The Roaming Moaner by Adam Ninnis - HTML preview

The Roaming Moaner

 

1.

 

How soon after death does a body start to rot? If I snap her neck during take-off, will she stink out the plane before it lands in Cancun? My hand reaches for my phone to google 'putrefaction timelines', my fingers getting as far as my pocket before I realise I've cancelled my contract and the WI-FI is down. I fish it out anyway, its weight in my hand soothing like an adult comfort blanket. I bring up the WI-FI list and scroll to the airline I booked with. There it is, no padlock sign and a full signal symbol, but the triple-tiered tower of web-browsing power may as well be a tiny middle finger for all the good it is to me 'cause the words 'Unable To Join Network' flash up once again, the contradiction of the full coverage claim taunting me like a red sky to a flying bull. I try the other unlocked signals and get similar results, the denial of such a basic human right as web access fuelling my outrage, making both my eyeballs quiver and jitter.

Calm down Sam, you're not gonna murder anyone. She's just nervous about flying is all. She'll be fine when you're in the air. Until then, do what you normally do when faced with extreme conflict or everyday stuff that winds you up - compose an all-caps angry Facebook status. Pour your rage into your phone. Write something so devastating it'll be adopted as scripture in a fucked up future religion. Drop the odd vowels and then post it to Twitter. Sit back and laugh as it virals so hard it mutates into a physical pathogen that wipes out acne, celery and people that talk with their mouths full.

“But he had to stay behind in the end because of his work so he'll be catching another flight tomorrow. He's a lovely man is my son and I'm ever so looking forward to our holiday together” says the old lady for the third time, her spit-soaked words reaching my ears through a mouthful of sticky toffee. Her nasal snorts ripple my arm hair, prompting an almost uncontrollable urge to scream at her till I'm red in the face as I strain against handcuffs, locked away in an overhead compartment.

“His wife is such a dear. She met the queen once, so it's clear she was meant for someone special. Such a dear she is, so kind and supportive.”

The combination of talking and chewing tires her out and soon she's pumping out nasal snorts like a fat marathon runner that's just sniffed up a wasp. A tiny drop of snot lands on my arm, nudging my phobic reaction over the physical level line, its pure liquid wickedness sparkling like a shard of glass in a kid's swimming pool. My nose goes all hot and stuffy like someone's jammed a big toe up there and's got ideas for the entire foot. There is snot on my arm and she's still fucking talking.

I massage my nostrils till the cartilage clicks then struggle to suppress a full body twitch, the harder I try the more pronounced it becomes till I'm trembling like an octopus with restless legs syndrome.

“And he's got a house in the City with a garden that's just lovely. He's a data analyst my son did you know? One of those modern jobs.”

Yes. Yes, I did know. And it's a pity your son got his analytical genes from your absent, presumed dead husband or you'd have the ability to analyse my silence and leave me the fuck alone. I manage to show some restraint though, keep the screams internal. Partly because I don't wanna get thrown off the plane but mainly because I'm not a complete bastard. Just a man with a phobia of the sound of people eating, and a deep dislike of one-sided small talk.

 

 

“And my grandson, oh he's ever so clever. You should see him doing his jigsaw puzzles, such an intelligent little one. Did I show you a picture already?” She rummages around in her handbag, her claw-paw stirring up the twin aromas of old tissues and expired mints.

 

A stream of inappropriate thoughts flood through my mind, each one more violent and cruel than the last: water-boarding her with boiling-hot dog piss; peeling her skin off and rolling her in salt; stapling her to a tree and feeding her her own shins. I start to worry I'll lose self-control and act out whatever messed up thought is racing through my mind, like when you're in a job interview and you're wilting under all the sustained eye contact and your mind burps out a worst case scenario and then suddenly you're terrified you'll have a momentary lapse and start mooning the effeminate man from HR.

 

I jump off the murder train before it derails, jam in my earphones and scroll through my tunes. I pick something loud and shouty, fight fire with fire. It's a tried and tested tactic, one I like to employ when deferring a nasty hangover via the purchase of yet another bottle of rum, the shame and stink of a morning drinker camouflaged by a constant smile that says 'I'm an early-rising consumer that's shopping ahead for tonight's Caribbean themed dinner party'.

