Worst. Person. Ever. (11 page)
“What’s wrong with
me
? What’s wrong with
you
… Peggy
bin Laden?
Your mom-pants and that poorly styled meerkat on your head don’t fool me for one second. The more you snivel, the more I question your supposed identity.”
More boohoos and even more snivelling. A merciful spirit swept over me. “Mrs. Nielson, for God’s sake, look at life for what it is—a repulsive waste of self-important protein
molecules. It’s not you who did something wrong. It’s
life.
”
“That’s so negative. You’re so
negative!
”
Well, I
had
tried to be nice. “Peggy, you’re wearing out my patience. What sort of place is Kendallville, anyway? A hub for the manufacturing of crybabies?”
“I hate you.”
“But I don’t hate you. I, actually, in some hard-to-describe way, like you.”
“Really?”
“I do. But you have to tough this out, Peggy. What comes around goes around. I prefer to think I lead a fine and upstanding life. When things turn to rat shit—as they invariably do—I never think it’s me who’s done something wrong; it’s the fucking universe having a bad day, and I just happened to be there.”
“That’s a new way of looking at things, Mr. …”
“Gunt. Raymond Gunt.”
Miracle of miracles, she stopped snivelling.
The Venezuelans regarded both of us with disdain, and I stared right back. “Look here, you two. Go fuck dead goats or whatever it is you do in your taco factories back home.” I turned to Peggy. “Venezuela. Dreadful country. Nothing but cocaine and Miss Universe contestants.”
“Nothing but grief.”
“See there, Peggy? You really can turn that frown upside down.”
“Thank you, Raymond Gunt. Tell me, where were you headed before you ended up here?”
“Kiribati. I’m a cameraman on that TV show
Survival
, and if I ever get out of this hole, that’s where I’m headed, on one of the posh private jets the TV network uses to fly me around.”
“I have to admit, I love
Survival.
”
Oh, crap.
“What’s it like being on a shoot? Where do crew members sleep when the contestants are in their camps?”
“Well, you know, Peggy …”
Christ, get me out of here now.
I stared around the cell and suddenly had a brainwave about how to escape. One of my Venezuelan cellmates was idly snacking on fragments from a Hawaiian Airlines snack pack he’d dug out of his pocket.
I walked over to him. “Share?”
“
¿Qué?
”
I snatched his snack bag, dug inside and found what I wanted: one macadamia nut. I ate it.
Tree nut allergy
is a hypersensitivity to tree nuts that causes an overreaction of the immune system, which may lead to severe physical symptoms. Tree nuts include Brazil nuts, cashews, chestnuts, hazelnuts, macadamia nuts, pecans, pine nuts, pistachios and walnuts. The severity of sensitivity can vary from person to person. Those diagnosed with anaphylaxis will have a more immediate mast cell reaction and must avoid all exposure to any allergen-containing products or by-products, regardless of processing.
Tree nut allergy is distinct from peanut allergy. Peanuts are legumes, whereas a tree nut is the hard-shelled fruit of certain plants. A person with a peanut allergy may not necessarily also be allergic to tree nuts, and vice versa.
Many people feign nut allergies as a means of establishing an often pathetically small amount of control in a social or dining situation. In a recent and highly gratifying airline decision, a passenger who alerts airlines of a nut allergy after having obtained a boarding pass must be removed from a flight and forced to wait until a different plane, certified to have no contact with nuts, appears, a process that can sometimes take days. This process is irreversible, even if the passenger immediately admits he or she is a lying needy tard.
Next thing I knew, I was staring up into Neal’s face—and yet it wasn’t Neal. This person had a proper haircut and shave, moisturized skin, a silk tattersall button-down shirt and radioactive-looking American-white teeth.
“Wakey-wakey, Ray. Good to see you up and alert.”
“Who the fuck
are
you?”
“It’s me, Ray, your buddy, Neal.”
“Why am I not in that airport shithole?”
“You ate a macadamia nut, you sly devil. Your oneway ticket out of the Homeland Security system. We’re on a jet to Kiribati.”
“My brain feels like a caged circus animal. What the hell happened to you?”
“I got myself a makeover. Ever had one? You go in looking seedy and feeling like a failure—and then all these smashing hot birds and enthusiastic gay guys run their hands all over you and you walk out looking like a pop star. I had to do
something
while you were stuck in Homeland Security’s intensive-care pavilion. A few of the girls from Fi’s casting session took me on as their project, so to speak.”
