Part 29 (1/2)
It was dark out, but you'd never know it by the temperature. As we left Neal's casa, I was instantly homesick for its kicka.s.s air conditioning. Weather reports never mention mugginess, do they? No. No, they don't. They only show little suns or clouds. If I ran the weather service, I'd invent new icons for South Pacific swelter: tiny gas chambers or tiny dishwashers with their doors wide open and chokingly hot steam billowing out.
f.u.c.king heat.
I said, ”So, Billy, can you give me a hint about Fiona's special surprise?”
”No.”
”Come on.”
”No.”
”Has she located a patch of quicksand for me to investigate? A flock of sleeping HIV-infected bats she wants me to startle awake with a foghorn? Or perhaps she wants to feed me a pudding made from time-expired dairy products?”
”Raymond, I'm not telling you anything. Neal, how's your ankle on this sandy path?”
”I'll make it okay, Billy. Thanks for asking.”
I was incensed. ”I'll make it okay? Neal, for f.u.c.k sake, you're talking like you've lost a limb in Afghanistan.”
”Leave him alone, Raymond. A sprained ankle is nothing to laugh about.”
”Okay, how much farther to go, Billy?”
”Just around the corner.”
At the tent city, the evening s.h.i.+ft change was in progress. Since I had been fired, I didn't have to worry about it. Scurrying around us were men and women in cargo pants and T-s.h.i.+rts, carrying clipboards and camera gear, their belt loops jammed with gaffer tape, flashlights, Swiss Army knives and all the other equipment one needs at a moment's notice. One thing that was odd, though, was that n.o.body seemed to notice me or make eye contact with me. Hmmm.
Just then Stuart walked by. ”f.u.c.k me with a chainsaw. Gunt-what are you still doing here? You've been cast off the island. Go. Leave. Now.”
”Yes, Stuart. I'll hop the next British Airways jumbo leaving from a.r.s.ef.u.c.k Island International Airport.”
”Well, you can't stay in our camp, eat our food or use any of our infrastructure. I've also told all staff members that anyone caught communicating with you will be fired. Have a nice life.”
”... ” (The sound of me having no stinging, witty retort at hand. f.u.c.king Stuart.) ”Potter. Out of here. Go. Now.” Stuart walked away.
I turned to Neal. ”Well, isn't this just ducky? So what now-I find a little island and make a lean- to from palm fronds? Maybe play a ukulele until I die of old age?”
”Think of yourself as a DNA stockpile ready to repopulate a post-nuclear society badly in need of quality genetic material, Ray.”
Billy cut in, ”Kids, can we stay on topic? We are headed to Fiona's surprise.”
Neal put a hand on my shoulder. ”Don't worry, Ray. I'm not a staff member, so n.o.body can fire me if I talk to you. You stay on in the hut. If I see anyone from the show coming by, I'll send you a signal so you can crawl behind the deep-freeze until they go away.”
”Oh. My. G.o.d. It's come to this, has it?”
”I'd let you stay in the business centre, but your mum's in there and I have to think of her health.”
”Neal, my mother will outlive c.o.c.kroaches in the post-nuclear era. She is unkillable. Have her bunk beside the deep-freeze.”
”I can't change her room now that she's settled in. Besides, she said she'd make me egg and chips for breakfast tomorrow.”
From my left came an ”Ahem!” The enchanting Billy.
”Oh, all right-lead me to Fiona's surprise.”
Billy pulled a walkie-talkie from his belt and whispered into it. We pa.s.sed through some coconut shrubs and emerged into what resembled a children's playground painted in garish colours.
”This is actually the site of the contestants' next challenge.”
”What is it?”
”To quote the tent full of producers I overheard, the challenge is 'to show as much jiggling side b.o.o.b as is legally permissible.' ” Billy stopped us. ”Right then, here we go.” He made a small flourish, then bowed and said, ”Raymond Gunt, may I please present to you your ex-wife, Fiona, and your very own mother, Chantelle Brittany Gunt.”
The unholy duo emerged from behind a huge cable spool painted bright orange. ”Surprise!” they shouted.
My mind began to spin as it considered the treacheries these two had cooked up. And then my legs were ... itching? What the f.u.c.k? I looked down to see my entire lower body covered in a cloud of angry winged Pringles.
”Raymond!” shouted Neal. ”Your entire lower body is covered in angry winged beetles. Good lord! I think they have teeth!”
I'm not proud of it, but I shrieked. ”Get them off of me, Neal! Get them off me!”
”They're attracted to the coconut milk he spilled on his lap,” said Billy. ”Sugar in concentration makes Pringles even angrier than they normally are.”
Neal shouted, ”They don't have teeth, Ray!”
”I don't give a f.u.c.king s.h.i.+t-get them off of me.” I was doing frantic jumping jacks.
”Ray, what I meant to say is that instead of teeth they've got pincers! Like those shears you use to trim hedges!”
I screamed some more, then fell to the ground and rolled over and over, squis.h.i.+ng hundreds of the nasty f.u.c.kers-which, in turn, seemed to attract even more furious Pringles.
Finally Neal managed to strip the pants off me, and with them, the rest of the Pringles. I lay there panting, and looked up to see Fiona and Mother staring at me, mouths agawp, their stunned silence interrupted only by Mother taking a l.u.s.ty drag from her filter-tipped cigarette while she simultaneously ate the very last of a package of crisps. She dropped the bag onto the ground, where it was immediately enveloped in its own cloud of angry winged Pringles.
Fiona said, ”Jesus, Raymond, I've never seen you look worse in all the years I've known you. I'm actually in awe of your ability to hit new lows.”
”Thank you, Fiona.”
Mother sized me up. ”Son, you look like the pavement beside Mr. Chandra's kebab shop at three a.m. on a Sat.u.r.day night. You're a living puddle of sick, is what you are.”
”Yes, well. Moving forward, why don't you tell me why you brought me here tonight.”
The two women looked at each other. Mother squealed, ”I can't wait anymore, Fi!”
”Okay, fair enough,” said Fiona. ”I'd hoped the scene would be a touch more dignified-and sanitary-than this, but here goes. Raymond Gunt, I'd like you to meet ...” She made a what-the-h.e.l.l gesture.
* *Drum roll* *