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Worst. Person. Ever(15)

By:Douglas Coupland


“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.

LAX to HNL = 5 h, 30 m





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.