Worst Person Ever Part 4

"Please, yes, let's do that."

A band of Bunuel syndromers and their minders shimmied into my business cla.s.s check-in area like over-ent.i.tled c.o.c.kroaches. f.u.c.king h.e.l.l, just drug the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds and show them a Finding Nemo DVD for eleven hours or until their bug-eaten frontal cortices cause them to pa.s.s out from understimulation.

Across the hall, I noticed Neal's head above the crowd at check-in. Light bulb: whatever seat Neal landed would be mine, and he could sit with the Bunuel children. Thank f.u.c.king Christ. Hold on, it was Neal who was drawing a crowd. To wild applause, he began performing some sort of poor people's jig. Oh my dear G.o.d, it was the "Come On Eileen" dance from that video by Dexys Midnight Runners. Words failed me. And then the check-in agents joined in-like a flash mob.

"Mr. Gunt." Supervisor Tracey appeared in front of me. "Can I help you, sir?" She resembled a small version of those otherworldly beings that trashed Manhattan in the film Cloverfield.

"Tracey, yes, h.e.l.lo. I'm Raymond Gunt."

"How can I help you, Mr. Gunt?"

"I-"

At that moment, Neal came running across the great cla.s.s divide and threw his arms around me, his breath still reeking of unwashed a.r.s.es. He backed off and slapped me in the chest, momentarily stunning me. "America beckons and we are going to make the most of it, bro!" He hoisted my bag onto Jenelle's weigh scale.

Bro?

I forgot entirely what I was about to say to supervisor Tracey, who stared me down. "You need to board the flight now, sir. Security is that way. If you'll excuse me, I have to go handle pa.s.sengers with real problems."

Jenelle handed me my boarding pa.s.s: 67E. "Next!" she called as my bag was swept off to the Crab Nebula by a sluggish black conveyor belt.

Miraculously, security screening was empty. Neal chose one lane; I chose the other, manned by two dim-looking, soul-dead lifers. Then, as if summoned from a rubbed genie's bottle, ten security staff clad in every form of religious headwear imaginable scampered over to confront me. The stupider-looking of the two lifers announced, "This is the training station, sir. Please empty your pockets and put any metals or electronics in a separate bin. Also, please use a bin for your wallet, your shoes, your belt or any other item likely to trigger a metal detector. Do you have a laptop?"

Clad in socks, cargo shorts and a polo shirt, I walked through the screening gate.

Beep.

In the distance, Neal was already gathering his X-ray-screened carry-on bag (a vinyl tote from Tesco). I, meanwhile, watched as every item in my carry-on bag was unpacked, picked at with tweezers, nuzzled with chemical sampling cloths for gunpowder residue, and otherwise examined closely by a group of people who seemingly spoke no English yet had no other language in common. Crows descending on run-over squirrels go at their game with more decorum than shown by this lot.

On my fourth pa.s.s through the metal detector, I heard yet another dreaded beep.

"Could you please come with us, sir?" said one of the lifers.

Oh Christ, the f.u.c.king magic wand. I put my arms up.

"No, sir, could you please come with us into this room?"

"A sleeper cell?"

"I beg your pardon, sir?"

Get a f.u.c.king sense of humour. "Nothing."

Inside, a group of five young screeners-in-training stood ready. My screener said, "National security is a vital issue, Mr. ..." he looked at my boarding pa.s.s, "Gunt." Outside the door I heard the Bunuel crowd whizzing their way towards the gate, sounding like a cl.u.s.ter of ambulances.

My screener said, "If you'll give me one second, Mr. Gunt, I'll remove my flashlight and forceps from the sterilizer."

"Come On Eileen" was a single released by Dexys Midnight Runners in 1982. Kevin Rowland, "Big" Jim Paterson and Billy Adams wrote the song; Clive Langer and Alan Winstanley produced it. It also appeared on the alb.u.m Too-Rye-Ay. It was their first number one hit in the United Kingdom since 1980's "Geno." The song won Best British Single at the 1983 Brit Awards. What's weird about this song is that it was so huge at the time and now you listen to it and wonder, what the h.e.l.l was everyone thinking? Well, that's pop culture for you.

07.

I was the last pa.s.senger on the plane. I walked to 67E, withstanding the angry and accusatory glares of every pa.s.senger and each crew member. At the plane's rear, all twelve Bunuel children took one look at me and ignited like smoke alarms.