“But what the fuck happened to your
teeth
?”
“There was nothing wrong with my teeth, Ray—at least, nothing Zoom laser-whitening couldn’t zap away in seconds.”
I looked around me. “And why am I not in some American prison?”
“Oh
that.
Fiona brokered your release. She’s a smart woman, Ray.”
I instantly needed to know what my exact trade value was on the open market. Three defecting Chechen spies? Five political dissidents with a cache of industrial data? A phalanx of Chinese terracotta warriors? “What did she trade me for?”
“I believe Fiona was able to get you released for a pair of matinée tickets to
Billy Elliot, the Musical
at a Los Angeles dinner theatre. Pretty good seats.”
“
Matinée
tickets? She didn’t even have the decency to trade me for evening tickets?”
“Ray, tickets to evening shows are hard to come by. You could get seats in the balcony, but you wouldn’t really enjoy the magic of it all.”
I spat out, “The
magic
of it all? It’s
Billy
fucking
Elliot, the
fucking
Musical.
”
“Exactly, Ray. I hear it’s a pretty good show, but I don’t know if I hold with having an adult dressed up as a wee boy dancing on stage. A bit like mutton dressed as lamb, if you ask me.”
I breathed deeply and decided to get a better grip on my physical situation. The jet was similar to the one we flew to LA in, and I was in a gurney, facing forward.
Neal removed the IV drip from my right hand. “As I keep saying, Ray, good thing I was once a paramedic.
Otherwise, you’d be stuck in one of those hospitals for crack babies like they have all over the U.S. I’ve read them about in the
Daily Mail.
”
“Where is that ball-chopping witch, my ex-wife?”
“She’s following in another plane with Sarah and your friend Stuart.”
Safe for the time being.
I hobbled out of bed and sat in a leather seat, too tired even to bother scoping out a source of booze. “Neal, how long have we been in transit from London?”
“Several weeks at least, Ray.”
“At the moment I feel like we’re some form of sock puppets who exist solely to amuse some cruel cosmic manipulator whose hand is up my arse.”
“I know what you mean, Ray. We haven’t even crossed the equator. Maybe our journey was meant to be different from what we thought.”
I looked at Neal. “Don’t be such a fucking simp. Of
course
things are different from what we expected. It’s called life.”
“Maybe you should get a makeover, Ray. It’d perk you up.”
“I don’t need a fucking makeover, Neal. I’m quite happy with how nature made me.”
Neal said, “I would never wish to imply that you were anything less than movie star material, Ray. But … you know … an apricot facial scrub and some flesh-tinted crème to cover your gin blossoms might make a big difference.”
“
Gin blossoms?
” I was outraged.
“Well, perhaps it’s just all the fresh air and exercise you get that makes your nose and cheeks shine just ever so slightly red.”
“I do not have
gin blossoms.
”
“See, Ray, a makeover would get rid of all that negative energy. I’m just pointing it out, is all.”
“Neal, less than a week ago, your entire physical being resembled a dag hanging from a sheep’s arsehole.”
“Indeed it did, Ray. I’m lucky to have a friend like you to help me pull myself up by my bootstraps and make something of my life.”
“Finally, a whiff of gratitude.” I looked over to where he was sitting. On a polished walnut table in front of him was a snifter of cognac and what appeared to be a script. “Found something to read for the journey?”
“It’s the script for the TV show. Bloody brilliant.”
“Who else is on this plane?”
“Just us for now. They’re sending it to pick up a group of network executives.”
I looked out the window: ocean. My stomach cramped … food! “Neal, I haven’t eaten since I don’t even remember. Get me some food.”
“Right, Ray.” Neal lifted one hand, and the sleekest, most kitten-like flight attendant I’d ever seen appeared. She had a velvety smooth, unravaged face, and a name tag reading
ELSPETH.
She scurried to me with a tray of dainty little triangle-shaped sandwiches, no crusts, each triangle a different flavour—just the ticket. “Here, some nice posh sandwiches for me favourite patient. Fancy a moistened tow’lette, luv?”
