plumeria scent filling the air like sugar. We imbibed the two dozen or so mini bottles I’d stolen from the drinks wagon during the death kerfuffle and contemplated our next step—locating our charter flight to Kiribati.
Travel had turned Neal into a fucking child: “Wow.
Me
in Hawaii. Whatever next?”
“Look, Neal, Hawaii is not some magical pixie wonderland; it’s an American state populated by atomicweapons, a remnant native population and people too stupid to spell their way out of a paper bag. Most of them came here to escape pathetic lives in the forty-nine other states, so in some sense, Hawaii is a scenic cul-de-sac filled with people who want to drink themselves to death without feeling judged.”
“Smells nice, though, doesn’t it?”
“It certainly does.”
“Where’s this Sarah woman, then?”
“If she’s American, she’s most likely playing Scrabble with a chimp and losing.”
A jet took off in the background. Ukulele music was playing over the PA. The booze was doing its job, and I did kind of like this place. And then we saw Sarah: late twenties, long brown hair, dressed like women in ad agencies do: V-neck sweater with three-quarter sleeves—distinct upwardly mobile cleavage. I said, “Look at her.
She’s
not about to do
anyone
unless it ratchets her up the ladder.”
“You sure, Ray? She looks kind enough.”
“Neal, I stopped trying to nail that type a decade ago. Birds of her calibre have been getting hit on since they were two years old; by the time they’re four, they’re already technically out of my league.”
As Sarah came closer to us, I realized she was sniffling as if something sad had just occurred.
“Are you … Sarah?”
“Yes. Hello.” Her body language said
almost too upset to shake hands.
“Raymond Gunt.”
“Neal Crossley,” Neal chimed in, then added, “Sarah, hey, what’s wrong?”
“It’s awful,” she said.
“What’s awful?”
“Matt Bradley—he’s dead!”
Oh dear.
I looked at Neal, and he at me, and he said, “Oh?”
I disingenuously asked, “Was Mr. Bradley with the TV network?”
“He was.”
I thought about this. “Why on earth wasn’t he on a corporate jet?”
“I don’t know,” Sarah said. “Something about wanting to be with the common folk who made him what he was.”
I thought,
Good fucking thing he’s dead, the way I treated him.
“What was his role in the show?” I asked.
“He was the brains. The show’s soul. He knew the answer to everything, how everything actually
worked
: casting, cameras, human behaviour under stressful conditions.” She honked her nose loudly into a tissue. “It’s just awful. I don’t know who’s going to replace him.”
It took every molecule of falsity within me to say, “No wonder you’re so sad.”
“Sad? About Matt Bradley? Good God, no. He was awful. I’m thrilled he’s gone. I’m just sad because my workload’s tripled and I was supposed to go to Fiji with my boyfriend and now I have to fly to Kiribati myself to oversee a bunch of imbeciles who, in turn, oversee our bikini-wearing human lab rats. It’s so unfair.”
Now this is my kind of woman.
I think that was when I first contemplated falling in love. “Join us for a drink? Nothing to mix it with, though.”
“What do you have?
Ooh!
Tia Maria!” She grabbed the bottle and tipped it back.
I said, “It really is a terrible fucking thing, Matt Bradley being dead and all.”
She held up a hand as Neal twisted the cap off another mini bottle for her. “Please, your language.”
“Sarah, what is it with you Americans and swearing?” I asked. “You crow over enhanced interrogation procedures and the current destruction of shitholes like Africa, but I throw in one ‘fuck’ and you all go nuclear.”
Sarah chugged her drink as she looked at me, then tossed her mini bottle in the trash. She was going to say something sanctimonious.
Oh God …
She said, “
Bono
still thinks there’s hope for
Travel had turned Neal into a fucking child: “Wow.
Me
in Hawaii. Whatever next?”
“Look, Neal, Hawaii is not some magical pixie wonderland; it’s an American state populated by atomicweapons, a remnant native population and people too stupid to spell their way out of a paper bag. Most of them came here to escape pathetic lives in the forty-nine other states, so in some sense, Hawaii is a scenic cul-de-sac filled with people who want to drink themselves to death without feeling judged.”
“Smells nice, though, doesn’t it?”
“It certainly does.”
“Where’s this Sarah woman, then?”
“If she’s American, she’s most likely playing Scrabble with a chimp and losing.”
A jet took off in the background. Ukulele music was playing over the PA. The booze was doing its job, and I did kind of like this place. And then we saw Sarah: late twenties, long brown hair, dressed like women in ad agencies do: V-neck sweater with three-quarter sleeves—distinct upwardly mobile cleavage. I said, “Look at her.
She’s
not about to do
anyone
unless it ratchets her up the ladder.”
“You sure, Ray? She looks kind enough.”
“Neal, I stopped trying to nail that type a decade ago. Birds of her calibre have been getting hit on since they were two years old; by the time they’re four, they’re already technically out of my league.”
As Sarah came closer to us, I realized she was sniffling as if something sad had just occurred.
“Are you … Sarah?”
“Yes. Hello.” Her body language said
almost too upset to shake hands.
“Raymond Gunt.”
“Neal Crossley,” Neal chimed in, then added, “Sarah, hey, what’s wrong?”
“It’s awful,” she said.
“What’s awful?”
“Matt Bradley—he’s dead!”
Oh dear.
I looked at Neal, and he at me, and he said, “Oh?”
I disingenuously asked, “Was Mr. Bradley with the TV network?”
“He was.”
I thought about this. “Why on earth wasn’t he on a corporate jet?”
“I don’t know,” Sarah said. “Something about wanting to be with the common folk who made him what he was.”
I thought,
Good fucking thing he’s dead, the way I treated him.
“What was his role in the show?” I asked.
“He was the brains. The show’s soul. He knew the answer to everything, how everything actually
worked
: casting, cameras, human behaviour under stressful conditions.” She honked her nose loudly into a tissue. “It’s just awful. I don’t know who’s going to replace him.”
It took every molecule of falsity within me to say, “No wonder you’re so sad.”
“Sad? About Matt Bradley? Good God, no. He was awful. I’m thrilled he’s gone. I’m just sad because my workload’s tripled and I was supposed to go to Fiji with my boyfriend and now I have to fly to Kiribati myself to oversee a bunch of imbeciles who, in turn, oversee our bikini-wearing human lab rats. It’s so unfair.”
Now this is my kind of woman.
I think that was when I first contemplated falling in love. “Join us for a drink? Nothing to mix it with, though.”
“What do you have?
Ooh!
Tia Maria!” She grabbed the bottle and tipped it back.
I said, “It really is a terrible fucking thing, Matt Bradley being dead and all.”
She held up a hand as Neal twisted the cap off another mini bottle for her. “Please, your language.”
“Sarah, what is it with you Americans and swearing?” I asked. “You crow over enhanced interrogation procedures and the current destruction of shitholes like Africa, but I throw in one ‘fuck’ and you all go nuclear.”
Sarah chugged her drink as she looked at me, then tossed her mini bottle in the trash. She was going to say something sanctimonious.
Oh God …
She said, “
Bono
still thinks there’s hope for
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