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Worst. Person. Ever(62)

By:Douglas Coupland


I’d forgotten the nuclear war. “Right, right—nuclear war—how’s all that going?”

“Nothing new, just all these countries being childish.”

She topped up my glass.

Ahhhh …

I felt statesmanlike discussing important current affairs with Sarah. I wondered how far this magic moment would take us until … fucking hell, I remembered waking up to LACEY in the fuck hut beside that ghastly poo-ous lagoon, the woman’s eyes like two drainholes sucking everything good and joyous from the world.

Sarah chose that moment to add to my pain. “You’ll be happy to hear that your LACEY is fine. She’s in the South Island camp. You must be aching to see her.” She sipped her drink. Were her eyes actually filled with regret? She raised a glass. “To you and LACEY and a future of perfect sex and happiness together with no one else except just the two of you, forever and ever and ever and ever.”

“Uh, it really wasn’t like that at all, Sarah. In fact, I don’t remember what happened.”

“Just a minute, Raymond. I’m buzzing.” Sarah removed the tiniest and slenderest mobile phone from her lady’s region. “Hmmm. Right. Okay. Not to worry. See you in five.” She hung up. “Raymond, want to come with me to the North Island camp?”

O.

M.

F.

G.

Thong Kong.

“Why, um, yes. Neal’s over there, isn’t he?”

“Indeed he is, poor fellow.”

“Poor fellow?”

“Sprained his ankle. It must hurt like the dickens. Come on. We have to meet the Zodiac right away. Chug the rest of your drink and we’re off.”

I chugged, then grabbed the bottle.





39


A minute later we were climbing into the Zodiac bound for the North Island—me!—a man of the world on a speedboat, squiring such a glorious humpcrumpet as Sarah to a turquoise lagoon populated by TV industry bigwigs and Neal’s own personal sex ranch. Yessiree, nothing could possibly go wrong on a beautiful day like today.

And then we landed and … nothing went wrong!

The North Island camp was largely empty. Fiona had delivered the replacement contestants, and shooting had begun on the South Island.

Sarah vanished to do her urgent business, leaving me to search for Neal.

Hmmmm. If Neal had injured his ankle, he couldn’t be working on the shoot. Wait a second: Neal had no actual job here on the island. I was the one the network had hired.

I looked up a small hill (elevation: 3 feet above sea level) and noticed a lovely little bungalow in the Bahamian style: solid typhoon-proof construction tastefully camouflaged in turquoise paint with pink storm shutters, graced by butterfly palms and a zoo of flowering plants. A chill ran down my spine: That fucker.

I stormed up the rise and banged on the door. “Neal, I know you’re in there. Don’t try to pretend you aren’t. This is me, Raymond.”

The door was opened by some lopsided gronk who I could tell immediately was a cameraman.

“Yes?” The gronk’s burliness shielded the house from my entry.

“I’m Raymond Gunt. Tell Neal I want to speak with him.”

The cameraman called over his shoulder. “Some guy here says his name is Raymond Cunt. He wants to talk to you.” There came a muffled reply, and he turned back to me. “Right. You can come in.”

I entered the most beautiful house I’ve ever seen. Cut flowers, sofas upholstered with the hides of near-extinct animals, marble floors. The walls dripped with paintings of Tahitian birds offering you their melon breasts on a plate along with hibiscuses and mango wedges. But by far the most overwhelmingly desirable aspect of this house was the utterly silent and stunningly effective air conditioning. Fuck me. This was heaven.

I headed off in the direction from which I’d heard Neal’s voice. I found him in a room at the back. The sunproof shades on the windows were drawn, and the room was rather dark. Neal was in striped pajamas adrift on a duvet surrounded by massive pillows while a muted TV set displayed a compilation of Australian rugby brawls. On his bedside were magnums of undrunk champagne and platters of sliced cold cuts and French cheeses.

“Raymond. You finally made it.”

“Neal, good God. What’s happened to you?”

“A bit of a sprain in my ankle, I’m afraid.”

“That’s all?”

“You know, Ray, you could have a little empathy for a friend in a bad situation.”

“How is this bad, Neal? You’re ensconced in a tableau that’s a cross between a Hello! Magazine home visit and Prince Harry’s trip to Las Vegas.” I plucked some capicola from his snack platter, along with a slab of wonderfully ripe Camembert. “But where the fuck is all the pussy you were talking about?”