the open sea. Not clear. I immediately hurry back inside the bathroom as I spot one of the Michael Keatons. I know he didn’t see me, though. He was walking by.
I go into one of the stalls and pretend to do what I’m thinking. What the hell can I do now? I can’t possibly go back to my gate. Too risky. The Keatons will be waiting for me there, smiling like silly relatives. But then, what?
The answer comes to me in the shape of a belt, the tip of a belt that introduces itself from below the wall between my stall and the next. I wait for a few moments and pray to God. Finally the owner of the belt finishes and leaves his stall. As I open the cheap door, our eyes meet in the mirror over the row of sinks. God seems to have heard me: just like Igor, Belt Man is shaved to the bone. Two bald and chubby fellow travelers, they look remarkably similar, though Belt Man wears almost invisible glasses and is a bit older than Igor. But he won’t get much older now. Igor puts him out with a near-silent punch in the back of his head, right in the G-spot. His glasses fall into the sink as his head hits the mirror. There is no blood. The fellow is quite heavyset, even more so than me, but still I manage to deliver him into the same stall where he dropped his final shit on this earth, and close the door behind me.
I take his pulse. No heartbeat.
The adrenaline pumping more slowly, I’m rather horrified to realize that #67 is a holy man. He’s wearing a white clerical collar around his neck, plus black shirt, black jacket, black coat. White skin. I search for his ticket, passport, and wallet and pooha! Toxic Igor has a new name: Rev. David Friendly. Born in Vienna, Virginia, on November 8, 1965. I can go for that. I’ve never been an American before. Where is he going? “Reykjavik,” reads the ticket.
Sounds like Europe. With some difficulty I manage to remove the coat and jacket from the holy man’s chubby torso and then start unbuttoning his shirt, sweat pouring off my head again and breathing like a boar. I make a quick break when I hear someone enter the bathroom and try to hide my heavy breathing under the sound of his pee. It’s followed by a quick gush of water and the drying of hands.
As soon as the coast is clear, I emerge from the JFK toilets a born-again Christian, with a halo around my neck and a new mission in life: Gate 2.
CHAPTER 3
ICELANDAIR
05.15.2006
It’s fucking amazing. I’m moving across the North Atlantic sky at the speed of sound and yet his soul has caught up with me. I feel restless, buried in some extra-small window seat on a plane full of blonde women and bland men. I don’t know what’s happening, but my legs are absolutely killing me. Mr. Friendly must have connections in heaven; an army of angels is pinching me with their pointy fingernails and strangling my throat with the clerical collar.
Holy men are the worst.
Back during the war I once was ordered to guard a church in a small village near the town of Knin. The Serbs had been using it for storing their bombs, but now we were taking control of the region. On a foggy Sunday morning, the fucking village priest suddenly appeared out of the blue and said he wanted to hold a mass. I said no way, nobody was allowed inside the church. He was an old man with a white beard and white hair around his ears. In a way he looked more like a monk than a priest. And his face was full of this peaceful fatigue. Looking into his eyes was like getting a sneak preview of the afterlife: two silent ponds in the Everwoods. It was as if he was already dead. As if he didn’t care anymore. Without saying a word, he just walked past me, towards the church door. I ran after him and told him again in cut-throat-clear Croatian that nobody was allowed inside the church. I had my orders.
“ABSOLUTELY FUCKING NOBODY!” I screamed into his hairy ear.
He just closed his eyes for a slow moment and then made for the door. I tried to push him away with my rifle, but I
I go into one of the stalls and pretend to do what I’m thinking. What the hell can I do now? I can’t possibly go back to my gate. Too risky. The Keatons will be waiting for me there, smiling like silly relatives. But then, what?
The answer comes to me in the shape of a belt, the tip of a belt that introduces itself from below the wall between my stall and the next. I wait for a few moments and pray to God. Finally the owner of the belt finishes and leaves his stall. As I open the cheap door, our eyes meet in the mirror over the row of sinks. God seems to have heard me: just like Igor, Belt Man is shaved to the bone. Two bald and chubby fellow travelers, they look remarkably similar, though Belt Man wears almost invisible glasses and is a bit older than Igor. But he won’t get much older now. Igor puts him out with a near-silent punch in the back of his head, right in the G-spot. His glasses fall into the sink as his head hits the mirror. There is no blood. The fellow is quite heavyset, even more so than me, but still I manage to deliver him into the same stall where he dropped his final shit on this earth, and close the door behind me.
I take his pulse. No heartbeat.
The adrenaline pumping more slowly, I’m rather horrified to realize that #67 is a holy man. He’s wearing a white clerical collar around his neck, plus black shirt, black jacket, black coat. White skin. I search for his ticket, passport, and wallet and pooha! Toxic Igor has a new name: Rev. David Friendly. Born in Vienna, Virginia, on November 8, 1965. I can go for that. I’ve never been an American before. Where is he going? “Reykjavik,” reads the ticket.
Sounds like Europe. With some difficulty I manage to remove the coat and jacket from the holy man’s chubby torso and then start unbuttoning his shirt, sweat pouring off my head again and breathing like a boar. I make a quick break when I hear someone enter the bathroom and try to hide my heavy breathing under the sound of his pee. It’s followed by a quick gush of water and the drying of hands.
As soon as the coast is clear, I emerge from the JFK toilets a born-again Christian, with a halo around my neck and a new mission in life: Gate 2.
CHAPTER 3
ICELANDAIR
05.15.2006
It’s fucking amazing. I’m moving across the North Atlantic sky at the speed of sound and yet his soul has caught up with me. I feel restless, buried in some extra-small window seat on a plane full of blonde women and bland men. I don’t know what’s happening, but my legs are absolutely killing me. Mr. Friendly must have connections in heaven; an army of angels is pinching me with their pointy fingernails and strangling my throat with the clerical collar.
Holy men are the worst.
Back during the war I once was ordered to guard a church in a small village near the town of Knin. The Serbs had been using it for storing their bombs, but now we were taking control of the region. On a foggy Sunday morning, the fucking village priest suddenly appeared out of the blue and said he wanted to hold a mass. I said no way, nobody was allowed inside the church. He was an old man with a white beard and white hair around his ears. In a way he looked more like a monk than a priest. And his face was full of this peaceful fatigue. Looking into his eyes was like getting a sneak preview of the afterlife: two silent ponds in the Everwoods. It was as if he was already dead. As if he didn’t care anymore. Without saying a word, he just walked past me, towards the church door. I ran after him and told him again in cut-throat-clear Croatian that nobody was allowed inside the church. I had my orders.
“ABSOLUTELY FUCKING NOBODY!” I screamed into his hairy ear.
He just closed his eyes for a slow moment and then made for the door. I tried to push him away with my rifle, but I
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