Worst. Person. Ever(53)
“They think I started the nuclear fucking war.”
“It’s human nature to blame someone.”
By now we were entering the Deet’s dining area: folding aluminum tables and white plastic stacking chairs supplied courtesy of the trash vortex. As there was no staff in view, we sat down and looked at our menus, printed out in Comic Sans font and, to judge by the stains and wrinkles and scuffing, laminated some time back in the Thatcher years.
Tuna Schnitzel
Tuna steak kissed by breadcrumbs,
served with Australian-made potato chips
and cucumber slice.
Tuna Salad
Raw tuna fish with onions in a spicy sauce,
served with crusty bread.
Tuna Tartar
Raw tuna fish minced
with hot spices,
spread onto an inviting garlic bread.
As seen in Monocle magazine.
“Globalization is glamorous and good.”
34
When no one showed up to take our order, we poked around. The kitchen consisted of a dozen plastic buckets, a small gas stove and shelves holding boxed and tinned items: cocktail sausages, Weetabix, irradiated milk from New Zealand.
“Pass me that opener, Neal. Fancy a few cocktail sausages?”
“Indeed.”
We began emptying tins. “Best we wash it down with this canned milk.”
“I don’t know about milk that’s been irradiated, Ray. Doesn’t seem right.”
“But selling milk in a tin does seem right?”
“Good point.”
We guzzled the milk supply. Finally I was feeling lucid and in good spirits. “Nothing like having your elevenses at sundown.”
“Couldn’t agree with you more, Ray.”
I touched my head. “Christ, I’m still wearing this fucking Gumby hat.”
“I didn’t want to editorialize on your style, Ray, but yes, you are.”
I removed the Gumby hat and shook it back into the T-shirt it was. Neal stared at it, his eyes goggling as would those of a kitten shown dangling yarn for the first time.
“Ray! That’s a Cure T-shirt!”
“Yes, I guess it is.”
“Where did you get it?”
“It was in the fuck hut.”
“I must have that shirt.”
Ahhhhh, how interesting to have something Neal really wanted. “No, Neal, no. You can’t have this shirt, because it is mine.” I slipped it on for emphasis, and also to cover my sunburned abdomen.
“The Cure changed my life. I remember that shirt. I almost bought one at their July 1993 outdoor concert in Finsbury Park. It’s been one of the great regrets of my life that I didn’t buy it. And now, decades later, fate has given me another chance.”
“Fate has done no such thing. This is my Cure T-shirt, and you can’t have it.”
“I remember the complete song list that day: ‘Shiver and Shake’; ‘Shake Dog Shake’; ‘One Hundred Years’; ‘Just Like Heaven’; ‘Push’; ‘Fascination Street’; ‘Open’; ‘High’; ‘From the Edge of the Deep Green Sea’; ‘Disintegration’; and ‘End.’ ”
“Fascinating.”
“The encore was ‘Friday I’m in Love’; ‘Three Imaginary Boys’; ‘It’s Not You’; ‘Boys Don’t Cry’; ‘Fire in Cairo’; and ‘A Forest.’ ”
“Neal, your nostalgia is not going to get you this shirt.”
“What will get me the shirt?”
Hmmm … brainwave.
“Neal, I want you to shag LACEY. That way I can take the moral high road and dump her for cheating on me.”
“I don’t know, Ray. LACEY’s technically shaggable, but it’s just hard to see pictures of her and me together in my head. And I mean, she’s also just emerged from an epic fuckfest with you. She’s likely worn out.”
I reached down and rubbed my stomach. “My, this shirt is in amazing condition considering it’s two decades old. It’s vintage, not a reproduction. It was probably left here by some Kiwi missionary with retro musical taste and a hankering for life’s finer things.”
Neal’s lips quivered. “Okay, Ray, I’ll shag her.”
“Good. I’m glad you’ve come to your senses.”
“Now give me the shirt, please.”
“Not until the deed is done. And there’s one more thing.”
Neal’s eyes became cold slits. “Yes?”
“I want that piece of red plastic that was hanging from the outdoor eaves back at the grocery store.”
“You fucking bastard!”
“So I’m a fucking bastard. Big fucking deal.”
Suddenly Neal had me face-mushed-down on the kitchen’s rattan mat, twisting my arms behind my back.