Worst. Person. Ever. Read online

09

  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.

  10

  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 n
ewspaper.

  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.

  Mr. Bradley blurted out to Trish a request for a double Scotch and received that very American reply: “I’m sorry, sir, but the FAA prohibits the sale of alcoholic drinks over one point five ounces. I’ll be back to you shortly—beverage service is starting in row 8 tonight.”

  Purple changed to beet red. Dear God, this is fun.

  When Trish at last reached row 1, she had his mini bottle ready. “Your Scotch, Mr. Bradley?”

  “Thank you.”

  She poured the contents onto ice and was about to hand the glass to him with a pack of smoked almonds when she paused, put her hand back into the bin and removed two more nut bags. She set all three beside his drink without comment. “Mr. Gunt?”

  Trust me, this was the only time in my whole fucking life I’d refused the offer of a drink, but it was just too good an opportunity to waste. “No, thanks—I have to make sure I fit into my swimsuit. Soda water’s great, if you have it.”

  My seatmate was maroon now, and I thought, Ahh … three more hours of fun.

  “I know the feeling, Mr. Gunt,” said Trish, patting her minuscule waist with a wink. “Here’s some water. Nuts, maybe?”

  “No. All those oils are really fatten—” I gently corrected myself. “They tend to linger in the body.”

  She nodded at me and then rolled the cart into the pantry.

  I could sense the quickly spinning hamster wheels of hate in Mr. Bradley’s being.

  I said and did nothing more until our food came. Instead of a hot meal, dinner was a disposable box containing a croissant stuffed by careless chimps. The bar-coded label on Mr. Bradley’s box read: “FIRSTCLASS” CHICKIN CROISANT. Trish offered me one reading: “FIRSTCLASS” BEEFE CROISANT.

  Ah, the American education system.

  I declined. Trish then asked me at the very least to have a roll with butter, and I graciously said, “Sure, why not?” On the tray was a pack of ketchup. I tore off the tiniest strip from the corner and then used the ketchup to write PIG on the surface of my bun. I waited for the right moment to hold it clearly before me and ask Mr. Bradley in distinct, soothing, broadcaster-like tones audible to all, “Mr. Bradley, are you feeling a bit better now that you’ve had a drink?”

  He looked at me and then at the bun.

  He burped.

  Whatever he says, it’s going to be priceless …

  His body started shaking up and down like a hardware store paint-shaker, and then, spectacularly, he vomited onto the carpeted bulkhead wall in front of us. He lurched upward in a last cosmic gym crunch, then slumped forward, his head dropping onto his chest. He was still.

  Well, fuck him if he can’t take a joke.

  I shouted, “Flight attendant! Mr. Bradley’s in terrible distress!” And there’s the foulest puke you ever smelled all around him, and it is ruining my flight, so please mop it all up.

  I, the hero, then shouted, “Does anyone here know CPR?” Even if they did, they’d have an easier time giving it to a bouncy castle at a children’s birthday party than trying to revive Mr. Bradley.

  Some losers from coach peeked through the curtain to see what the commotion was about. Trish screamed for them to sit back down. She velcroed the blue curtain closed, then asked over the PA if there was a doctor on board. But even if there was, come on—what could he do? You’d need a forklift to lift the fat bastard out of the seat.

  And then Neal poked his head through the curtain. “I used to work as a paramedic, ma’am,” he said to Trish.

  She practically wept with relief and waved him through.

  “You never told me you were a paramedic, Neal. I specifically asked you if you possessed any real world skills, and you said you had none.”

  “Surprises make life fun, Ray. Here—help me lay him out in the aisle.”

  Christ, it was like trying to drag a melon wagon up an alpine meadow. “How much does this fucker weigh, do you think, Neal?”

  “Maybe twenty, twenty-five stone.”

  “He took one big puke and then slumped over.”

  “Probably a heart attack.”

  Neal, Trish and I finally got Mr. Bradley’s corpse into the aisle. All eyes in business class were agog at having so much deadness so close by.

  “You never really think of death too much in our culture,” said Neal.