I forgot to look for Neal. Well, wherever he was, once we were safely in the air, his seat was mine.

Just before we taxied to the end of the runway for takeoff, the captain announced that the entertainment system's software was glitchy and that only one film was available for the flight: "We are proud to present to you the beloved year 2000 family favourite, The Flintstones in Viva Rock Vegas, starring Stephen Baldwin and Joan Collins, with a cameo by eighties rocker John Taylor, of Duran Duran."

Liftoff.

The Flintstones in Viva Rock Vegas (2000) Budget: $58 million (estimated) Opening wknd: $10.5M (USA) Gross: $32.5M (USA) Genre: Family/Comedy Production co: Universal Pictures Summary: In this live-action prequel to the 1994 comedy hit, the Flintstones and the Rubbles go on a trip to Rock Vegas, where Wilma is pursued by playboy Chip Rockefeller.

I'm actually not a bad chap.

Really.

I listen to people if they have something to say, as long as they're not too slow or too boring. I leave pennies in the penny jar, and I've been known to double flush in restaurant toilets-courtesy flushes, I believe they're called. But sometimes I am tested by the universe. For example, when I heard the landing gear pull up, I unbuckled and stood up, whereupon a flight attendant screamed at me, "Sir, sit down immediately. We are experiencing a pocket of mild turbulence."

Well, okay. I sat down.

*Ding!*

Good! It was the bell to indicate that it was okay to unfasten our seatbelts and move around, but it set the Bunuel children to expressing themselves with gusto.

Expecting to be reprimanded at any moment, I stood to retrieve my small, chaste Adidas bag from the overhead bin, amid a snowdrift of drool bibs, adult diapers, restraining harnesses and baseball caps reading BUnUEL CHILDREN ARE PEOPLE TOO, with the intent of finding that c.u.n.tfart, Neal.

Just then, the drinks cart emerged from the mid-plane galley to begin a zombie-slow service likely to reach row 67 by the time the plane was over Greenland.

In my mind there existed a duality: I wanted a triple Scotch, but I also wanted to get as far away from the little Bunuel f.u.c.ks as possible.

Dilemma.

In the end, the triple Scotch won. But when, after seventeen hours, the trolley limped past row 67 and I asked for a triple Scotch, she who told me to sit down during the turbulence said, "I'm sorry, sir, but EU regulations prohibit the sale of more than a single drink at a time on all EU carriers, either within or without EU airs.p.a.ce."

"You sound like a computer program."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Nothing. I'll have a single, then."

As the vile, Tabasco-gargling sky-wench grimly slapped a Johnnie Walker and a clear plastic cup with one ice cube onto my tray, she gave me the evil eye. Then she favoured the Bunuel child to my right, who screamed for something incomprehensible, with a cartload of smiles, an infinite glow of love and compa.s.sion, plus a juice box featuring the face of a Toy Story character whose arrival created a brief interval of merciful silence before the sirens of h.e.l.l once again flared. How the f.u.c.k do humans ever manage to reproduce if that is what lies at the end of the coitus/l.u.s.t/DNA dance of doom?

Having downed my meagre ration, I set off to find Neal.

But you see, the thing was, I was looking for Neal somewhere in coach cla.s.s. It never occurred to me that the dim f.u.c.ker could have finagled his way into the business cla.s.s seat that rightfully ought to have been mine. It was only after the third circling of rows 15 to 69 and back again that it dawned on me: Oh my dear G.o.d. No. This isn't happening. No. It just isn't happening ...

I walked down the cabin, climbed the staircase into the plane's bubble and there, in 77A, reclining in a pod like something out of a utopian sci-fi movie, was Neal, clinking champagne flutes with Cameron f.u.c.king Diaz.

Cameron f.u.c.king Diaz?

I loomed over him. "Neal, here you are. Business cla.s.s? I think not. Come on now, chop-chop. It's time for you to a.s.sume your rightful seat, 67E, at the back of the plane. Now."

"Ray, relax. Have a drink with Cam and me."

I was so peeved that Miss Diaz's fame factor didn't register.

"Neal, no. You're my personal a.s.sistant and I command you to swap seats with me." Other pa.s.sengers were staring at us.

"Ray, chill. Cam here is just telling me about various formulas for generating prime numbers. A smart one, she is." The pair made bedroom eyes at each other.

I lost it. "You fecal-scented golem, get out of my f.u.c.king seat now. What the f.u.c.k is your problem?"

