Naked in Dangerous Places - Cash Peters [109]
“Including this bit?” A flapping piece of skin that looks like a price tag is still sticking out from between my teeth.
“Yes. The flavor comes from both—the skin and the blubber together.”
I'm sure she's right. Still, I feel terrible, because I hate to offend my wonderful hosts after they've extended to us such gracious hospitality. Even so, I'm sorry, guys. My body won't take the fat. Blubber wasn't on The List of Things I Mustn't Eat, but that was simply an administrative oversight. And dunking it in seal oil makes things worse on two counts: (a) it's oil (obviously); and (b) it lends the muktuk a rancid, paraffinny flavor that I wouldn't be able to get down my throat if I sat at this table from now until nippivik tatqiq. I mean, no offense.
During dinner, Massak introduces me to a marine biologist friend of his called Jeff. On the spur of the moment, he offers me a ride on his dogsled to see the aurora borealis.
“Oooh, yes please, I'd love to.”
The northern lights are like movies to Alaskans. A cosmic Mardi Gras that regularly ignites the heavens over Barrow, filling them with flaring incandescent bullwhips of red and green. It's one of the few wonders of Nature that isn't waiting to ambush, wound, or kill us, so of course I'd like to go.
Just one caveat: they're only visible on clear nights. And tonight—wouldn't you know it?—there's a blanket of cloud cover. Regrettably, by the time we find this out, I've ridden across half the North Slope on Jeff's dogsled in minus-42-degree cold, from which I emerge a popsicle: wet, coated in ice particles, my nostrils plugged solid with snot, the blood vessels in my blue-tinged face as stiff as stair rods.
“Oh G-god, I'm-f-f-reez-z-z-in-g-g-g,” I shiver as I stumble off the sled in search of some source of heat.
“Here! Wait.” I hear a voice behind me.
Turning, I'm surprised to see Fat Kid rushing over. The guy's as chilled as I am, yet in a display of kindness entirely at odds with his usual tyrannical ways, he whips off his gloves, cups my frozen nose with his hands, then rubs my knuckles and fingers vigorously to work some feeling back into them.
“Oh, th-that's s-s-s-o g-g-good. Th-th-thank y-you.”
“You're very welcome.” He smiles through a drifting ectoplasm of breath.
I'm beginning to think I misjudged the man. Many of my former perceptions are slowly dissolving away. Torn from the pressures of office life, he's much more affable. Last night over dinner, we were even able to sit down together and calmly tackle the hot-button issue of flights and multiple carriers that caused Mike to lose his sound gear before Dubai and pissed the crew off repeatedly throughout the season. Well, not any more. Fat Kid was adamant. “That's over,” he told me with an easy grin. “It will never happen again. I promise. You have my word on it.”
What a refreshing about-turn. I almost like him now.
Still rubbing, he leans in close, whispering seductively out of the corner of his mouth, “Don't forget, we have red wine at the hotel.”
Oooh! It'd completely slipped my mind.
At the risk of being expelled from our rooms, we're going to celebrate the success of the spectacular Alaskan shoot, and the fact that I tackled my fear of wild animals, by going nuts with half a plastic cup of alcohol each.
“Ohhhhh. Th-that s-s-s-ounds w-wonderful.” A hint of sensation is creeping into my fingers. Finally, I'll be able to unbutton my own fly to pee. “In fact,” I throw in by way of a light joke, because we're friends now and you can mess around with friends, “if you l-let me h-have s-s-some w-w-wine, I p-p-promise to do another s-s-s-season of the show with you.”
Hahahahahahahahahahahaha.
Just kidding. Face it, I don't even know if the network wants another season, or, for that matter, if Sir would be physically, mentally, or psychologically up to the workload involved and the grind of traveling. Right now I'm thinking not.
“Deal,” Fat Kid leaps in quickly, letting go of my hands. In that instant, a new mood