Wright Left

by Peter Marks

  FEEDING TIME

  STRAYING from the small illuminated screen, Nathan stared out the window at an horizon of low cloud tinged orange by a setting sun, two red socked feet resting on the small coffee table in front of him. Smoke escaping lethargically from the cigarette dangling from between nicotine fingers, he reached for the glass of gin.

  His area of the aircraft looked more like the lounge of an exclusive club. A few luxurious slate grey leather almost armchairs, each with their own half acre, had replaced the usual few thousand straight-jacket seats. This lack of others, the absence of noise and movement was a major improvement on his previous exits from Australia when, as poor as his grammar, he’d had to endure cramped confines and the chiropractic nightmare of a long flight in a cheap seat. There were no garlic soaked old men disintegrating beside him, no screaming huge elephantine beast oozing over the armrest. There was no-one tripping over his bent legs or running across a napping lap at four in the morning in an urgent dash to occupy the last unclogged toilet. Here, in contrast to his memories, it was quiet and comfortable.

  Taking a sip, he savoured the moment until, half a plane ahead, he saw something which made him, or THAT meagre portion of him anyway, stir. Bending elegantly to serve fresh brewed tea or expensive Brazilian coffee to his overpaid staff, Wright caught a glimpse of HER, the blonde airhostess who’d sent his brain dead. He immediately decided that if the plane did happen to ditch, he’d use her for a life-jacket and drown content. Go down on her, with her.

  Unfortunately he’d given instructions to be left alone. This sudden sight of HER made Wright regret such an order but unusually for him, he resisted the urge to summon the long limbed temptation. Realistically, he knew he had plenty of time to attempt liaison. He was also aware that this quiet time, considering the tight schedule ahead, might be the last opportunity he’d have to get some waffling done.

  ________________

  So he got some waffling done:

  “Way back then, when I was still ten, my junior jottings consisted of compositions forged from words of three letters or less, forming paragraphs of two sentences or less, shaping an essay of one idea or less - forgettable prose of stunning simplicity. (I may not have been good but I sure was economical).

  Anyway, the time has come to give it another go.

  Now one of the most onerous tasks in writing is finding a suitable title. What do I call MY MEMORIES, supposing MY MEMORIES ever get beyond the microchip babble brain of this expensive machine? I mean buggar it, all the decent titles have been appropriated.

  Perhaps I can steal and modify. How about ‘Withering Nights’ or ‘The Unbearable Lightness of Being Helium’? What about ‘Whore and Piss’ (an expose on an unfulfilled fantasy. And the condition of my alcohol smitten bladder) or ‘A Midsummer Night’s Stream’ (a further expose on the condition of my alcohol smitten bladder).

  How about ‘The Bridle?’ (A religious text based upon the teachings of God the Almighty - in the fifth at Ascot).

  Shit, why is it so difficult? Writing doesn’t seem that hard. Until you try it (much like golf, or love. Or attaining maturity). But from the research I’ve done huddled in bed with the odd book on a chill winters night, there does seem to be a formula to it (although this is difficult to say with any real certainty for there’s usually also the odd girl in there with me doing her worst to censor my studies).

  I think I’ve discovered though, between bouts of heaving heavy breathing, just what the formula is.

  It’s this: there’s a beginning, a middle bit, and an end.

  Pretty basic eh? Well it ain’t. Certainly life hasn’t been that rudimentary or well defined. I mean where do I begin? At the beginning? Sure, I could share the violent push of birth with you, only I can’t remember a damn thing about it (and mum wishes to forget my dive into life with equal amnesia) so just where exactly do I start? At three? Or four?

  Or five or fourteen when my memory tells me I was a boy unlike any other boy? (Nothing remarkable about that though. All boys and girls are unique at that age. It’s only with the onset of adulthood, the forced implantation of a persuaded reality, the grim burden of iron limits, that neuters them. Moulds them into complacent, compliant robots).

  When did I change? Why did I fail robotics, why didn’t I grow up? (More importantly, why can’t my mother cook a leg of lamb without the meal ending up like the benzene barbecue of a protesting Buddhist). Who knows? (Who cares). Life is full of questions only the dead are interested in answering.

