Halibut In Bed
An Alaskan Revenge Tale
I was living in New York City in the Spring of 2010 when I became friends with the Prince of an African country. I met many unique people in New York, but this was my first time befriending royalty. Our mutual friend Robbin introduced us, and the next thing I knew, I was part of the Prince’s entourage, flying all over the world on his dime. Robbin’s husband at the time was best friends with the Prince, and he just so happened to be in the city, so Robbin invited me to join them all for dinner.
We had a reservation at Eleven Madison Park. I’d been dying to go there. It was one of the hottest restaurants in town. You’d have a better chance at winning the Mega-Millions than you would scoring a table at EMP. But when I got there, the place was empty. There wasn’t a single person eating. There wasn’t even a snobby host to glare at me and turn me away, bringing shame upon my entire family.
Robbin waved at me from the top of the staircase, motioning for me to come up. “Oh good, you’re early,” Robbin said as we hugged, “His Royal Highness will be here soon.”
“Do I have to call him that?” I asked, hoping those words never had to escape my mouth.
“Yes, you do. And you also have to bow and kiss his hand when you see him.” This was getting worse by the sentence.
“He rented out the entire restaurant for the night so we could all have dinner peacefully,” Robbin said. That would explain all the empty tables. I didn’t even know that was an option. I bet the Prince could rent out the restaurant every night for several lifetimes and still never run out of money.
The Prince arrived twenty minutes later with a swarm of people that included friends, bodyguards, doctors, butlers, a nurse, a travel coordinator, a taste tester, and the nanny who cared for him since the day he was born. My entourage looked pathetic compared to his; mine included three unemployed gays, two improvisers, one makeup artist, and a woman I didn’t really like who was twenty years older than me but would run all my errands.
Robbin introduced me to the Prince, and my soul temporarily left my body when I bowed and kissed his hand. This wasn’t a romantic setup. Robbin knew I was pretty much only attracted to women, and I also didn’t want to move to Africa. Plus, the Prince was only allowed to date Muslim women who descended from royal bloodlines. We weren’t a match. I’m sure it would’ve caused a political uproar if he brought home a semi-closeted lesbian Jewish girl from Alaska who worked in comedy. We had a great conversation that night, though, and I made the Prince laugh several times, which I’m not sure he was allowed to do.
The Prince asked what I was doing for Easter that weekend. I told him I had nothing planned because Easter was my least favorite holiday. I don’t want to look for eggs; I want to look for buried treasure or the missing Malaysian airplane. That’s when His Royal Highness invited me to Palm Beach, flying out the next morning along with Robbin and the rest of the gang. I accepted his generous offer. And the next thing I knew, Robbin and I were flying all over the world.
We went to Maui for the Prince’s birthday that summer and stayed at the Four Seasons Hotel. Robbin and I were sipping Lava Flows in the infinity pool when I got a frantic phone call from my youngest sister, Rhinda. She had just found out her high-school boyfriend, Pete, had cheated on her with a girl he met on vacation at his family’s lake house.
I knew what I had to do. I had to get on the next flight with a first-class seat available. The Prince’s travel coordinator booked me, and I thanked the Prince for the trip and apologized for leaving so suddenly, but it was an emergency. I had to go to Alaska to kill a man, or at the very least, punish him.
Pete was about to learn a lesson about fucking with someone who has an older sister. It’s different than fucking with someone who has an older brother because women don’t solve things by getting aggressive or violent. No, we are sneaky and calculated; we pay attention to the details and have eyes everywhere. Women should be running the FBI. We would’ve known within an hour exactly who shot Tupac, what they were wearing, where they bought the gun, their astrological sign, and the names of the last four women they dated.
I landed in Fairbanks around midnight; you’d never know it, though, because the goddamn sun never sets. My little sisters picked me up from the airport. Rhinda’s eyes were puffy and red from crying. I hugged her and whispered in her ear, “It’s gonna be okay. We’re going to get revenge.” It was hard to see my sister so upset. I knew the pain of cheating; I did it all the time. But in my defense, I only cheated on men. I would never cheat on a woman; I respect them too much.
If I could take Rhinda’s pain away, I would. I’d strap it to my body and launch myself into space, and then I’d explode, and it would all be over, and she’d be so happy again.
The next morning, I woke up early, poured coffee, and started plotting revenge. The idea came to me very easily, as if god whispered in my ear, “You should hide fish in his bed.” One thing I know from growing up in Alaska is that the smell of dead fish is absolutely putrid, and it lingers. I can’t even look at salmon without having an instant gag reflex. Pete and his family were still out at the lake house, and we weren’t sure when they’d be back, so we had to act fast.
I went into my parent’s basement and opened their freezer. It’s one of those big rectangular ones that people use to store human remains. God, I wish my parents were that cool. Their freezer was filled with halibut, salmon, moose, reindeer, bear, and who knows what else. I’m not a vegetarian, but I’ll still unfollow someone if they post photos holding up a dead animal they shot from two hundred yards away like a coward. If I were in charge, I’d say, “Sure, you can kill a grizzly bear. If you can do it with your bare hands.” Hunting is mean and cruel. Alaska would be so different if I were the Governor. I’d run, too, if I could do it all virtually from my place in LA.
I loaded a backpack with frozen halibut and met Rhinda in the living room. I honestly could’ve done this whole mission alone, but I wanted to be a good role model to my sister, so I asked her to come with me. Pete’s house was only five minutes away. Before I could ask my sister where they hid the spare key, I’d already found it. It was under the doormat. When will people learn?
We unlocked the front door, and I could already smell which bedroom was his. Teenage boys have a very distinct musky odor. My brother’s room wreaked havoc on my nose for years, and his room still stinks to this day, even though he moved out more than fifteen years ago. Like, what the fuck was he doing in there.
My sister didn’t know what was in the backpack until I pulled it out. Luckily, she was hurt enough to let me go through with my plan; I was worried she’d get cold feet after we broke in. But no, she was happy to assist me. Rhinda held up Pete’s mattress so I could spread the vacuum-sealed fish out evenly on the box spring. She placed the mattress back down. We looked at each other, nodded, and then burst out laughing. This was literally psychotic what we were doing.
We locked the house and put the key back under the doormat. Then we strolled arm in arm back to our parents’ house. I asked if she felt better now that a bunch of halibut was thawing out under Pete’s mattress, and she said she did. Mission accomplished. And I’d be on a plane back to New York City by the time the halibut started to work its magic. It was the perfect crime because no one ever suspects the older sister.