Chelsea Chelsea Bang Bang Part 9

"I'm right here, just a minute." Mike was now visible, and I could see him dragging the dinghy back in our direction. Once over by us, he flipped the boat into its upright position. "Where are the oars?"

"f.u.c.k. I just saw one." I swam and grabbed what looked like an oar from farther away but turned out to be the flashlight. The dead, clearly non-waterproof flashlight.

"Chelsea, can you please stop swearing?" Sloane said as her head sank under water.

"f.u.c.k off, Sloane. We need to find the oars. Greeeeegggggggg!!!!"

Greg's first response came in the form of high-pitched squealing and what sounded like brooding laughter. It all felt eerily reminiscent of the movie Deliverance Deliverance, but in a much nicer part of the country and with yachts.

"Oh, my G.o.d! Is that him? Where are you? Are you okay?"

It was was Greg, and he was laughing in a singsong kind of way. "h.e.l.lo, girls"... and then more creepy laughing. Greg, and he was laughing in a singsong kind of way. "h.e.l.lo, girls"... and then more creepy laughing.

"Where are you?!" Sloane and I screamed in unison. There were echoes across the bay, so it was hard to decipher where his voice was coming from. The flashlight was useless, and our only sense of direction at this point came from Greg's maniacal laughing.

Between Mike and me, we somehow managed to get Sloane back into the boat, face-first. "My nose!" she yelled as she landed. Had I been less high, I would have remembered the time she capsized a kayak with only herself in it. "You are by far the most useless person in this family."

"You know what, Chelsea?" Mike chimed in. "We're all in this together. We need to focus on rescuing Greg. She's doing her best."

I liked that Mike was defending my sister. She clearly wasn't able to defend herself. Mike was a good egg, and I liked a guy who didn't speak often but meant it when he did. And further, like Rihanna, I respect a guy who yells at me.

"You're right, Mike." Then I smacked Sloane on the back of the head when he turned around.

"Girls! Look out, look out wherever you are...," Greg sang.

"We're almost there," Mike yelled back. He was now using one arm to row while I was rowing with an oar.

We got close enough to hear Greg splas.h.i.+ng in the water but were still unable to see him. "I'm right over here, dumba.s.ses, on the dock." Greg was clearly enjoying this, and it dawned on me that I hadn't eaten in hours. I checked to see if my hip bone was protruding. Finally some good news. My thoughts drifted back to Large Luke, and I wondered if he had ever lived as a sea animal and felt his hip bone protrude. It seemed unlikely.

"I think I see him," Sloane announced. "It's him."

I craned my neck to try to see what she saw, then jumped into the water to swim over to him. "I'm in the water, give me your hand."

Greg reached out to grab me out of the water and helped me up onto the dock. "Welcome, kids, how was your trip? Mike, how blown away are you by Sloane's maritime skills? She's a regular naval officer, don't you think?" Greg was his usual sarcastic, obnoxious self, and it was clear to all of us that this whole escapade had been a waste of everyone's time.

I got up from where I was sitting on the edge of the dock, intending to slap Greg across the back of the head. That's when I saw that he was completely naked. That's also when I jumped back into the water. "You are so gross, Greg. He's naked, Sloane. Close your eyes."

"Ew!"

Mike had finally had enough of this voyage and was clearly exhausted from his captaining, and I heard him utter his first curse word: "This is a f.u.c.king joke."

I grabbed Sloane, and we swam the short bit to the beach and stormed off into the dunes back to the house.

"Girls, we're on Chappy!" Greg called, chasing after us. "Where do you think you're going? We have to go back to the other side."

I had become so disoriented and tired that I didn't even know we had actually accomplished getting to the other side of the bay. Sloane slumped down in the sand and started to whimper. I looked down at her and told her to have some dignity. I took any anger I had left out on the culprit himself.

"You're an a.s.shole for swimming in the middle of the night. We thought something had happened to you. We shoplifted a f.u.c.king boat, you d.i.c.kf.u.c.ker."

"Maybe you're the a.s.shole, Chelsea, for swimming across a bay in Stage-Four Paranoia. I'm a big boy."

"No, you're naked is what you are, and you're not coming back in our boat, because you're creeping me out. I don't like you, and I don't like what you're proposing."

"I can't believe you're naked," Sloane said, covering her eyes and ears. "You are so disgusting."

Mike turned the boat around while Greg led us back to the beach.