 

The music kicks in and a wobbly burp voice starts screaming about pain and death. I catch eyes with a flight attendant three rows over and he visibly bristles before making his way over. He looks me in the eyes, acknowledges my acknowledgement yet still feels the need to tap me on the shoulder. As I reach for the pause button the evil air steward with his plastic sarcastic smile and eyes full of hate does an outrageously camp impression of someone removing earphones. I press pause and stare at him. He repeats the mime a few more times, looking like a member of a Village People tribute act. The weak link, soon to be replaced 'cause his bad shoulders won't let him do an M in the big YMCA finale.

 

“I'll be honest with you mate, the mime was unnecessary,” I say without moving my jaw. “I'm well aware a tap on the shoulder means please give me your attention.”

 

“I'm sorry Sir but electronic devices are not permitted during take off.” He gives me one of those tight-lipped, sarcy smiles you only get from surly teens and passive-aggressive service staff.

 

“But we're not taking off. The fasten seatbelt sign isn't even on. We've been sat here on the runway for an hour now.”

 

“We'll be taking off soon Sir. In the meantime, electronic devices are not permitted during take off.”

 

“That doesn't even make sense. Look, can you please talk to me like a real person and not just repeat yourself like some shit 80's robot.” He points at me, elbow, arm and floppy wrist forming a Z shape that looks like a naked snake puppet.

 

“Sir, please do not swear at me or I will be forced to take action”. He says this with a back and forth finger wag, giving it the gay slap-down stereotype, head bob punctuating each word and reminding me of a childhood friend with tunnel vision trying to keep up with a NYE fireworks display. I'm about to argue that shit's not a swear word, my hand fingering my phone for web-based backup when there's a crack to my left as my tormentor tests her false-teeth on a bag of ineffective gobstoppers.

 

“It's okay young man, I'll keep you company till the plane takes off” she says through shards of solidified sugar. “I wasn't supposed to be flying alone you know. My son was going to accompany me but...” I dig out my earphones, close my eyes and try a trick I learnt from my anger management therapist.

 

A newspaper forms in the foreground, partially obscuring the flashing red background that pumps out an order to kill. A headline appears, text that says 'she's old Sam, don't be rude'. The area below's populated by a selection of calming GIF's: a misty morning meadow, a kitten spinning on a turntable, a Slinky forever flopping down an up escalator...

 

It doesn't work. All I can think about is the kitten scratching the record and the slinky getting jammed between the escalator steps. I try the same technique but with a slight change in perspective. A mangled Slinky juts from the steps of a stationary escalator; a neon sign directs shoppers to a flight of uneven and dimly lit emergency stairs; the headline above reads 'HUNDREDS DEAD IN SHOPPING STAIR PILEUP'. A little concerned at how calm I am now I open my eyes, have a quick failed check of Facebook and then go back to writing a moan on my phone.

 

An hour later we're flying over Ireland and she's still jabbering away, past the point of ignorance and deep in the murky swap of senility. I tried reading a book on my Kindle for a while but the words only got as far as my eyes before her voice washed away their meaning. I tried pretending to watch a film on the seat screen in front but my fake laughs at Schindlers List were completely ignored. So now I'm back to shouty music. She's still oblivious though, still droning away. Her voice vibrates through my chair causing me anger and guilt and utter despair, a three-way war of emotions, the battle in my brain loud enough to drown out everything but her voice and my own tortured thoughts. And all the while she completely ignores the guy in the window seat. Damn my friendly face, the mask that hides the rage inside. I should start dressing more provocatively: an SS armband, a priest outfit and a bag of toys, a copy of my web browsing history hanging from a chain round my neck. Well this is a great fucking start to the trip.

