Channel Blue (27 page)

Noah stared at Perry for several moments. ‘I didn’t think this was possible,’ he said, ‘but that’s much weirder than what I just told you.’

Perry opened his front door. ‘I hate to break this to you, but Earth can’t be saved. Not by you or me or anyone else. It’s out of our hands.’

Noah’s jaw jutted out. ‘I don’t believe you. We have to keep trying. If I’ve learned anything from my work at the food bank—’ Perry slipped into his apartment, slammed the door and locked it. Noah pounded on the door. ‘I won’t let you give up, Perry!’ he yelled through the broken window. ‘I’m staying out here until you talk to me!’

Great,
Perry thought.
If I’m going to spend my last few days alive being annoyed, I might as well be with my parents.
He threw a few things into a backpack and walked back out the door, opening it in mid-pound. Noah fixed him in a determined gaze. ‘You have to hear me out,’ he said.

‘I’m driving to the airport,’ Perry replied.

‘Then I’m coming with you.’

Perry shrugged and Noah followed him down to the street.

While Perry drove the Festiva down the 405, Noah sat in the passenger seat and spoke to him about various issues affecting the planet – from plastic bottles to disappearing honeybees to childhood obesity – and how each could be solved. Perry didn’t bother telling Noah again about the upcoming series finale that would render all his solutions moot, mainly because it was easier to drive and let Noah’s words wash over him like talk radio. He felt freer than he could ever remember feeling. The sense that his life had been a disappointment and that he had failed to live up to his potential, a nearly suffocating gloom that had enveloped him for years, was completely gone. He wasn’t alone anymore. As it turned out, everyone on Earth would fail to live up to their potential.

The freeway was unusually open and Perry celebrated his new freedom by seeing how fast the Festiva could drop down the south side of the Sepulveda Pass. When the speedometer needle quivered above 100, Noah was startled out of his rant. ‘Should we really be going this fast?’

‘No,’ Perry said, squeezing it up to a 105. ‘Definitely not in this car. It’s not a good idea at all.’ They rapidly approached the airport exit. When Perry turned sharply from the off-ramp onto Century Boulevard, a lit-up police motorcycle pulled up behind them and sounded its siren. Normally this sight would have sent Perry’s gut into panicky spasms, but he was still celebrating. ‘Should we run for it?’ he asked Noah.

The young man gaped in horror. ‘God, no!’

Perry wondered briefly whether Noah had ever had a sense of humour. Are people actually born without it? Is it stripped away from them? Or does it just stop working from disuse, like a muscle? Perry pulled over and the police officer, a large black man, strode up to his window.

‘Licence,’ he said.

Perry pulled his wallet out and gave the officer his driver’s licence. ‘I may have been going a little fast back there,’ he said.

The officer didn’t respond. He glanced at Perry’s licence and handed it back to him. ‘Did you write the movie
Kickin’ It Doggy Style
?’

Perry, now quite confused, nodded slowly. ‘I rewrote the script. They never made the movie.’

‘There’s an APB out on you,’ the officer said. ‘I need to escort you directly to City Hall.’

Perry frowned. ‘Excuse me?’

‘The mayor needs your help.’

‘
My
help?’ Perry smiled. ‘I’m a screenwriting teacher.’

‘I understand that,’ the officer said. ‘A drug gang in South-Central has been using dogs to kill people. The mayor needs your expertise.’

Perry stared at the very serious policeman at his window. ‘Nice try,’ he said. He reached out for the left cuff of the officer’s uniform and slid it up his bulky forearm.

The inside of his wrist was unmarked.

The officer glared at Perry. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ he said.

‘Yeah, Perry,’ Noah said from the passenger seat with great concern. ‘What the hell are you doing?’

‘You’re not a producer,’ Perry told the policeman. ‘But you’re being manipulated by one. Maybe your chief, maybe the mayor. Who knows?’

‘What?’ The cop practically spat the word into Perry’s face.

‘Am I under arrest?’ Perry said.

‘No. As I told you, I have orders to escort you.’

‘Then tell the mayor I decline your... escortion.’ The word sounded dirty, which made Perry giggle. ‘I have a plane to catch.’

He started up the Festiva and roared back onto Century Boulevard. In the rear-view mirror, the cop, stunned, watched him go. Noah glanced over his shoulder, worried.