"These are great mushrooms, Chelsea. This has probably been one of the best nights of my life."

"Well, it's been the worst of mine," Sloane told him. "I'm telling Mom and Dad."

"Telling them what, Sloane?" Mike asked, clearly annoyed. "No one is smart in this story. Everyone in this scenario is wrong. You're an a.s.shole, I'm a real real a.s.shole for being a party to this nonsense, Greg is obviously out of his mind, and Chelsea is about two Sat.u.r.day nights away from being Anna Nicole Smith." a.s.shole for being a party to this nonsense, Greg is obviously out of his mind, and Chelsea is about two Sat.u.r.day nights away from being Anna Nicole Smith."

"I'm not wrong," Sloane declared. "I was trying to help my sister save my brother's life."

"Oh, shut up, Sloane," I told her. "At least we're we're on mushrooms. What's on mushrooms. What's your your excuse?" excuse?"

Everyone was wiped out except for Greg, who was humming the whole way back to our beach. I felt like I had competed in some sort of Ironman compet.i.tion and came in after the last person. I hadn't experienced this kind of exhaustion since I'd auditioned for a Nike commercial where they asked me on the spot to ch.o.r.eograph my own workout routine, then promptly suggested that I take ballroom dancing cla.s.ses at the Learning Annex.

By the time we reached land, my pupils felt like they were going to pop out of my eyes and walk back home alone. We returned the dinghy to its original place, minus one oar, and we all trudged deliriously up to the house.

When we finally walked into the kitchen, the clock said 2:12 A.M. A.M. Ray was asleep on the couch we last saw him on, with the television still blaring and a fan about six inches from his face. He looked up when we shut the door, looked at his watch, and looked at us all standing there like rape victims. Then he rolled over and went back to sleep. Ray was asleep on the couch we last saw him on, with the television still blaring and a fan about six inches from his face. He looked up when we shut the door, looked at his watch, and looked at us all standing there like rape victims. Then he rolled over and went back to sleep.

I woke up the next day around eleven and went downstairs. My father and Ray were both at the kitchen table discussing how embarra.s.sing the Mets were and if in fact the two of them should change teams.

"Where is everyone?" I asked.

"Oh, everyone left to go swim across to Chappy to see if Greg drowned again," Ray said, shaking his head. "You're worse than the Mets."

My father looked up from the paper. "Who's worse than the Mets?" worse than the Mets?"

Greg walked in from outside and planted himself at the kitchen counter, where he began to prepare himself a turkey sandwich. Then he took out a tub of coleslaw from the fridge and set it down between his half-made sandwich and the blender. "Chelsea," he asked as his darted back and forth between the coleslaw and the blender, "can I interest you in a coleslaw smoothie?"

My father took off his gla.s.ses. "A coleslaw smoothie? I'll try one of those."

Greg flashed me a big smile while I frowned at him in disgust. "Is there something on your mind, Chelsea?" he asked.

"Yes," I told him, stuffing a half-eaten blueberry pancake into my mouth. "I'm thinking of a two-word phrase. It starts with an 'F' and ends with an 'F.' "

Ray looked up from the table. "Would you like to buy a vowel?"

My brother Greg

Chapter Seven

Black-on-Black Crime

When I travel to New York, I hire a big, black, British driver named Sylvan. I call him Chocolate Chunk. At the end of my trip, he always buys me a little gift and gives it to me when he drops me off at the airport. Last time I left New York, he handed me a small brown paper bag, and once I boarded the plane and was comfortably seated, I opened the paper bag to find a note that read, This is so that you'll have me with you wherever you're driving. XO, Sylvan. This is so that you'll have me with you wherever you're driving. XO, Sylvan. Attached to it was a key chain that held a minature hairy black gorilla. Attached to it was a key chain that held a minature hairy black gorilla.

Sylvan is a single father who worked his whole life to raise two children in the Bronx and then send them off to college. He is close to three hundred pounds, with a belly that looks like he's in his twelfth month of pregnancy and an a.s.s the size of a Smart Car. After much evaluation I had concluded it was time to get Sylvan some penetration. Since I was not willing to volunteer my own coslopus, I decided to bring him on vacation to Turks and Caicos.

Ted was thrown for a little loop-de-loop when I listed the people who would be accompanying us on our journey to the Caribbean: our gay friend Brian, Paul, Steph, my brother Ray, and Sylvan.

"Sylvan isn't coming."

"Yes, Sylvan is coming."

