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.”
“Surprises make life fun, Ray. Here—help me lay him out in the aisle.”
Christ, it was like trying to drag a melon wagon up an alpine meadow. “How much does this fucker weigh, do you think, Neal?”
“Maybe twenty, twenty-five stone.”
“He took one big puke and then slumped over.”
“Probably a heart attack.”
Neal, Trish and I finally got Mr. Bradley’s corpse into the aisle. All eyes in business class were agog at having so much deadness so close by.
“You never really think of death too much in our culture,” said Neal.
“I know. It’s unhealthy, really. We need to find the joy and laughter in death as well as the depressing bits.”
“Amen, Ray.”
Trish was wiping up the puke on the bulkhead wall.
“What happens next?” I asked Neal.
“Put him back in his seat, I suppose.”
“You have to be fucking kidding. After what we just went through?”
“We don’t want rigor mortis to set in while he’s blocking the aisle. It’s our last chance to, umm … bend him to our will.”
And so we wrestled Mr. Bradley back into 1J, where he sat frozen as if in a state of permanent excitement while awaiting a truckload of greasy, heavily salted meals.
“Don’t expect me to keep this fat dead fuck company for three and a half more hours. You work for me, Neal, so you can sit beside him for the rest of the flight.”
“
Me
in first class?”
“It’s your lucky day, Neal.”
“I’ll say. Hey, is that a croissant I see there at your seat? All we got in coach were snacks that kind of looked like what you’d find under the front seat of a well-used family sedan. Not too appetizing. But you—
you
got a sandwich.”
“It’s yours if you want it.”
“Thanks, Ray, you’re the best.”
And thus I moved to seat 54F, entertained, relaxed, relieved and happy. The rest of the flight was a dream in spite of collective bleatings of amusement around me at the appalling
Mr. Bean
program.
Fucking
Mr. Bean.
Mr. Bean is a British comedy series of 19 twenty-five-minute episodes written by and starring Rowan Atkinson. The pilot was broadcast on England’s ITV on January 1, 1990, and the last episode in late 1995.
The series follows the exploits of Mr. Bean, described by Atkinson as “a child in a grown man’s body,” as he solves various problems presented by everyday life—often causing mayhem in the process. Bean rarely speaks, thus making the series ideal for global domination in the crowd sedation sector of the TV industry. The show has been sold in 245 territories. It is relentless. It can be enjoyed with equal ease by three-year-olds and Alzheimer’s patients. Mirth: the universal language.
11
Honolulu was a total donkeyfuck, starting with the ridiculous amount of respect paid to that repulsive corpse Bradley, as if dying on a plane is some big accomplishment. Thirty minutes were wasted while medics came to retrieve his husk, and there weren’t even any snacks or drinks while we waited at the gate for them to do their thing.
Finally allowed into the terminal, we passed through immigration, which, its being the middle of the night, was a breeze, but then we couldn’t find Sarah, our TV network go-to.
So Neal and I sat and waited in the arrivals area, nighttime warmth nuzzling our travel-weary arms and
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.”
“Surprises make life fun, Ray. Here—help me lay him out in the aisle.”
Christ, it was like trying to drag a melon wagon up an alpine meadow. “How much does this fucker weigh, do you think, Neal?”
“Maybe twenty, twenty-five stone.”
“He took one big puke and then slumped over.”
“Probably a heart attack.”
Neal, Trish and I finally got Mr. Bradley’s corpse into the aisle. All eyes in business class were agog at having so much deadness so close by.
“You never really think of death too much in our culture,” said Neal.
“I know. It’s unhealthy, really. We need to find the joy and laughter in death as well as the depressing bits.”
“Amen, Ray.”
Trish was wiping up the puke on the bulkhead wall.
“What happens next?” I asked Neal.
“Put him back in his seat, I suppose.”
“You have to be fucking kidding. After what we just went through?”
“We don’t want rigor mortis to set in while he’s blocking the aisle. It’s our last chance to, umm … bend him to our will.”
And so we wrestled Mr. Bradley back into 1J, where he sat frozen as if in a state of permanent excitement while awaiting a truckload of greasy, heavily salted meals.
“Don’t expect me to keep this fat dead fuck company for three and a half more hours. You work for me, Neal, so you can sit beside him for the rest of the flight.”
“
Me
in first class?”
“It’s your lucky day, Neal.”
“I’ll say. Hey, is that a croissant I see there at your seat? All we got in coach were snacks that kind of looked like what you’d find under the front seat of a well-used family sedan. Not too appetizing. But you—
you
got a sandwich.”
“It’s yours if you want it.”
“Thanks, Ray, you’re the best.”
And thus I moved to seat 54F, entertained, relaxed, relieved and happy. The rest of the flight was a dream in spite of collective bleatings of amusement around me at the appalling
Mr. Bean
program.
Fucking
Mr. Bean.
Mr. Bean is a British comedy series of 19 twenty-five-minute episodes written by and starring Rowan Atkinson. The pilot was broadcast on England’s ITV on January 1, 1990, and the last episode in late 1995.
The series follows the exploits of Mr. Bean, described by Atkinson as “a child in a grown man’s body,” as he solves various problems presented by everyday life—often causing mayhem in the process. Bean rarely speaks, thus making the series ideal for global domination in the crowd sedation sector of the TV industry. The show has been sold in 245 territories. It is relentless. It can be enjoyed with equal ease by three-year-olds and Alzheimer’s patients. Mirth: the universal language.
11
Honolulu was a total donkeyfuck, starting with the ridiculous amount of respect paid to that repulsive corpse Bradley, as if dying on a plane is some big accomplishment. Thirty minutes were wasted while medics came to retrieve his husk, and there weren’t even any snacks or drinks while we waited at the gate for them to do their thing.
Finally allowed into the terminal, we passed through immigration, which, its being the middle of the night, was a breeze, but then we couldn’t find Sarah, our TV network go-to.
So Neal and I sat and waited in the arrivals area, nighttime warmth nuzzling our travel-weary arms and
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