Part 28 (1/2)
Neal handed me the martini-it was perfection. I felt like Noel Coward or James Bond or one of the great debonairs of all time, greeting the early evening with style. I exhaled and took stock of my day. In one of my more philosophical moods, I asked, ”Neal, have you ever taken a large and satisfying s.h.i.+t, only to look in the bowl afterwards to find ... nothing?”
”Phantom s.h.i.+t, Ray. Happens all the time.”
”Nonsense, Neal.”
”Let me guess: afterwards little to no wiping required.”
”Why ... that is correct. None, really. A shame with all that five-star loo paper available.”
”Perhaps it's interdimensional leakage, Ray. That could explain it.”
”Interdimensional leakage? What is wrong with you? I s.h.i.+t in the real world, Neal. My s.h.i.+t does not enter a parallel universe or time stream.”
”You're the one who spoke the words 'parallel universe' and 'time stream,' not me.”
”Meaning what?”
”Meaning that even you believe there are unsolved mysteries in this universe.”
”I grudgingly concede the point.”
Neal handed me another well-deserved drink. ”I watched your bug-eating challenge on the show's website. Great stuff, Ray. Bold.”
”The entire planet has no Internet except here on a.r.s.ef.u.c.k Island? How does that happen?”
”Calm down, Ray. They've got some smart young kids on the show, with solid IT skills. They set up a very robust LAN, with a rewards program where you can get discount car rentals for-”
My overtaxed brain shot sideways from both ears. ”Car rentals? Your driver's licence expired the day Nirvana taped MTV Unplugged in New York-and there are no cars to rent. They've all been melted by nuclear war.”
”No war just yet, and who knows-diplomatic talks might stave it off.”
”Neal, if you keep spouting this naive claptrap, I'm afraid I'll have to stop having my philosophical discussions with you.”
”That's not fair, Ray. I'm trying to keep our spirits up.”
”Another martini. Please.” So delicious.
A martini is a c.o.c.ktail made with gin and vermouth, garnished with an olive or a lemon twist. Until the 1950s, the standard proportion was one part vermouth to three or three and a half parts gin. In recent years, martinis made with vodka rather than gin have become much more fas.h.i.+onable. Many people have martini shakers in their homes-either received as wedding gifts or purchased in an ironic retro mood. They never get used. They're kind of like the fedora hat of the beverage world.
I looked around. ”Where's Mother's room?”
”Down the hall. She's watching some telly and eating crisps.”
I pointed at a set of French doors. ”What's out there?”
”The infinity pool.”
f.u.c.ker.
Neal looked around as if to make sure n.o.body else was near. ”Ray ...”
”Yes, Neal? Smas.h.i.+ng martinis, by the way.”
”Ray, do you feel slightly, I don't know-guilty-for starting the nuclear crisis?”
”Guilty? Why should I feel guilty?”
”Well, I mean, we could have crashed the plane and prevented that atomic bomb from going off.”
”Neal, you're thinking like a little girl. The planet is choking-choking on a continent-sized lump of plastics, and Lieutenant Jennifer whatever-the-f.u.c.k-her-name-was, in her heart of hearts, thought she was doing the right thing. We should commend her.”
Neal looked genuinely distraught. ”But I keep asking myself what a better person might have done. The world's going to end because of you and me. Not only that, we can't get a trans-Pacific Internet connection and the ladies at k.u.m Guzzling Traktor s.l.u.ts were going to do a special Skype performance just for me today. They call it 'The Missile Silo'-a part of their ongoing celebration of the Cold War's end. Pretty ironic, given that we've gone and started it all over again.”
”Neal, Neal, Neal, Neal, Neal, Neal, Neal. Come over here.”
Neal came close and I slapped him, one-two. ”Stop that line of thinking right now. Jason Bourne would have done exactly what I did-”
”Kack his trousers?”
”Not my proudest moment, Neal, but yes, Jason Bourne would have shat his pants, given the situation.”
”Really, Ray?”
”Yes, Neal, really. The thing about Jason Bourne is that he only really s.h.i.+nes when he's being chased. Without the forces of evil pursuing him, Jason Bourne is basically council house trash living on KFC and the proceeds of his illegal Polish and Romanian girlfriends who'll toss you off for a tenner at the local lottery ticket kiosk.”
”So Jason Bourne is almost just like you and me.”
”Or,” I clarified, ”I am basically Jason Bourne. Simple logic.”
”What about James Bond, then-would he have tried to stop the bomb dropping?”
”He'd have been at the back of the plane f.u.c.king a goat. Again, pure logic.”
”I never studied logic, Ray.”
”Well, Neal, I'm not one to lord it over people, but yes-I did study logic.”
”Fancy prep school?”
”No. A f.u.c.king h.e.l.lhole.”4 I swallowed an olive and changed the subject. ”So. How is my piece of red plastic coming along?”
Neal gave a weary sigh. ”To be honest, I wish it would come along a bit quicker. It's hard going through life with a persistent prostate ma.s.sage. I hope Mother Nature will soon take her course.”
My suave, contemplative mood continued, well into my third martini. ”Neal, I truly think that wormy-fleshed canker I call my ex-wife is up to something sinister. Any ideas what it could be?”
”Fi? Not that I can think of. Maybe she wants to ... dunno ... get back together with you.”