 

All of my friends said I should go travelling. Literally all of them and I don't use that word lightly. Friends that grew increasingly distant over the years what with their kid's swimming lessons and their couples nights out and their impossible number of grandparent funerals. “Go away and see the world” said my Anglophile friend. “Go away and find yourself” said his palm reading wife. “Oh fuck off you hippy” said I. “I won't be able to see you anymore” said he to the garden path as I scoffed my slice of cheesecake in the rain.

 

A pattern formed and spread through my life like an oil spill on a dank British beach. My friends turned into closet travel agents, our bimonthly meet-ups taking on a distinct travelly feel. I was forever on the receiving end of a stuttery sales pitch. You can't start a sentence with 'oh, random fact' when that fact is yet another working holiday visa requirement. That's just not fucking random is it? It was all so transparent. And we each knew the others knew, but we pretended not to so we could salvage what remained of our decaying friendship. Always pint five it was. I'd be waiting to hear it and they'd be waiting to say it. It was like they'd done research, found the fifth pint's the sweet spot and waited till then to have the 'spontaneous' idea that I should sell all my shit and go travelling somewhere. Preferably somewhere in an opposite time zone, reducing all future contact to slept-through Skype calls and easy-to-ignore emails.

 

Yeah I knew I needed to make some changes, but it wasn't the pleads of those closest to me that've resulted in the hell that I currently dwell. First up, I ran out of lighters. Seems like nothing I know, but if you give me a lighter I'll spark up my fag then immediately pocket your property. It's not an intentional act, more an evolutionary trait passed down from cavemen that were always misplacing their, I don't know... toothpicks? Made from... the teeth of... sabre-toothed tigers? Did Cavemen even have pockets? My hand drifts down to my phone to google 'inventor of the pocket' when my lack of web access saddens me once again, more at how saddened I am by its absence than the actual absence itself.

 

Anyway, because of this unintentional thievery I always had a collection of lighters that grew from bowl to box to drawer. The day I realised the drawer'd run dry was the day I knew I had to get out more. Nothing drastic at that point - join a Scrabble club or be one of those losers that spends every night sat on the same barstool, chatting to staff they think of as friends, either too stupid or too lonely to admit that the stock responses and service staff smiles are a result of professional courtesy and actually, they think you're a sad, lonely wanker with B.O. and bad breath. No, what pushed me to book a flight was this prize tool at a bus stop. He was talking on his phone, boasting about his gap year travels - or as he called them his 'war stories' - completely disregarding standard procedure when talking in public, the traditional 'waiting-room whisper' swapped for 'attention-seeking dickhead on a phone'.

 

“The Americas? Oh yah for reals man. It was like, totally wild. We travelled from Mexico all the way down to darkest Peru. It's one big party though you know? Cause like, every night's a Saturday night when you're on the road yo. And the male to female ratio is like, 50/50 so it's all shots and shower sex for the boys, whoop whoop! Totes depressed to be back and all but, you know, nothing the chaps and some Chinese food wont sort out!”

 

His conversation ended abruptly. Hung up on I imagine, or maybe his battery ran out from scrolling through yesterday's selfies. I started to get a bit excited. Acceptable daily drinking? 50/50 gender ratios? This was sold to me all wrong. Going away to 'find yourself' is for bible campers and romance novels, for those that think they're meant for greatness but can't be arsed with the leg work; the kind of arrogant wankbags that think a step outside their comfort zone will expose a hidden depth, a potential that matches their arrogance allowing them to crack the cocoon of everyday life, free to emerge as a suntanned butterfly that shuns the snooze button and makes his own soup. Fuck that bullshit. I wanted to go away to fuck and get fucked.

 

I thought back to what friends had said during their awkward sales pitches, their commission an enthusiastic BJ from the missus for finally getting rid of me.

 

“You see your problem Sam is you hate everyone” said frenemy #3. “But you'd like the people you meet on the road. It takes a certain type of person to leave their comfort zone behind and go travelling for an extended period. Meeting twenty people a day for months on end, you've gotta be reasonably confident you're not a complete cunt. It means you end up hanging around with the crème de la crème of each nationality. Maybe keeping that kind of company for a while will remind you of all the good that's in the world. Your problem Sam, is that you're always living in the past, always comparing everything to your life before she left. Reminiscing isn't living you know?”

