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 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.”