“Linen!” said Jennifer. “Don’t talk to me about linen—the wrinkles! Gentlemen, as a token of our thanks, you’ll be riding as my guests on today’s mission.”
“Today’s mission?” I asked.
The Portuguese man-of-war is a jellyfish-like marine invertebrate whose name is borrowed from the man-of-war, a fifteenth-century English warship.
The man-of-war is not a true jellyfish but a siphonophore, which differs from a jellyfish in that it is not actually a single creature but a colonial organism, made up of many minute individuals called zooids.
The man-of-war is found floating on the surface of warm seas, its air bladder keeping it afloat and acting as a sail while the rest of the organism hangs below the surface. It has no means of self-propulsion and is entirely dependent on winds, currents and tides.
The stinging venom-filled nematocysts in the tentacles of the Portuguese man-of-war can paralyze small fish and other prey. Detached tentacles and dead specimens (including those that wash up on shore) can sting just as painfully as the live creature in the water, and may remain potent for hours or even days after the death of the creature or the detachment of the tentacle.
Stings usually cause excruciating pain to humans—not unlike the effect of globules of molten steel or lava burning through the skin. The stings leave hideously disfiguring red welts that normally last for weeks and that people on the bus stare at and then quickly turn their heads away from.
23
Jennifer and Neal wouldn’t tell me what the day’s operation was to be, only that “we” were going to be taking some photos. An hour after the performance, we walked up aluminum stairs into a massive beast of a plane with no windows, save for a few up front, where we were to sit.
“What’s in the back?” I asked.
Neal, for some reason, seemed to be clued into what was going on. “It’s a surprise, Ray. Just rekindle your sense of childlike wonder and go with the day’s flow.”
Jennifer hopped in and took the main passenger seat in front of us. “Ready, boys?”
“Yes, ma’am!” said Neal. Me, I coughed up a loogey that was not unlike a sea creature. I flicked it out the closing door, where it landed on someone’s shoulder. I suppose it was very good luck for him, like being shat on by a gull.
The engines started. Over the roar, I asked, “Can you at least tell me how long we’ll be flying for?”
“Forty-five minutes there, one hour on location and then home.”
“What do you mean by ‘on location’?”
Her reply was cut off by the atrocious noise of the plane’s engines. Neal and I put on heavy-duty protective earmuffs. We taxied and took off, then headed southeast amidst glorious whipped-cream clouds. Neal had a window on his right; I had one on my left. Couldn’t ask for a better view, really.
About forty-three minutes into the flight, high above the Pacific, Jennifer turned around and gave us each a pair of goggles with dark glass lenses.
“What are these for?” I asked.
“Put them on, Ray,” said Neal. “You’d better, really.”
“Why the fuck do I want to wear some stupid glasses, Neal?”
“Ray, in one minute we’re dropping an atomic bomb.”
“We’re whattttttttttt!!!!!????”
The lieutenant pointed something out to the pilot. She then turned around and smiled at me reassuringly. “It’s a new tactic, Ray. We’re using leftover Cold War nuclear warheads to vaporize the Pacific Trash Vortex!”
“It’s a genius idea, it is, Jenny,” shouted Neal.
I screamed, “Are you demented cunts out of your fucking minds!”
“Showtime!” shouted Jennifer.
Behind us, bay doors opened and something dropped from the plane.
Now.
Oh dear.
This is awkward.
You see … I know nuclear warheads have a bum rap in our culture—radiation, nuclear winter, massive extinction, sad little doll heads lying in the gutter covered with bits of black muck. But to watch one exploding in real life is insanely fucking awesome. Yes. It is true. I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it myself, snacking on saltines and drinking Arrowhead bottled water while our plane circled a heaving, pulsating, smoking-hot 15-kiloton explosion, with Neal pointing out little sparkling patches on the ocean where extra-dense bits of plastic trash were blipping into a green eco-friendly solution for a better tomorrow.
Yes, yes, I know, I know. Atomic weapons. Charred little kittens. Nuns vaporizing. The economy in shambles. But still … what a fucking sight!
I had to knuckle-bump both Neal and Jennifer for so skillfully keeping it a surprise for me. My hostess loaned me her iPhone and I took some smashing “Me and my good buddy Mushroom Cloud” photos, which she promised she’d send me once her workload lightened.