  “I know. It’s unhealthy, really. We need to find the joy and laughter in death as well as the depressing bits.”

  “Amen, Ray.”

  Trish was wiping up the puke on the bulkhead wall.

  “What happens next?” I asked Neal.

  “Put him back in his seat, I suppose.”

  “You have to be fucking kidding. After what we just went through?”

  “We don’t want rigor mortis to set in while he’s blocking the aisle. It’s our last chance to, umm … bend him to our will.”

  And so we wrestled Mr. Bradley back into 1J, where he sat frozen as if in a state of permanent excitement while awaiting a truckload of greasy, heavily salted meals.

  “Don’t expect me to keep this fat dead fuck company for three and a half more hours. You work for me, Neal, so you can sit beside him for the rest of the flight.”

  “Me in first class?”

  “It’s your lucky day, Neal.”

  “I’ll say. Hey, is that a croissant I see there at your seat? All we got in coach were snacks that kind of looked like what you’d find under the front seat of a well-used family sedan. Not too appetizing. But you—you got a sandwich.”

  “It’s yours if you want it.”

  “Thanks, Ray, you’re the best.”

  And thus I moved to seat 54F, entertained, relaxed, relieved and happy. The rest of the flight was a dream in spite of collective bleatings of amusement around me at the appalling Mr. Bean program.

  Fucking Mr. Bean.

  Mr. Bean is a British comedy series of 19 twenty-five-minute episodes written by and starring Rowan Atkinson. The pilot was broadcast on England’s ITV on January 1, 1990, and the last episode in late 1995.

  The series follows the exploits of Mr. Bean, described by Atkinson as “a child in a grown man’s body,” as he solves various problems presented by everyday life—often causing mayhem in the process. Bean rarely speaks, thus making the series ideal for global domination in the crowd sedation sector of the TV industry. The show has been sold in 245 territories. It is relentless. It can be enjoyed with equal ease by three-year-olds and Alzheimer’s patients. Mirth: the universal language.

  11

  Honolulu was a total donkeyfuck, starting with t
he ridiculous amount of respect paid to that repulsive corpse Bradley, as if dying on a plane is some big accomplishment. Thirty minutes were wasted while medics came to retrieve his husk, and there weren’t even any snacks or drinks while we waited at the gate for them to do their thing.

  Finally allowed into the terminal, we passed through immigration, which, its being the middle of the night, was a breeze, but then we couldn’t find Sarah, our TV network go-to.

  So Neal and I sat and waited in the arrivals area, nighttime warmth nuzzling our travel-weary arms and plumeria scent filling the air like sugar. We imbibed the two dozen or so mini bottles I’d stolen from the drinks wagon during the death kerfuffle and contemplated our next step—locating our charter flight to Kiribati.

  Travel had turned Neal into a fucking child: “Wow. Me in Hawaii. Whatever next?”

  “Look, Neal, Hawaii is not some magical pixie wonderland; it’s an American state populated by atomic weapons, a remnant native population and people too stupid to spell their way out of a paper bag. Most of them came here to escape pathetic lives in the forty-nine other states, so in some sense, Hawaii is a scenic cul-de-sac filled with people who want to drink themselves to death without feeling judged.”

  “Smells nice, though, doesn’t it?”

  “It certainly does.”

  “Where’s this Sarah woman, then?”

  “If she’s American, she’s most likely playing Scrabble with a chimp and losing.”

  A jet took off in the background. Ukulele music was playing over the PA. The booze was doing its job, and I did kind of like this place. And then we saw Sarah: late twenties, long brown hair, dressed like women in ad agencies do: V-neck sweater with three-quarter sleeves—distinct upwardly mobile cleavage. I said, “Look at her. She’s not about to do anyone unless it ratchets her up the ladder.”

  “You sure, Ray? She looks kind enough.”

  “Neal, I stopped trying to nail that type a decade ago. Birds of her calibre have been getting hit on since they were two years old; by the time they’re four, they’re already technically out of my league.”

  As Sarah came closer to us, I realized she was sniffling as if something sad had just occurred.