overhead bin.”
Minutes later, Serge had an open laptop on his lap. He tapped the arm next to him. “Oh, Mr. Businessman, do you have any pen pals? Of course you do. But I just got my first one. He’s from some wacky foreign country with exciting current events. And I think we’re really hitting it off. I can be totally open and say the kind of things that make others hide from me, but he keeps writing no matter what. In fact, he contacted me first.” Serge rotated the computer toward the middle seat. “I’ve scrolled back to the top of our message string. Check it out!.. No, you’re still staring at me. Look at the screen.”
The businessman gave Serge a final glance, then turned toward the computer and began reading: Dear Sir or Madam, It is with great trust and confidence that I contact you concerning a business transaction of large urgency. I am the nephew of Ishtwanu Gabonilar, who recently became deposed as finance minister of eastern Nabibiwabba province, prior to consummation of mineral lease with Swiss consortium that transferred funds of $100 million U.S. dollars prior to rebel offensive on the capital. With sad mourning, my entire family is disappear and believe executed. I require your assistance as such funds remain concealed in capital and must dispatch with trust to America before rebels discover. I cannot reveal source, but your name was recommended as person of extreme trust and dependency. For your services, you will received half ($50 million U.S. dollars). Awaiting your immediate speed response. With much God bless, Bobonofassi Gabonilar Dear Bobonofassi, Fifty million dollars! Holy fucking shit! My lucky day! How’d you get my name? Was it Coleman? Lenny? Who cares? The important thing is you got it. And perfect timing: I’ve been moping around lately over the oil spill while Coleman ran down my cell battery calling everyone for hashish, and we nearly got pinched when he shared a bottle of cheap rum outside a massage parlor with a drive-time radio personality who showed his wee-wee to an undercover cop, and we had to hide under some mattresses and walk home because they ran the plates on our stolen car after finding a teensy bit of blood in the trunk. Okay, a lot. Hey, some people bruise easily, others bleed. But it’s always my fault, and then Coleman almost got busted again in the supermarket because he did ’shrooms and ten hits from a skull bong, and the grocery people grabbed him by the freezer with a gallon of triple-fudge ice cream, which we tried to say we were going to buy, but they found him on his hands and knees with his face right down in the pail like a beagle, and the shit was in his hair and other shoppers getting squirrelly, so they ordered me to give them all the money in my wallet and never come back, and that’s why your timing is so great because even one million dollars right now would come in handy. Especially after the stock market whipped my ass like Sonny Corleone delivering a brother-in-law garbage-can beat-down (I love that scene). All my shares were in a friend’s name, because I can’t use mine right now, so I sit each morning watching CNN and the opening bell on Wall Street. And here’s what pisses me off about the opening bell: “Special guests” ring it, all these rich, connected, oh-so-self-pleased, never-done-a-real-day’s-work pussies grinning ear to ear up on that stand like Roman emperors while the whole country’s on foreclosure-fire. And even worse, they have goofy guests: people in Star Wars costumes and the cast of Jersey Shore, like it’s a big joke, this shit sandwich they’re force-feeding Main Street. And then I hear that ting-a-ling again and see those smug motherfuckers, and this is what I finally figured out it means: It’s a gleefully enthusiastic ringing of the funeral bell for the working class. And I begin calculating the trajectory of a perfectly tossed firebomb… Hold on, what am I saying? I’m here moaning about my insignificant problems, when you’re the one whose entire family is rotting in a mass grave. And rebels never dig good ones, so limbs are probably sticking out, flies buzzing around-and the smell! Do I feel silly! Back to your problems: I’m on the case! Please tell me at once what I have to do to help stop the rebels! (Don’t get me started on rebels-it’s all: me, me, me, I need attention.) Your newest best friend in maximum trust, Serge A. Storms Dear Serge, It pleases me greatly for you kindness in my people’s time of necessity. The rebels are in much control and transactions limited. For your assistance, I need you deposit $10,000. This is the minimum to open numbered account among our trusted friends for me to begin secure transfer of $100 million ($50 million to be your gracious fee). Please advise when you have funds and I will forward you account number and bank. Many Blessings, Bobonofassi Gabonilar Dear Bobonofassi, Ten thousand? Is that it? This just keeps getting better and better! And to think I almost missed your e-mail between “Meet hot singles in your area” and “Turn your trouser mouse into a one-eyed python of love.” I was distracted because of that new TV show Cougar Town, which is actually Sarasota (there’s a map of Florida’s Gulf Coast during the intro, if you need to check), and these smokin’-hot menopause chicks are banging an entire city full of nothing but young studs, except the average age of the guys in Sarasota is, like, dead. Such inaccuracies make me crazy and my picture tube now has a few extremely small bullet holes, but it still won’t work anymore. Was I overreacting? You can tell me, since we’re going to have a close cosmic connection for the rest of our lives, and even longer (hope you’re not in some religion where heaven is like a Jimi Hendrix album cover with elephants wearing jewelry and a dancing goddess flapping twenty arms). Can I call you Bobo? Speaking of dead, probably no word on your family. Better that way so you won’t know about the torture. Rebels always start with the head. They use these face-spreaders. That’s just mean. Of course I have a pair myself, but I always feel bad afterward. And maybe no TV isn’t the worst thing. The other night I woke up and there was some old movie with a Cyclops. Remember when a bunch of films used to have Cyclops? And now nothing. What the fuck? Did you see Christopher Walken on Saturday Night Live? “More cowbell”? They should do something like that with Cyclops. Okay, enough yapping: Send me that account info ASAP! I’ll be able to raise the ten Gs as soon as I reach Miami. And when this is all over, you should visit. Or maybe you should come right now, because I’ve become concerned about your safety. People say Miami’s dangerous, but at least America doesn’t have rebels. Actually we do, but they just wear funny hats and hold tea parties. No mass graves (yet). And if your family was tortured, the rebels are probably on the way to your house right now with the face-spreaders. You can always stay on our pull-out couch. Just think about it. More Cyclops! Serge
A businessman repeatedly tapped the flight-attendant call button over the middle seat of row 27.
A cheerful woman arrived. “How may I help you?”
“I have to sit somewhere else.”
“I’m sorry, the flight is completely full-”
“This is your captain again. We’re still experiencing some very minor problems with the engines. The replacement part didn’t fit right, so we’re having another flown in from Atlanta… Meanwhile, please relax and I’ve instructed the crew to serve soft drinks and complimentary cocktails…”
Two hours later.
Serge’s hand continuously pressed the flight-attendant call button.
The woman returned. “How may I help you?”
“I have to get off the plane.”
“Sir, nobody is allowed off the plane. We’ve already pulled away from the gate. Regulations.”
“But you don’t understand…”
A gentle smile. “It’ll just be a little bit longer.”
More tapping on the call button. A different arm.
The flight attendant looked at the businessman in the middle seat. “I want to sit somewhere else.”
“As I informed you earlier, the flight is full.”
Serge repeatedly tapped the button.
The attendant maintained poise. “Yes?”
“I can’t go into all the details,” said Serge. “But you really want me off this plane.”
The businessman nodded hard in agreement.
“I’m sorry,” said the attendant. “But they’re just about-”
“This is your captain again. The part from Atlanta fits, and we should be in the air in no time.”
“See?” the attendant said cheerfully. “I told you it wouldn’t be much longer.”
“I still want to get off,” said Serge. “Can’t you just let one person go?”
“The rules are very strict,” she said evenly. “After the doors are closed and cross-checked, absolutely nobody is permitted off the plane.”
At the front of the jet, two men in uniforms stepped out of the cockpit. The main cabin door opened. Sunlight streamed in. The men left. The door closed.
Serge looked up at the attendant. “What the hell just happened?”
“The pilots got off the plane.”
“Why?”
“They reached their FAA limits of how long they can work in a twenty-four-hour period. We’re flying a new crew in from Cleveland.”
“How long is that going to take?”