"Are you being serious?"

"That's correct, and if you bring forth any more questions regarding the matter, I'll also bring Chuy."

"But why?"

"Because Sylvan is one big chocolate chunk nugget, and he needs a vacation."

"If Sylvan were a hundred pounds thinner, you wouldn't ever even have given him the time of day."

"What's your point, Ted? Am I only supposed to give the time of day to people who have their weight under control? If someone asks me what time it is, I'm going to give it to them. Are you asking if I'd be more likely to give it to a fat person? The answer is yes."

He shoved a Ruffles Light potato chip into his mouth. "So let me get this straight. Because of his unregulated diet of Cheetos, apple fritters, and Hawaiian Punch, Sylvan is going to be rewarded with a trip to Turks and Caicos?"

"Now you're catching on. Good work, Detective."

"Well, why don't you charter him a private plane while you're at it?"

"Because that that would be ridiculous." would be ridiculous."

"Chelsea, why do you always have to bring random people on vacation with us? This is my vacation, too, remember?"

"Oh, please!" I wailed. I had hit a wall and was weary of being persecuted for trying to do something nice for a fat friend. "You are living the high life! You whole life is a vacation. I toil my blood, sweat, and tears every day on this silly TV show for your silly network, and then I get on a plane every weekend to fly to some G.o.dforsaken city to perform stand-up, and on top of that I have to write another one of these stupid books!" By this point I was clutching my chest like Scarlett in a scene out of Gone with the Wind Gone with the Wind. "And what do you do? You sit around in an office all day, and the biggest decision you have to make is deciding whether or not one of the Kardas.h.i.+ans should go full term on one of their pregnancies!"

"All right, Chelsea, would you just calm down already?" he said with a flutter of his chip, walking out of the room. "Go take a laxative or something."

"I'll go away with Sylvan by myself!" I bellowed.

He reappeared in the living room. "You would would go away with Sylvan alone by yourself. You would do it just to be funny. You would think that's go away with Sylvan alone by yourself. You would do it just to be funny. You would think that's hilarious hilarious."

"You're absolutely right, Ted," I told him, contemplating the idea. "If I were you, I'd watch yourself."

"Can I just ask you one thing? Why can't we ever go on vacation alone for once, Chelsea? You, me, and Eva?"

"Don't worry. Eva's coming too. I forgot to mention her."

Eva is basically my consigliere and travels with me everywhere I go, because she has her s.h.i.+t together and I do not. I prefer to travel like a white rapper, with many people in tow, and Eva makes this possible. Eva thinks of things no one who wasn't a little insane would think of. She carries a plastic rolling travel bag that holds everything from Q-tips to fat-free cooking spray in three-ounce mini-containers. Once, when Eva, Ted, and I were on a plane from Los Angeles to Miami, I spilled a b.l.o.o.d.y Mary, and Eva pulled out some sort of giant paper towel that was absorbent enough to clean up a miscarriage.

"Is that a ShamWow?" Ted exclaimed, spitting his own drink into the seat back ahead of him. "Eva, this is why you're a genius. I just ordered one of those off DR last night."

"Okay, calm down, Ted. What the h.e.l.l is DR?"

"It's Direct Response, genius. You call 1-800 and they send you stuff."

"No, Ted, you you call 1-800 and they send you stuff. You, Suzanne Somers, and Ralph Macchio." I put my hand over his mouth and turned to Eva. "Eva, what is that thing?" call 1-800 and they send you stuff. You, Suzanne Somers, and Ralph Macchio." I put my hand over his mouth and turned to Eva. "Eva, what is that thing?"

"It is is a ShamWow," she roared, winking at Ted as if he had just put the finis.h.i.+ng touches on a Mr. Potato Head. "It's really good for cleaning up messes." Then she got down on her knees and started patting my lap. a ShamWow," she roared, winking at Ted as if he had just put the finis.h.i.+ng touches on a Mr. Potato Head. "It's really good for cleaning up messes." Then she got down on her knees and started patting my lap.

"Thank you," I said, grabbing it from her hands. I looked around to see if any other pa.s.sengers were staring. "You do not have to wipe my lap. Please get up." The problem with Eva is that she insists on doing all the little menial things for me, and when you tell her she doesn't need to, it becomes a discussion, so it's easier to let her just do it in the first place.

