discussing an ex with a potential conquest? I was seeing my potential shag putting on little wings and flying out the window—no, more like putting on a little noose and attaching it to the rafters.

“Ray?” She was gathering up her things.

Now or never. I edged closer to her on the sofa. “Tabs, stay a bit longer. Finish your lager.”

“Umm. Well. Okay.”

“I know Fi can be a handful, Tabs.”

Her body language was neutral. “Fi’s a pretty good boss. She knows what she wants.”

That plus-sized Toby mug I once called my wife?
“I’m sure she does.” I edged in one breath closer.

“Raymond …”

“Yes, Tabs?”

“We need to discuss your personal assistant. Billy told you that you get one, right?”

Ah, yes, my
slave
assistant.
At this point, I, Raymond Gunt, mentally vacated the room, transported into the air by those magic words—my own personal assistant out in the middle of nowhere, free of any meaningful legal jurisdictions. I formed my own mental montage: clanking manacles, cracking whips and the sound of a key without mercy locking a cage.

“Ray?
Ray?
You there?”

“Sorry, luv. I was lost in thought. How do I choose my assistant?”

“It’s your call. You have …” she checked her cellphone, “…  twenty-three hours to find one. The flight is at six o’clock tomorrow. All they need is a valid passport, and as Kiribati has no union restrictions, it’s easy-peasy. If you can’t find someone, one will be appointed to you.”

“Well, I don’t want
that.
” I scanned my mental Rolodex for potential assistants. A friend? None. Drinking buddies? Manifold but untrustworthy. Female anyone? Not fucking likely. Family members? Don’t ask. Passing acquaintances? Few.

“Ray, you’ll be flying business class to Honolulu via Los Angeles, and from there you’ll be on a corporate jet.”

“Would my personal assistant have to be in business class, too?”

“I suppose if you asked for it.”

Not fucking likely. Any assistant of mine would have to be the rearmost seat, right beside the lav and the puking Australians.

My mind was caught in a rare but wonderful joy loop.
Fucking brilliant! Someone to legally beat with a
stick!
And then, in a burst of dazzling white light, I realized I had just the candidate.

Suddenly Tabs stood up and headed for the door.

“Tabs, wait!”

“I have spin class, Raymond. I have to go. Enjoy your trip.”

“Tabs …”

She stopped in her tracks and turned back to me, expectantly.

“I—I can’t help but think there’s maybe something special between us …”

“You noticed?” Tabs breathed.

“Well, yes—a man can’t avoid being aware of the needs of a beautiful young girl like yourself.” I came closer.

“Raymond, it’s … It’s …”

“Yes?” Zooming in for the kill.

“Well … you look so much like my father.”

“Oh?” Okay, not a total setback. Some birds have major father issues.

“It’s been so long since I’ve seen him.”

“Really, luv? How long?”

“Eleven years now.”

“I’m sorry. How did he … 
pass
¹
?”

“Oh. He didn’t die. He’s in prison.”

That was a plot twist. “I’m sorry to hear that. What … what was his, um, situation?”

“He was a serial molester. The Tinsdale Fondler. Made the cover of the
Daily Mail.
”

“Right.”

“I’d best be going now, Raymond.”

“Yes, Tabs. Thank you for everything. Good night.”

Fucking hell.

Deprived of coitus, I daydreamed of slave ownership and got as shitfaced as I possibly could on a bottle of single malt I’d stolen from the bar at a Stella McCartney fragrance launch.

Tracking down Neal the next morning wasn’t hard. I walked into the off-license, held up a banknote and said, “Twenty quid to whoever can help me find my long-lost brother. He’s got one good eye, dresses like Duran Duran and stinks of the worst kind of dog shit.”

“Oh, that’d be Neal,” squeaked a trainer-clad gran buying a stack of (what else) lotto tickets. “Lovely boy and a great singing voice. This week I think he’s in a box behind the stationer’s on Old Oak Common Lane.”

“Thank you very much.”

“What about my twenty quid?”

“Only once I find my prey, Sea Hag,” I said over my shoulder as I headed out into the brisk fall air. I could practically hear that mummified old soak composing an indignant letter to the
Daily Mail
, beginning
I’m a pensioner and …
, at which point a lifelong diet of greasy fish, scotch mints and whimsically flavoured crisps catches up to her and she falls dead at her kitchen table, not to be discovered for weeks.

Neal was indeed inside a Samsung cardboard box, eating a Subway sandwich, when I found him. He squinted up at me. “Right, it’s Cunty, it is.”

“It’s Gunt to you, Neal. These your digs, then?”

“I’ll not have you knocking this box. Samsung has emerged as one of the strongest competitors in the Darwinian world of home electronics.”

“For fuck’s sake, Neal, it’s a cardboard box.” I kicked the side for emphasis. It emitted a deep bass thump and didn’t rupture, which gave me pause. “I have to admit, if you’re going to live in a fucking box, this isn’t a bad one.”