crew weren’t happy. Guns pointed at them made their unhappiness irrelevant. One or two of them had tried to explain that you couldn’t use auto body paint on an airplane and expect it to look like anything, but the small man with the big mustache and the rage in his eyes had caressed the pistol on his hip, and now they were working fast, painting out the Lion Airways insignia on the 737.
They worked from ladders and scissor lifts, using mops, long-handled brushes, even brooms. The drums of white paint stood open all over the hangar, emitting clouds of strong fumes, enough to make men sick. The mustached man said to vomit if they had to but keep working.
He walked over to look at the three captured Americans; the dark-skinned, short man was dead or unconscious, not surprising after the beating they’d given him. He flipped the motionless man over with his boot toe; the open eyes were dried and dull.
The tall white man and the skinny woman lay huddled against each other. In one of your stupid movies, he thought, you would fall in love, overpower all of us, and escape to save the world, but here in reality, you cling to each other like a refugee child clings to a stuffed animal. It is pleasant to see that expression in an American’s eyes instead of a refugee child’s.
He could see no gain in separating the man and the woman, so he returned to shouting at the impromptu paint crew. Already, the Lion Airways insignia was more than half covered; they were at least a half hour ahead of schedule.
ABOUT AN HOUR LATER. GILLETTE, WYOMING. JUST BEFORE 9:00 A.M. MST. OCTOBER 28.
Zach coasted up to the next recycling cart on his mud-spattered single-speed pink girl’s bicycle. He still rode awkwardly with his large bags of plastic bottles; he hoped people would think it was because he was drunk. He threw the lid back and glanced around. The first ten seconds was the highest risk—it wouldn’t look like a real bum stealing plastic. One more look around; surely it looked realistic for a bum stealing recyclable plastic to be paranoid?
Zach didn’t know much about being homeless, and even less about being a drunk. The cheap whiskey he’d poured all over his clothes was all the liquor he’d ever bought in his life.
His heart was pounding. Oh, well . . . Step One, here we go. Zach dumped his front left bag into the recycling cart—whoever heard of a bum putting plastic bottles into the trash? He mixed them thoroughly with the bottles that were already there, stirring with the yardstick he carried. Wonder if this looks like I’m looking for something?
Step Two was less conspicuous. He scrounged in the recycling cart, looking like any other bum as he filled up his bag, not worrying about happening to take back a few of the bottles he had just deposited there.
He hoped Step Three would look weird enough. He pulled out a Dad’s Root Beer two-liter bottle with a wadded paper napkin inside and uncapped it, retching at the smell. No question, Bugs and DarwinsActor had known their stuff; the inside of the bottle smelled like a fart from a sick cat, and the clear surface was already spotted with cloudy slime. From his coat pocket, he drew a whiskey bottle filled with a mix of beef broth, molasses, and fine-chopped plastic bottles, swirled it, and splashed about a teaspoon into the plastic bottle, taking care to soak the infected napkin.
He carefully left the Dad’s bottle on the top of the heap in the recycling cart; holes would form within an hour, and the solution would drizzle down through the cart.
If anyone in authority asked about the care he took of that special Dad’s bottle, he would explain that it was demonic and he had to sacrifice his whiskey to it and send it away before it destroyed all his plastic.
That made him laugh to himself in a convincingly weird way. So close to the truth, no one would believe it.
“Hey, shithead !”
Zach turned around slowly. Scrawny, red-skinned old white man. Bad leg, visible
They worked from ladders and scissor lifts, using mops, long-handled brushes, even brooms. The drums of white paint stood open all over the hangar, emitting clouds of strong fumes, enough to make men sick. The mustached man said to vomit if they had to but keep working.
He walked over to look at the three captured Americans; the dark-skinned, short man was dead or unconscious, not surprising after the beating they’d given him. He flipped the motionless man over with his boot toe; the open eyes were dried and dull.
The tall white man and the skinny woman lay huddled against each other. In one of your stupid movies, he thought, you would fall in love, overpower all of us, and escape to save the world, but here in reality, you cling to each other like a refugee child clings to a stuffed animal. It is pleasant to see that expression in an American’s eyes instead of a refugee child’s.
He could see no gain in separating the man and the woman, so he returned to shouting at the impromptu paint crew. Already, the Lion Airways insignia was more than half covered; they were at least a half hour ahead of schedule.
ABOUT AN HOUR LATER. GILLETTE, WYOMING. JUST BEFORE 9:00 A.M. MST. OCTOBER 28.
Zach coasted up to the next recycling cart on his mud-spattered single-speed pink girl’s bicycle. He still rode awkwardly with his large bags of plastic bottles; he hoped people would think it was because he was drunk. He threw the lid back and glanced around. The first ten seconds was the highest risk—it wouldn’t look like a real bum stealing plastic. One more look around; surely it looked realistic for a bum stealing recyclable plastic to be paranoid?
Zach didn’t know much about being homeless, and even less about being a drunk. The cheap whiskey he’d poured all over his clothes was all the liquor he’d ever bought in his life.
His heart was pounding. Oh, well . . . Step One, here we go. Zach dumped his front left bag into the recycling cart—whoever heard of a bum putting plastic bottles into the trash? He mixed them thoroughly with the bottles that were already there, stirring with the yardstick he carried. Wonder if this looks like I’m looking for something?
Step Two was less conspicuous. He scrounged in the recycling cart, looking like any other bum as he filled up his bag, not worrying about happening to take back a few of the bottles he had just deposited there.
He hoped Step Three would look weird enough. He pulled out a Dad’s Root Beer two-liter bottle with a wadded paper napkin inside and uncapped it, retching at the smell. No question, Bugs and DarwinsActor had known their stuff; the inside of the bottle smelled like a fart from a sick cat, and the clear surface was already spotted with cloudy slime. From his coat pocket, he drew a whiskey bottle filled with a mix of beef broth, molasses, and fine-chopped plastic bottles, swirled it, and splashed about a teaspoon into the plastic bottle, taking care to soak the infected napkin.
He carefully left the Dad’s bottle on the top of the heap in the recycling cart; holes would form within an hour, and the solution would drizzle down through the cart.
If anyone in authority asked about the care he took of that special Dad’s bottle, he would explain that it was demonic and he had to sacrifice his whiskey to it and send it away before it destroyed all his plastic.
That made him laugh to himself in a convincingly weird way. So close to the truth, no one would believe it.
“Hey, shithead !”
Zach turned around slowly. Scrawny, red-skinned old white man. Bad leg, visible
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