  Anyway back to the quandary I’m attempting to trap. Where do I start? Is there a fixed date from where to begin or has my life indeed been just what it seems - a glut of eminently unimportant non-events? Probably. Until recently anyway when something DID happen.

  When IT happened.”

  ________________

  Years ago, when poorer than your average third world buffalo, Wright had decided that when wealth finally hijacked him, he’d head a company that would pay vast salaries, provide Porsches, subsidised health benefits, generous home loans and a Utopian work environment. Only there’d be a catch.

  His company would bear a name no-one in their right mind would choose to work for (unless that company paid vast salaries, provided Porsche cars, health benefits, home loans and a utopian work environment. Which it did).

  So suddenly, worth a billion or so, he was able to grant himself his every wish and named his empire (in honour of himself most said) the “Wanker Corporation”.

  The fuck brain did this for two reasons. First and foremost he did it for a laugh. Wright was firmly of the opinion that wealth was wasted if you couldn’t get a giggle out of it. Secondly, he believed that none of his employees could possibly grow heads too large for their hunched shoulders carrying finely embossed business cards identifying them as employees of such an absurd organisation.

  Wright was smugly content that when his employees were asked, at dull dinner parties, or conventions for the indolent, who they worked for, they were forced to answer ‘Wanker’ (a response usually greeted with howls of laughter. Or nods of agreement).

  Really, the only problem with the name he chose for his empire (aside from him, and aside from the obvious lack of credibility the name engendered) was that Wanker didn’t have the same connotation globally.

  Originally he’d toyed with the idea of having the Corporate offshoots in certain countries given different names to clarify his dubious humour - Jerk Corp. in the U.S., Schmuck Inc. in Israel, Le Wank Wank in France etc. But he finally decided, for the sake of continuity, to keep it simple. So it became Wanker worldwide.

  What a Fuckhead!

  ________________

  ‘Drink Sir?’ It was HER again. Again, Sir was too busy inventing himself to notice the inquiry. Sir at that moment was thinking that writing an autobiography was rather like plastic surgery. Only the tools were words but the results just as fabricated.

  Again, receiving no reply SHE retreated sullenly, thinking to herself that Sir, for all his cash, was one right rude little shit. Why, he hadn’t even glanced up at her which, when you’re as beautiful as she was, is about as common as walking on water. SHE was stunned. SHE also found his ignorance of her doubly exasperating because SHE could have sworn he’d been staring at her the entire time she’d been performing the safety drill. Perhaps he was deaf? Or cross-eyed?

  No, just queer she decided, slipping quietly away.

  ________________

  Because of its size, the forward galley was the “The Closet”. Large lockers, stainless steel and polished to a mirror finish, stretched from floor to ceiling. There was a delicious smell of warming croissants.

  ‘Christ Michele, these buggars are easily satisfied,’ Gish exhaled snidely, deftly uncorking another bottle of champagne. Michelle simply grunted, too confused by King Wanker’s ignorance of her overwhelming and never (well hardly ever) before ignored beauty to reply to Gish’s factual assertion. SHE was positive Gish had
told her the boss wasn’t bent. Just crazy maybe. Well at least lunacy would explain the man’s absence of attention she comforted herself. Daneille, tugging the curtains aside, pushed past Michelle and disappeared with another loaded trolley.

  Brushing away an orphan hair, Anna bent to stack the dishwasher. Gish, leaning against the bench, stared at the ceiling then informed the ceiling that so far their esteemed guests’ fevered demands had consisted of eighty bags of cashews, fifty bags of crisps, a few tanker loads of champagne and the odd compliment.

  ‘Jesus, it’s like feeding time at the zoo,’ she added, elbowing Anna out of the way to rummage through a lower locker in search of more nuts, trying to remember the last time she’d actually visited a zoo.

  ________________

  It was one of those balmy Parisian summer days. Gish was thirteen. The birds were singing, the sun was shining but she wasn’t too young to understand what the beastly boys and girls were doing dancing so close together. Animals.

