Worst. Person. Ever. (6 page)

“As your personal assistant I’m on it.”

Neal talked to the gate agent and confirmed that all was well and that boarding would start in two hours. I quickly found the business lounge—the very one in
which I’d banged young Shelley, no less—and even found a vacancy in my old toilet stall, and sat down to have a verklempt little moment while I attempted to relax my churning guts.

When I got back to the lounge, I soon learned that, in LAX, free mini bottles of booze were treasures of yore. In fact, anything alcoholic was behind a bar backed by a trio of shrieking wide-screen TVs carrying that ghastly style of news Americans delight in, where three crawls are going simultaneously and where the stupidest incidents are inflated into cosmic importance by the world’s ugliest reporters. Has this country never heard of a casting couch?

Talk about a culture in free fall. At the bar I asked for a double vodka tonic and received a snitty look from
LACEY.
“I’m sorry, sir, but federal regulations prohibit the sale of any drink containing liquor in excess of one point five ounces.”

“Can I order two drinks, then?”

“I’ve been told to exercise my judgment as to whether I think the purchaser intends to drink them both, and if I think that is the case, I have an obligation to sell that person just the one drink,”
LACEY
said.

“Okay, I give up. I’ll have a single vodka tonic.”

In the absence of any other customers,
LACEY
ever so grudgingly mixed me a vodka tonic that stank of floor cleaning products. “How much do I owe you?”

“Cocktails are complimentary to visitors to the lounge, but customers are not constrained from tipping if they wish to.”

“Do you find yourself getting many tips,
LACEY
?”

“I believe in doing a good job.”

“So if I don’t give you a tip, you’ll still think you are doing a good job?”

“I suppose so, yes.”

“Must be fun being you.” I downed the rest of my vodka and bounced off to rejoin Neal, who, to my joy, sat dejectedly at the gate, surrounded by Peruvians or Nicaraguans or Mexicans. All that was missing were hutches full of angry chickens and the sound of pan flutes.

“Get yourself a drink okay, Ray?”

“Neal, I think this country has changed a great deal.” I thought of young
LACEY
, growing old and haggard behind a bar, never having received a tip, her mind full of endless televised pseudonews.
LACEY
would finally
give up and put her head in the oven. Her Mexican landlord would then sweep in and quickly bury her corpse beneath the backyard piñata, and then move his extended family of seventeen into
LACEY
’s apartment, forging a document so they could take over her identity.

We heard the boarding announcement for flight 13 to Honolulu.
For passengers with small children or in need of extra assistance, we ask that you step up to the gate now for pre-boarding. We’d like to also invite our passengers in first class and/or members of our Elite Mileage Club to board now or at their leisure.

“Ciao, Neal. See you on the ground.” I ran to the gate, flashing my boarding pass, feeling young and alive and unencumbered by screaming brats. With a kick in my step, I scampered down the Jetway into the plane. Seat 1K—pretty hard to fuck that one up.

Okay.

So I was the first passenger on board. 1K was a window seat facing north. As I settled in, a gratifying phalanx of the babbling poor began scuttling past, back towards the fartulent rabbit warren of coach. It was all I could do not to stick out my leg and trip these fucking losers, but knowing that I had the power to do so was all it took to make me glow inwardly and refrain. They couldn’t close the little blue curtain between them and me quickly enough.

Neal lumbered by. “Enjoying your seat, boss?”

“Oh hello, Neal. What seat are you in?”

“54F, Ray.”

“And
I’m
here in 1K.
Adios
, loser.”

First class filled up bit by bit. Nice enough looking lot—most likely took a bath before coming to the airport; not on the dole or whatever it’s called in the States; haven’t yet sold their children to work in thrice-a-day stage showings of burro sex.

The seat beside me stayed empty. Airlines like keeping the first row as empty as they can so that flight crews can
deadhead back to their home locations. I was wondering if some delicious, velvety young stew was going to be my flight mate. In my head I was chanting:
humungous fucking tits, humungous fucking tits
 … which,
I
think, is a reasonable enough chant for any red-blooded male.

The public address system came to life:
Due to a software error, tonight’s inflight entertainment system is limited to channel 2. We apologize for any inconvenience this causes.

I checked the inflight magazine for what was on channel 2 and had a fucking stroke—“The World of Mr. Bean: The complete televised antics of the silently lovable dimwit.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, what is wrong with this planet?”

“I beg your pardon, sir?” It was my inflight service director.

“Nothing. Champagne coming soon?”

“No champagne before the flight, sir. The Department of Homeland Security has banned all on-ground beverage service of alcohol. Can I get you water or juice?”

“Right, right. Orange juice, then.”

What did she hand me? A fucking
juice box
that didn’t even have fucking juice in it: it was a
juicealicious blend of exotic flavours with omega-3 acids added for good health.
Translate: leftover crap swept from the fruit factory floor pulverized into nothingness, heated to three hundred degrees Fahrenheit to eliminate contaminants and mixed with plutonium to kill all the nutrients in order to make the resulting sewage that dribbles down the sluice shippable to everywhere from Antarctica to Death Valley with no need for refrigeration. I’m no fucking nutritionist, but people, how hard is it to not eat shit?

“Thanks, but I’ll settle for water.” I gave her back the box.

After I buckled up, I glanced behind me and the plane seemed to be full; passengers had stopped coming in from the Jetway. It dawned on me that the seat to my left was still empty. Finally! A fucking break. I’d sprawl out without having to chat up a next-door neighbour, melon-breasted or otherwise.

And then, subtly but unmistakably, I heard a slow, thumping rumble headed my way.