‘Shouldn’t you go with him?’ Noah said. ‘Why don’t you want to help?’

Perry lit a cigarette and took a deep drag. ‘You know the alien producers I told you about earlier?’ Noah nodded warily.

‘They’re trying to trick me into being a hero. But I won’t let them do it because it’s what they want, and ever since they created the Earth and populated it with the dregs of their society, they’ve been able to do whatever they wanted with us. Not this time.’ Noah stared at him, his eyes wide enough that Perry could see white all the way around the irises. ‘Sorry you asked?’

‘I’ll get out here,’ Noah said.

Perry pulled over. Noah opened the door and stepped out onto the pavement. Perry leaned out his window and yelled, ‘Do yourself a favour – get laid!’ before speeding off.

He pulled the Festiva up to the departures area of the Los Angeles International Airport and stepped out. As he sauntered towards the automatic glass doors, an airport security guard sprinted up to him. ‘Do not leave your car there!’ he shouted. ‘It will be towed and impounded!’

‘Promise?’ Perry said and entered the airport. He strode by the snaking line for Economy and bought a first-class ticket with a credit card he’d found in a stack of junk mail that morning. He nearly pranced through the security checkpoint, leaving behind his blocky running shoes on the conveyor belt. He’d never liked them. Padding down the linoleum in his stockinged feet towards the departure gate, he bought a new iPod, a surfing magazine and a bizarrely large box of chocolate.

He boarded the plane and planted himself in his first-class seat. Luxuriating in its comfort, he was forced to contemplate a life misspent in the economy cabin. How had it happened? This was so much better. Even when he could easily have afforded first class, he would often choose coach, just to save a few hundred dollars. And where had it got him?

‘Another, please.’ He motioned to a smiling saintly woman in a perfect red uniform with a swirl of the ice in his glass. She quickly took his glass and refilled it for the third time with twelve-year-old whisky, despite the fact that passengers were still filing on – their eyes dead in preparation for the hours of confinement in a steel tube, breathing the farts of their neighbours. The coiffed middle-aged woman in the seat next to him had not risked eye contact with Perry since he’d boarded and created something of a stir trying to jam the immense box of chocolate under his seat. But now, as he sipped another whisky, she glanced over and asked him something.

‘What?’ Perry said loudly.

‘Your music!’ she said. ‘It’s coming through your headphones!’

‘Right.’ Perry made no move to turn down his new iPod.
Poor woman
, Perry thought. He wouldn’t want to sit next to him, either.

The chipper, cartoon-like voices of ABBA soared into ‘Waterloo’. He’d ordered the album through the internet by clicking the first artist on an alphabetical list. He’d always disliked ABBA. Now he wondered why he’d bothered. He realised now that there was absolutely nothing to dislike about them. It was like loathing the sky or detesting water. Why waste the energy? For the sake of his ‘artistic integrity’? Ha! As if that had ever got him anywhere. So much of life would’ve been easier if he’d just
given in
.

The plane took off and Perry, now quite drunk, revelled in the miracle of flight, though now he had to wonder if it was a miracle or just some artful special effect concocted by Channel Blue. Either seemed equally probable at this point. Were there really ever any Wright Brothers? Or were they just day players in a period drama?

The plane bounced in turbulence over the Sierra Nevada but Perry was now deep into ‘Dancing Queen’ and his surfing magazine. He’d never learned to surf and now obviously never would, but he’d always loved to watch the exultation and triumph of the wave riders; for a moment they were masters of their fate, conquerors of nature’s infinite force and the chaos of the universe. It must be nice to feel that way, Perry thought, even if for a moment, even if it’s only an illusion.

More turbulence. The plane was now chattering through the stratosphere, diving and climbing precipitously. While the passengers around him clung grimly to their armrests, staring straight ahead with sublimated terror on their faces, Perry read about the Lizzy Surf Slam and sang tonelessly to ‘Fernando’.

The flight attendant interrupted him. She was no longer smiling.

‘Excuse me, Mr Bunt?’ Perry removed his headphones. ‘The pilot has requested your help in the cockpit.’