"Excuse me, sir ..." Lady c.u.n.tly McRazorpanties, the flight attendant from down below, had followed me up into the bubble.

"Oh, it's you."

"Sir, I have to ask you to leave business cla.s.s immediately."

"Not b.l.o.o.d.y likely. I'm staying here, while this git who works for me takes his rightful place in coach."

Lady c.u.n.tly backed off to confer with a hag cohort out by the meal-heating ovens, then came at me again.

"Mr. Gunt ..."

She knew my name. Bravo!

"Mr. Gunt, Mr. Neal here is a street survivor. We at the airline are honouring the homeless this year, and it was our airline's privilege and delight to offer him the one remaining business cla.s.s seat as a token of our faith in the triumph of the human spirit over adversity. With the full authority of the EU air system code behind me, I order you back to 67E."

Order me? "Who the h.e.l.l do you think you-"

Glunkkkk! On went the plastic zap-strap handcuffs from behind and, ghufghghghg!, a steward's hand went around my neck and, within a constellation of pain, I was marched back down the bubble's stairs to 67E. I was furious, but it was also (if I'm honest) a bit of fun having everyone I pa.s.sed looking at me and thinking I was violent and dangerous.

Once I was seated, the steward hissed into my ear, "Mr. Gunt, you can stay there and behave, or we can manacle you to your seat and make an emergency landing in Reykjavik, where you'll be jailed and made to pay a fine that will bankrupt you. Am I clear?"

d.i.c.k. "Yes."

"Good. We have approximately nine more hours ahead of us. Behave like an adult and we'll be fine." He removed the zap straps with a small pair of scissors.

"What about my seat up in business cla.s.s?"

The steward and McRazorpanties eyed each other. "That's not your seat," he said.

"It f.u.c.king well is."

"Sir, you're terrifying the children," McRazorpanties chided.

"These tards would be frightened by a paper napkin."

In unison: "Sir!"

"I want my seat!"

"I warned you, Mr. Gunt."

From nowhere came six arms, and zap, zap, zap, zap-I was bound onto 67E while a Bunuel child sniffed my hair and began shrieking into my right ear.

I sat there imprisoned, deprived of meal service, unable to comprehend what had just happened, while the Bunuels caterwauled and the drunken yobs voided their bowels in the toilets that sandwiched my ears.

And then Neal came down the aisle towards me. "G.o.d, Ray. You must have been pretty out of control."

Words failed me, though I hope bulging forehead veins conveyed what words couldn't.

"Cammie was worried about you and asked me to bring you a flute of champagne, but I thought it might get you in trouble, so I didn't. She's amazing."

Dumbfounded, I stared at Neal.

"Can I get you a pillow or a snack?" he offered.

"Neal, when you were waiting for the car to pick you up, you were sitting on the curb and those two teenage birds came up to you, and I could see that in their minds they wanted to s.h.a.g you on the spot, and you did, too. I saw it. How the f.u.c.k did you do that? I mean really ... you look like s.h.i.t. You smell like s.h.i.t. You have nothing going for you outwardly ... and yet you're like Jimi Hendrix with a never-ending rotisserie of p.u.s.s.y circling his d.i.c.k."

Neal knelt in the aisle beside me. "You know, Raymond," he said, "I've been homeless for years, but not a week's gone by where I haven't had two or three unique encounters, all of them instigated by women-in their cars, in their offices, in alleyways, once even inside a police van. I just sit there on a curb, like, needing to be fixed, and these ladies come along thinking they know how to fix me."

If pathos and uselessness are somehow erotic, I ought to be the Leonardo DiCaprio of the new era. And yet I end up zap-strapped to seat 67E.

Neal looked at me. "Ray, open your mouth."

"What?"

"Just open your mouth. Trust me."

And so I did, and Neal stuck something in it that felt like a Tic-Tac, and that dissolved on my tongue almost instantly.

"What the f.u.c.k was that?"

He smiled at me. "Something to make the flight bearable. By the way, John Taylor of Duran Duran is in the inflight movie. f.u.c.king brilliant. See you on the ground in Los Angeles." And with that, he was off.

What the?

When next I opened my eyes, the plane was empty and a team of swarthy-looking people was vacuuming the seats. Grim-faced McRazorpanties walked past carrying a pile of paperwork. "Oh, Mr. Gunt," she said. "You're awake. Good. I think you'll find your party waiting for you at gate two. Have a lovely trip to Honolulu."

t.w.a.t.