Bwana! Kimba the elephant is approaching from the western side of the rubber plantation …

I shut my eyes and tried to imagine what new horror could be coming toward me, and I was rewarded beyond my darkest expectations.

My inflight service director, whose name tag read
TRISH
, said, “Right this way, Mr. Bradley. You’re in 1J. It’s an aisle seat, so you’ll have access to the washroom. On behalf of the entire flight crew, I want you to know that we’ll do everything we possibly can to make your trip to Hawaii as wonderful as possible.” Trish cracked me an ever so tiny smile.

Right.

I think I said earlier that I am a peace-loving man. Nothing would please me more than world peace and a stronger United Nations. You bet!
Hey, all you useless little countries! Banding together will give you the illusion of hope!
I also genuinely like puppies. Although I find it appalling that Chinese people relish them as food, I like to think of myself as open-minded: we miss so much joy in life when we say no to new experiences.

So there I was, calmly ensconced in 1K, when I had that Steven Spielberg moment where my plastic cup of water suddenly developed tiny wavelets … what could it be?
Probably just shutting the cargo doors. I am an accomplished flier. Nothing fazes me!

And then—Christ, there’s just no other way to put it—the fattest human being I’ve ever seen boarded the plane, a man, maybe fifty. Imagine a container of cottage cheese dumped onto a kitchen floor and then sprung to life in human form. This newly created golem had little
dollops of fat that resemble squirrel tits hanging from underneath its arms. Its forearms resemble brains, but on the elbows there were rusty patches of eczema that spoke of a life spent dining from vending machines. The only use society might have for a beast like this is to make people feel better about not being him.

The Blob looked at 1J. Yes, that is correct …

Trish did what anyone does upon encountering a freak: she fawned all over him. “Hello, Mr. Bradley. So nice to see you again! Welcome to the flight.”

Pretty hard to forget someone like Mr. Bradley, who approached 1J like a snail, in a trailing, suctiony manner. Did he bother to say hello? No. Did he apologize for his existence? No. Instead, he rummaged under one of his multiple boob flaps and removed a small packet of orange-coloured processed crisp thingies and filled his mouth in one pass, afterwards wiping his hands on the five visible square inches of his knees.

Trish added an extra strap to Mr. Bradley’s seatbelt, and then another. She sweated and grunted as she plunged her now-moist fists into Mr. Bradley’s damp cavities in the hope of finding a clasp, and when she finished, she knew she would never be able to unsee or unfeel what she had just experienced.

Something whimsical came over me, just an impish impulse to give back to the world some of the joy it has given me over the years. I said to Mr. Bradley, “Do you enjoy being a member of the plus-sized community?”

He looked at me.
Snuffle; snort; glungh.
“What?”

“I asked whether you greatly enjoy being a member of the plus-sized community.”

No reply. So much for chitchat.

At last the plane taxied to the runway and, God help us, even with this diseased neutron star beside me, was able to lift off.

*Ding!*

Passengers are free to get up and move about the cabin, but FAA regulations require passengers to remain seated with their seatbelt on at all times during the flight.

I said to my neighbour, “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“Huh?”

“How can passengers be free to get up and move about the cabin if their fucking government tells them to remain seated and belted at all times?”

“There’s no need to swear.”

“Oh, fuck off. Waddle back to coach and eat a fucking baby.”

As I teased him, I was very careful to enunciate in such a way that, to eavesdroppers, my words would appear as innocuous as, say,
Can I read that magazine when you’re through with it?

Mr. Bradley’s face began empurpling and I felt like a painter working on a successful canvas. I casually opened a copy of some disgraceful codswallop of an American newspaper and pretended to read its investigative paragraphs. I could tell Mr. Bradley had no idea what to do about me.

Then Trish, who had been futzing about in the galley, came through to ask business classers what they’d like from the menu, chicken or beef. This was far too good an opportunity to miss, so I used my highly focused ultra-indoors voice to say to Mr. Bradley, “By the looks of you, you’d best hope they have all of Noah’s ark on the menu.”

“Excuse me?”

The couple across the aisle glanced our way. I put on my normal person’s face.

“May I ask you to please stop insulting me?”

I gave a theatrical shrug. “I’ve no idea what you’re on about.” I received a sympathetic glance from my other cabin mates and gleefully returned to the dreadful American newspaper.

When Trish reached our row, she asked the couple across the aisle for their choice, then turned to ask Mr. Bradley, with at least some level of genuine curiosity, “What can I get you tonight, sir—beef or chicken?” It took all of my strength to not bust into full-body laughter.

Instead of shouting,
Give me every piece of fucking food in this plane!
, Mr. Bradley pretended to mull over the question, finally arriving at “Chicken, please.”

Trish turned to me. “Mr. Gunt, all we have left is the beef.”

“No problem. And look, I’m not that hungry. If Mr. Bradley would like my meal as well, he’s certainly welcome to it.” I spoke with an air of church-boy sincerity that Trish couldn’t help but regard as a genuine expression of human kindness.

More purple from Mr. Bradley. A brief patch of turbulence caused ripples across his gut. He caught me staring and said, “You think I like being this way?”

In a calm, therapeutic manner, I said, “Sir, are you a nervous flier? I used to get nervous too, but my doctor gave me something to take before flights and now flying’s a breeze.”

“My problem isn’t flying, Mr. Gunt.” He’d remembered my name! “My problem is your rudeness.”

I gave him a wounded look. Then I heard the tinkle of the approaching beverage cart. “Maybe a drink is what you need. Nothing like a drink to ease the nerves.”
It’d take a fucking
Exxon Valdez–full of booze
to get this whopper sozzled.