 

Ignoring the possibility that all other travellers could be like the posh whoop whoop wanker at the bus stop who probably classed riding the bus that day as a war story, I abandoned my trip to town for more cider and walked back to the shared shit-hole I called home. Everyday things took on greater meaning, just like it does in the movies. The sky was still the colour of granny muff and the birds in the trees were still noisy flying shit-bags but the litter in the gutter... a crushed lager can, a burrito wrapper, a quarter filled condom. That gutter could be my life! My empty beer can, my burrito wrapper, my used condom, discarded on a busy road outside a pre-school.

 

I didn't even feel the need to lecture the guy on correct emphasis after he pronounced it Chinese FOOD as in food from China instead of ChiNEESE food the cuisine. I'd had my epiphany and it'd overcome my contempt for the type of people that have epiphanies. I went home and googled the word 'backpacking' and, after watching a series of disturbing videos in which people slid household objects into open back wounds I found more relevant content and read for four hours straight, smashing my personal best for tit-free browsing by three hours and fifty-five minutes.

 

I texted my boss and asked her what my notice period would be. She responded with a phone call, on a Sunday, making no effort to hide her excitement as she told me my text could serve as my official resignation and I needn't worry about notice. I internalised my distress at being so easily discarded and spent a small portion of last decade's social fund on a flight to Cancun, Mexico with the intention of travelling south, choosing Central America over South East Asia 'cause of the lack of cheese in oriental cuisine. Had I've known a last minute flight would subject me to spring break and all its painful enthusiasm I would've waited a few weeks or gone by fricking freighter. But sat there, staring at the booking confirmation page on my monitor I really believed I'd been given a chance to forgive the human race, to start enjoying life again. No more picturing every scenario going sour and preparing my argument in advance. No more plodding through life with a head full of hate.

 

“He's six now my grandson and oh so smart. I'm sure he'll grow up to be a doctor or something.”

 

How anyone can talk this long without response or acknowledgement is beyond me. I refuse to believe her son's allowed her travel alone with early-onset dementia. The only explanation I can think of is he used her as a drug mule. She must have bottled it at the airport and gummed all the coke in the toilets. But then, who the hell smuggles cocaine from England to Mexico? I try thinking of alternative theories but I'm distracted by the realisation that I just reminisced about a time I reminisced about a time a friend told me a I reminisce too much. The irony gives me a moment of clarity and I realise I've been rocking in my chair like a mental man with an itchy ring.

 

“You okay there pal?”

 

I turn to face the guy across the aisle. He's young, Irish, hope-he-gets-cancer-handsome and giving me the kind of smug smile that says 'I want to help you cause I'm one of the good guys'. What an arrogant, do-gooding tosspot. How dare he belittle my problems, thinking he can solve all my ills with some old-country wisdom his nanna taught him or some motivational pep talk he read on a toilet wall.

 

He tops up a plastic cup of coke from a bottle of whisky he's got stashed in his bag then passes it over the aisle to me. It's Jesus handing me the holy grail, an agent handing a pantomime script to a reality TV star, a lifeguard saving a teenaged boy and then dragging him to shore with his head in her cleavage. I hold the drink in both hands like a stock photo titled 'flu man with soup' and take a 'first pint on a Friday' sized gulp.

 

“Cheers mate” I say, my typical English reserve trumping my almost overwhelming gratitude. The stuffiness drains from my nose and my stress levels drop from critical to severe, the explosive anger extinguished by the warm belly tingle that comes from the day's first drink. Of course! Alcohol! The cause and solution to all life's problems, balancing each other out on the see-saw of self-abuse. I'd planned to resist the on-flight drinks 'cause each mini bottle costs a days budget abroad but really, I should've been reaching for the crutch and cokes long before the plane took off.

 

I turn to thank the third coming of Jesus who must've been reborn in Ireland to help out all the gingers. I want to thank him for whisky and pizza, for smartphone based porn in your pocket. I wanna declare my allegiance to the light when the devil makes a last-ditch play for my soul.