  She remembered it vividly. She was wearing a blue school uniform, her favourite cream stilettos, black garter belt with matching fishnet stockings and a phirana grin. Standing there in the warm sunlight, prepubescent and pretty, Gish had, on sighting a huge hairy thing lolling about in the enclosure in front of them, casually advised Auntie that Auntie bore a striking resemblance to it (it being a Sumatran orang-utan). Unaware of the insult (to it), it was happily chomping away on a long stemmed snack of something quite unrecognisable, gnashing whatever the vegetation was between sickly yellow fangs.

  Meantime, Aunt’s response to Gish’s keen powers of observation went unappreciated. Auntie exploded. Face flushed red, she whacked the giggling Gish with a loaded snakeskin handbag. But Gish was laughing so loudly she hardly noticed the blow. In fact it just tickled her into further hysterics. And she just laughed louder.

  So Aunt tried again.

  There they were, Gish laughing, Aunt pounding. And the orang-utan, suddenly interested, knelt forward to propose marriage to the woman whacking Gish because the woman striking the young girl in wearing a blue school uniform, cream stilettos and black fishnet stockings who bore a striking resemblance to his ex-wife Griselda.

  What a scene.

  Yep, Gish may have been small, but already her talent for fearless insult was precociously advanced. And positively ominous.

  ________________

  ‘With this sort of practice,’ Gish decided, a smile stretched across her face in fond remembrance, slowly wiped her hands on a limp grey tea towel hanging by the small sink. ‘We can apply for the Zambian run at this rate. Christ, the damn apes they’re exporting thrive on the exact same diet as this lot!’ She snorted dismissively, pouring more champagne, wondering if she should demand the same penalty rates the Zambian government paid for the air-care of their primates.

  Frowning loudly, Anna turned to Gish.

  ‘Don’t be so dreadful!’ She remonstrated, feeling that some defence of those out front was in order. ‘They’re fine. Most of them are women anyway. And the few males, aside from that vast one with the monumental paunch in 2A ...and the succulent one with the cute buns in 7B ...seem well beyond groping us.’ She argued indignantly.

  ‘Don’t you believe it!’ Gish advised, more experienced. ‘Hell, it’s the old farts ....and lesbian Vice-Presidents who give us the most grief,’ she grinned, thin lipped, suddenly wheeling around and tossing the towel at Anna who, had she known that wrapped inside the Trojan towel was a Wanker beer glass, would have ducked. But she didn’t know.

  So she didn’t duck.

  Anna squealed loudly as the missile clipped her left ear and sent one gold earring flying. Obviously defence of the guests was a dangerous tactic she grimaced, checking if her ear was still there, thankful she’d refused all suggestions to have them pierced. Quickly grabbing the shimmering ornament from the black linoleum floor, she scurried out through the closed curtains before Gish found something larger to launch at her opinions.

  Gish was a handful.

  Twenty-six, she was a bedroom educated, street smart Yank. Five foot seven of boundless aggression replete with the humour of a viper and the demeanour of a wounded rhino.

  ________________

  Dark red hair cropped short to avoid the hours of drying, combing and styling longer hair would have entailed, Gishford C. Bankdebank had a pale scar that ran razor straight across her left cheek. She applied just enough make-up to cover its minuscule indentation.

  The laser line was the legacy of an ancient collision with the gear stick of a ‘67 Buick.

  This mark of honour was gained one wet September night on the interstate as she and Tory McBride were heading back to New York from Washington DC.

  Cuddled cosy and carnal in the front, he driving, she attempting lip liaison with a tremulous dick, she was happily slurping away. Until. Until a mangy tourist in the shape of a spaniel appeared from an undiscovered dimension and Tory braked fast. Ruined any chance of Gish giving Tory any further lip-ohh give me more-suction.

  Fortunately, at the precise moment of the time travelling mutt’s appearance, Gish had come up for air. (Immediately prior to Tory coming. He was already up, hands tugging her hair).

  Thus, fortunately for his future wife anyway,

  Tory’s tool was saved from immediate dental decapitation by Gish’s need for oxygen. (Note: Read “Hotel New Hampshire” by John Irving if you’re interested in what the gorey alternative would have been. Read “Hotel New Hamshire” by John Irving anyway. The man’s a genius. And the book ain’t half bad either).