Perry stared at her for a moment before breaking into a smile. ‘Oh my God,’ he said. ‘You almost had me.’ This set-up had the greasy fingerprints of Marty Firth all over it. Perry shook his head in admiration. He had to hand it to the producers of Channel Blue: They didn’t give up easily.

The flight attendant, jostled by another severe swoon, clutched the back of Perry’s seat. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘The pilot and co-pilot have food poisoning.’

The flight attendant made an almost perfect ‘O’ of surprise with her mouth. ‘How did you know?’

‘You need someone to land the plane.’

‘Yes.’

‘And even though I’m not a pilot, I will follow you to the cockpit and sit in the pilot’s chair. As soon as I put my hands on the controls, the plane will level off and I’ll be credited with saving everyone’s lives.’

The plane bucked fiercely and the flight attendant, flung down the aisle, caught herself on the back of the next seat. ‘All I know is that I’ve been asked to bring you to the cockpit! Will you come or not?’

‘I’m sorry,’ Perry said, ‘but I’d like to finish my article.’ He slid his headphones back over his ears.

The flight attendant glared at Perry and walked backwards up the aisle. The middle-aged woman next to him, who’d watched this exchange with increasing aggravation, could no longer contain herself. ‘What the hell is wrong with you?’ she shouted at Perry. ‘Get up there and help them!’

Perry turned and regarded her calmly. ‘The plane’s not going to crash,’ he said. ‘If they’d wanted it to, it would’ve already happened.’ He returned to his surfing magazine just as the plane shook once more and plummeted towards Earth. The cabin filled with the screams of terrified passengers, along with one off-key voice exultantly singing:

When you’re near me, darling

Can’t you hear me?

SOS

The love you gave me

Nothing else can save me

SOS
...

CHANNEL 25

BACK TO EARTH

Perry disembarked the plane under the judgemental eyes of the crew and his fellow passengers. By all accounts, the pilot had miraculously recovered from his bad prawn dinner just in time to land the plane in the severe storm, saving lives that Perry had cast to the wind with his refusal to help. Perry meanwhile had managed to fall asleep in the midst of the drama, his open, drooling mouth a gaping taunt to the other passengers.

Well-rested and content, Perry padded in his socks to the airport’s taxi queue and took a cab to the small town he’d called home for the first eighteen years of his life. Since leaving he could count on one hand the times he’d returned; escaping its boundaries had been like taking off a straitjacket he’d been forced to wear all his life – this was the place he’d had to flee to lose his virginity – and coming back usually felt like being forced to put it back on.

But today was different. Today Perry actually took pleasure in seeing the landmarks on his way into town, their contours enhanced by the Technicolor glow of autumnal colours. There was the cornfield where he’d received his first French kiss, the park where he’d drunk his first beer, the vacant lot next to the park where he’d been sick on beer for the first time, the high school where he’d tried desperately to fit in before he’d realised that he didn’t. He wasn’t smart enough to be a geek, he was too paranoid to be a stoner (a single inhalation of marijuana gave him the power to read everyone’s mind and interestingly enough, everyone was thinking the same thing: ‘Perry Bunt is a loser’), while his inability to complete a single pull-up made joining the jocks out of the question.

Instead, Perry had started a literary magazine.
From the Brow of Zeus
served mainly as a vanity press for his own stories, which ranged from the embarrassingly autobiographical to the dementedly self-aggrandising. Perry’s hope that becoming a published author would make him instantly popular and girlfriend-worthy lasted only until the school’s budding recycling programme received a substantial boost from the first issue. When it became apparent that no one was interested in reading
From the Brow of Zeus
except his parents – who seemed deeply troubled by it and discreetly sent a copy to his psychiatrist uncle (Perry came upon an article on his mother’s dresser titled ‘Is Your Child a Serial Killer?’) – he heaved a soaring ‘Hail Mary’ pass for popularity towards the end zone. Perry volunteered to become the school mascot.

Upon donning the costume of a big-headed Titan for a football game, Perry immediately realised why the job had been up for grabs. While encased in the twenty-pound head and trying to see and breathe through saucer-sized nostril holes, he was expected to prance up and down the sidelines, waving a large plastic sword. The combination of heat and oxygen deprivation caused him to throw up just seven minutes into the first quarter. He staggered to the locker room, a journey made all the more difficult by the unavoidable pool of his own vomit swishing around inside the Titan’s jaw.