 

“He's ever so clever, so much like his father.” CRUNCH. SCHLOB, SCHLUUB. “You just know he's meant for great things.” *HEAVY NASAL SNORT* “He's got so much potential. And he's almost seven now. Doesn't time fly young man?”

 

I knock back the last of the whiskey, ignoring the eyes of the Irish guy in case he offered me a sip and not the whole cup. As the alcohol fuels the fire inside and swells my figurative testes, I finally turn to acknowledge her presence. “Sorry but no. Time doesn't go fast or slow, it just goes. Your perception of it might change depending on your age but no, it doesn't go fast.”

 

“Well it seems to fly by for me deary” she says with a saccharine smile and gentle leg pat, the pat not quite hard enough to justify me punching her in self-defence. Oh shit what have I done? Why did I respond to her? Now I'm gonna have to feign illness and spend the flight curled around one of the toilets because we're at capacity, there's not a single spare seat and I'm not sitting here for twelve fucking hours.

 

“It flies by compared to what? Your previous life?” Right, here's my chance. If I'm really rude to her then maybe she'll leave me alone. Finish what you've started Sam, don't wimp out. Be a real man and tell this friendly old granny to fuck the fuck off. “If your life's gone too quick then maybe you should've filled it with more memorable moments.”

 

Brutal I know, and I feel bad saying it but it'll be worth it in the long run. I wait for a look as cold as the shoulder I've earned and fully deserve but instead she gives a shake of her head like I'm too young to understand and then launches into another round of 'My Wonderful Son.' I smell the faint aroma of burnt toast and pray it's a brain tumour about to burst from the altitude.

 

“Hey pal, do you wanna swap seats with me?”

 

I turn round to face Irish Jesus and let out a whimpery yes. He grabs his bag, steps up the aisle and I dive into his seat without thinking. Then I consider his motives. There's three guys to my right wearing matching T's. I can't make out the design but I'm guessing they're part of a stag party – a group of testosterone-charged males heading to Spring Break Central to bang bikini-clad babes with self-esteem is as low as their standards, oblivious to the fact that so are all the other guys, all the world's penises combining to create one gigantic sausagefest. Fortunately for me they're all in hibernation mode - earphoned-up and staring at phones.

 

“Why would you do that?” I ask my new best friend, a title vacant for ten years or more. He shrugs like it ain't no thang.

 

“Karma.”

 

Karma. Ha. Well that's a big pile of bullshit right there. A couple of months ago a shop lady gave me £9 change instead of the 9 pence I was due. I pointed out the error, gave her back the cash and the gratitude I got, it was easily worth the £8.91 I'd traded it for. I gathered my assorted selection of poisons and headed towards the exit, off in my own little world, wondering what form my karmic payback would take when I walked into the door and bloodied my nose, the spurts of ruby fluid relegating my favourite work shirt down to the level of 'token gesture Halloween outfit'.

 

“Karma my arse” I say, challenging his belief system because I don't know the Irish word for thank you.

 

“Let's just say one guy helping out another.” He looks like I felt when I gave back that £8.91. Maybe it's true then, maybe it really is better to give than to receive. Especially if your girlfriend's got tetanus or adult braces.

 

“I'm Conor by the way.”

 

“Sam” I say, giving his hand a manly double pump.

 

“If you wanna buy yourself some cokes and top'em up with my whiskey” he taps the bag at his feet, “you're more than welcome. Just try not to get it confiscated yeah?” He takes a couple of ear plugs from his pocket and an eye mask from his bag, plugs and slides them into place then signs off with a double thumbs up. The old lady looks baffled, her mouth opening and closing like a taken aback trout. I turn away and get to work, thinking up believable details to pad out my story of how the cabin crew took the whiskey and I paid to get pissed.

 

*

 

Twelve hours later the fasten seat belt sign pings on. A passing air steward nudges Conor awake and motions for him to get strapped in. He removes the headgear and does a full-body stretch, his splayed arms looking like a soggy swastika. After he's reached the stretch apex he slumps back into his chair like he's just woken up in a five star hotel. The jammy gi