  So Gish survived with nothing other than a fine scar. Interestingly, and perhaps indicative of her attitudes, another thing about her was that to give the men she slept with something to talk about after they’d proved such a serious disappointment to her hungry heavings, she’d had a small skull and crossbones tattooed on her inner left thigh. She’d done this to give them something to comment on and so fill that legendary silent void between the gushing wet deposit and the post gushing fight to avoid the now cold, clammy, adhesive liquid deposit.

  She often wondered why most men were so dull. Post coital. Especially post coital (though this was a rather general observation of her human opposites).

  Were they so drained of vital fluids after THE event? Did their brains become arid? Did they dry up until some unseen tanker arrived back in their upstairs? To pump a refill of fresh jitzm juice into their deserted skull!

  Or were they just hopeless?

  Finally, Gish had decided that it was just that she was just so goddamn good at sex and sucking, that they were simply struck dumb by her excellence. Utterly speechless due to her prowess.

  Gish was up herself.

  And every-one was up Gish.

  ‘And what about our esteemed employer? If Michele can manage to get his mind off that infernal machine, I’m sure I can get him horizontal,’ Gish decided, emptying the trash, still trying to figure out what a 17.5% primate loading would add to her already outrageous wage. She made a mental note to ring Qantas when they landed in London. Surely they’d know. Christ, they’d been successfully ferrying the feral (i.e. Australians) for decades.

  ‘Don’t be disgusting Gish. You’ve no loyalty,’ Anna rebuked sternly. Back again, she was doing her best to quell Gish’s maladjusted mind. By being target practice, Michele feared, awaiting Gish’s reaction. She needn’t have worried for, for the moment, Anna was quite safe. Temporarily anyway.

  Gish ignored her. Gish just kept shovelling waste down the chute, adding, subtracting, miscalculating as to what a 17.5% primate loading would add to her already outrageous wage.

  ________________

  Meanwhile, Wright was still at it:

  “What’s really unfair is that if this result of my random recall ever lodges on some more selectively packed bookshelf, you’ll know before I do what I decided to call this atrocity.

  Did I go with ‘Scratcher In The Rye?’ (an anthology of
allergies). Or ‘The Grass Menagerie’? (A compendium on why people with incontinent pets should replace all carpets with stain soaking grass). Or ‘Death Of A Alesman’ (yet a further expose on the condition of the alcohol smitten bladder). Or ‘The Calming Sutra’ (a methodical approach to sex on tranquillisers). Maybe I settled on ‘The Gulag I’mapelican’ (sponsored by Greenpeace) or ‘Lathering Heights’ (sponsored by Gillette) or ‘Scouting For Buoys’ (sponsored by the Association for Directionly Impaired Navigators).

  God knows (as do you).

  If only I’d remained as innocent of words as I was when I was ten. Back then I’d have known what to call this. I’d have called it ‘THE CAT SAT ON THE MAT. THEN DIDN’T’ and have been quite satisfied with such ignorant inspiration.

  Age is such a burden.

  Anyway, the one thing I’m certain of is that whatever I ended up with, whatever I called MY MEMORIES, I’m sure it was a serious disappointment.”

  ________________

  Anna, removing a tray of steaming croissants, turned to Michele.

  ‘Well, if it stays as quiet as this, then it certainly beats doing the Cup Run,’ she said, adjusting her rich dark hair and clearly crooked stockings.

  ‘Sharing a bath with crocodiles beats The Cup Run,’ Danielle decided, folding the serviettes, an athletic shiver sliding down a thread spine at the mere mention of it.

  It was infamous.

  ________________

  Essentially, ‘The Cup Run’ involved airlifting chanting, pissed soccer supporters back to Gatwick or Heathrow following their inevitable rioting abroad, at whatever football fixture they’d decided to disrupt. It was a sort of an airborne Noahs Ark.

  With only the carnivorous aboard. As such, it was the most feared assignment in the industry (aside from the Bahrain Run, Gish grimaced).

  Danielle, white teeth, perfect English, sweet face under a mop of dark hair, departed to the executives out front pleased of something to do to distract her mind from such an ugly memory, leaving the other three clattering about in the confines of the packed galley.