Worst. Person. Ever(17)

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.”