Ted loves Eva and thinks her doing things like unpacking my underwear or carrying around five different types of Lean Pockets in her purse is acceptable. He has been a CEO for years and is used to people fawning all over him. He sees nothing wrong with calling his a.s.sistant at nine o'clock on a Sat.u.r.day morning in L.A. to ask her what the weather is like in Rio de Janeiro. Between Eva and Ted, my uselessness had hit an all-time high; there's a strong chance that at this point in my life I wouldn't be able to defrost an ice cube.

"The problem, Ted," I would tell him, "is that I think she might hide a body if I asked her to."

"That's the kind of person you want working for you, Chelsea." the kind of person you want working for you, Chelsea."

I met Eva in Denver at a comedy club and hara.s.sed her until she agreed to move to Los Angeles and work on my show. When she first came, she stayed with Ted and me for a couple of months until she found her own place, at which point Ted attempted to convince her to move in with us permanently.

"No f.u.c.king way," I told him. "I'm already living through this h.e.l.l-there's no way I am going to allow another person to give up her freedom, too."

Eva and Sylvan have always had a special bond, and it grew even more special on our first day on Turks and Caicos, when, during a boat charter, the group jumped into the water and Eva was the first person to realize that Sylvan couldn't swim. Paul, who stayed on board like me, was focused on photographing Stephanie trying to avoid getting her cigarettes wet.

"Aw, f.u.c.k!" I said, looking at Sylvan sinking in the water. I ran and got a life ring and threw it at him. Eva swam over to him and grabbed his bear claw of a hand to try to drag him the three feet to the boat's stepladder, but he was flailing his arms and, in a panic, tossed the life ring away from him. I hadn't seen a look of fear this intense since I tried to squeeze Chuy into my compost bin.

"Sylvan, swim!" Steph yelled from a few feet away, waving one hand while the other held her lit American Spirit.

"Don't panic, Sylvan," Eva said calmly as she struggled to keep one side of her face afloat while the other side was being submerged under Sylvan's head, which can weigh eleven to thirteen pounds, depending on how many times he's gone to the bathroom that week.

With Eva's help, Sylvan was able to clutch the bottom of the ladder, where he sat panting. Ted was putting on his flippers and snorkel mask, unaware of the entire episode because his earphones were in.

We had stopped the boat right there when the captain had spotted a dolphin. Luckily for Chocolate Chunk, instead of acting impulsively, I grabbed the dolphin net I'd brought from California and was able to secure it around Sylvan's head.

Paul handed Sylvan a Pellegrino and took a picture of him drinking it. "Sylvan, can you swim?" Paul screamed two inches from Sylvan's face. My friend Paul is obsessed with pictures and is constantly doc.u.menting anything that takes place, whether people are cooperating or not.

I elbowed Paul in the ribs and whispered for him to shut his trap. The truth was that it was was a good question. But the answer was obviously no. If at some point Sylvan had known how to swim, he certainly wasn't able to connect the dots now. Why he would jump into the middle of the ocean and all of a sudden start swimming a good question. But the answer was obviously no. If at some point Sylvan had known how to swim, he certainly wasn't able to connect the dots now. Why he would jump into the middle of the ocean and all of a sudden start swimming was was a little questionable. It was possilble that Sylvan had spent so much time driving on land that maybe he forgot there was a different format for the ocean. In any case, he was clearly embarra.s.sed, and I just wanted him safely back on deck, or in the shallow end of any pool. a little questionable. It was possilble that Sylvan had spent so much time driving on land that maybe he forgot there was a different format for the ocean. In any case, he was clearly embarra.s.sed, and I just wanted him safely back on deck, or in the shallow end of any pool.

This turn of events was a huge blow to me, as I saw this trip as the perfect opportunity to capture some uncommon sea life for our new aquarium. My original idea was to fill it with Maine lobsters and some Chilean sea ba.s.s; when we had people over for dinner, they could just spear what they wanted from the tank and everything would be fresh like at Red Lobster. Ted vetoed this idea for some Health Department code that I'm sure he made up, and that's when I came up with my airtight plan to house a single dolphin. The very mention of dolphin fostering sparked a huge debate between Ted and me about the difference between a fish and a water mammal. His argument was that there was no point in lodging a fish if it was something that could survive on land.

"No fish can survive on land," I informed him. "They're called fish because they live in the f.u.c.king sea. Unless a lobster hops out of the Long Island Sound and porks a chimpanzee at a zoo in Florida, there is never going to be a fish that survives on land. You got that, Captain Stubing?"