I grabbed the whole tray of sandwiches and set it on my lap. Elspeth made ever so tiny a flicker of a face at Neal, then scurried away to fetch some tea. It hit me: “Neal, you’ve already banged Elspeth, haven’t you?”
“Well, you know, Ray, what with you being here in
the cabin laid out like a corpse—it made young Elspeth and me want to do something to celebrate life rather than be overpowered by the stench of death. You were wheezing something awful the first hour, too, and it terrified her. So to lighten things up, we made love and we also made an iPhone film of what we thought was your death rattle and posted it online. Amazing smoking hot Wi-Fi this jet has. Let me show you …”
Neal picked up an iPad, typed
COMICAL GEEZER DEATH RATTLE
into a search box and held it up to show the results. “Look at that!” he said. “Your death rattle clip is already the number four comical GIF on the
West London Morning Shopper
’s website! You’re a star, Ray!”
“Give me that fucking thing.” I looked, and there I was, death warmed over on the gurney. “Make it go away.”
“Too late, Ray. Don’t get angry. Enjoy the moment. I’ll ask Elspeth to make you a steak Diane or something fancy.”
On cue, Elspeth arrived with my tea. “Elspeth, guess what?” Neal said. “Our clip of Raymond’s death rattle is the number four comical GIF on the
West London Morning Shopper
’s website.”
Elspeth squealed with delight. “I’ll have to email me mum. She’s getting a gastric band put ’round her stomach next week. News like this’ll give her a lift. Poor thing. The council agent had to jackhammer her out of the bedroom. So humiliating. Hasn’t set foot downstairs since before Simon Cowell started on TV and brought so much sunshine into our lives. How rich d’you think that Cowell is, you reckon?”
Elspeth’s council estate accent was like three raccoons trapped in a Dumpster. I was trying to tune them both
out when our jet made a sudden downward lurch. Elspeth squealed anew and ran to the cockpit for information.
Neal looked out a window and said, “Ray! Look out the window—you can see the Pacific Trash Vortex!”
“The
what
?”
“The Pacific Trash Vortex—that continent of plastic trash you’ve been reading about for decades. Good Lord, it’s big, isn’t it? Travels clockwise. The largest manmade object on the planet. Makes you proud and disgusted about being human, all at the same time.”
“I’m not going to look out the window at garbage, Neal.” But, of course, how could I resist, especially as the jet keeled westward. I actually couldn’t have turned my head away if I’d wanted to.
Against the g-force, Elspeth shunted back into the main cabin. “We’ve been ordered to land.”
“Land? Land
where
? There
is
no fucking land to
land
on.” Was I squealing? Maybe.
“Wake Island.”
“Where?”
Wake Island
is a coral atoll with a 12-mile coastline in the North Pacific, located 2,300 miles west of Honolulu, and roughly two-thirds of the way to Guam. It is an unincorporated territory of the United States, and all island activities are managed by the United States Air Force. Access is restricted. Wake Island also contains a missile facility operated by the United States Army and features a 9,800-foot runway.
I asked, “Who has the authority to make a plane land in the middle of nowhere?”
“The U.S. government,” said Elspeth.
“Fucking Americans.” I craned my neck to try and see it. “Where is it?”
“About ninety minutes away.”
LAX to AWK = 9h, 5m
The
Great Pacific Garbage Patch
, also called the
Pacific Trash Vortex
, is a gyre of marine litter in the central North Pacific Ocean. It is characterized by high concentrations of pelagic plastics, chemical sludge and other debris that has been trapped by the current of the North Pacific Gyre.
Reports have estimated that the patch extends over an area larger than the continental U.S., but recent research sponsored by the National Science Foundation suggests the affected area may be twice the size of Texas; a recent study concluded that the patch might be even smaller. Data collected from Pacific albatross populations suggest there may be two distinct zones of concentrated debris in the Pacific.
Despite its size and density, the patch is not visible from space because it consists primarily of suspended particulates in the upper water column. Since plastics eventually break down to smaller polymers, concentrations of submerged particles are not visible from space, nor do they appear as a continuous debris field. Instead, the patch is defined as an area in which the mass of plastic debris in the upper water column is significantly higher than average.
Most people are horrified to learn of the vortex’s existence, but at the same time, it’s kind of awesome to discover there’s a whole new continent on the planet you never knew about before. Life: it’s magnificent!
