Naked in Dangerous Places - Cash Peters [110]
No—wait.
Oh my God, what have I done?
The game's been won. A game I didn't even know we were playing. Nobody told me. I took my eye off the ball for a second, and already it's over. Damn.
Television is about power. Power, politics, manipulation, scoring points. I should be aware of that by now. To Fat Kid, who's a seasoned pro at this, the promise of a new series of non-award-winning shows means more money for his bosses and their production company, work for the staff, continued employment for the crews and for him. That's an important goal worth pulling out all the stops for. In the treacherous, volatile world of TV, every deal is crucial. You can't afford to give an inch.
Beneath the mound of clothes he's wearing over his super suit—the hat, the scarf, the fur hood—Fat Kid's olive cheeks are lanterns.
“Thanks, Cash,” he says.
“Hey—no problem,” I reply. And I smile warmly.
Sonofabitch.5
1 If somebody famous had crash-landed in a lagoon outside my town, I'd keep quiet about it. But not here. To be honest, naming an airport after two guys who died in a plane crash hardly inspires confidence, does it?
2 For further details, see my new book Captain Clueless—Who Gave This Idiot a Ship? Available soon.
3 Yes, he's here! My old nemesis. The mystery addition to our crew, the one Tasha taunted me with in Morocco. Our show runner, Chuck, has come along too. Chuck's a brilliant director and for this one episode is standing in for the recuperating Jay. Then there's Camera Mark and his sound guy, Todd. It's like a school reunion.
4 Which I'm not.
5 Don't worry. All wasn't lost. That evening at the hotel, I went into full damage limitation mode. The way I saw it, our verbal deal was only valid if I turned up and drank his wine—right? Exactly! So instead of celebrating with the rest of them, I stayed in my room the whole night. But then, damn it, around 9 P.M., the worst happened: a production assistant showed up at my door with a glass of merlot, courtesy of Fat Kid. Realizing that if I even sipped it, then, in my subconscious at least, I would have fulfilled my side of the bargain, I rushed to the bathroom, tipped the whole thing down the toilet, and flushed it away. Hah! Touché. Your move, buddy.
18
The Bomb Goes Off
I think today's Sunday. It's so easy to lose track. At any rate, it's the very last day of shooting the first, and with any luck, if the gods are with me and willing to let me off the hook, last season of the show. Last location. Eighteenth and very last episode. And I find myself uncharacteristically idle, left alone in a distant city in Northern Italy, with not much else to do but sit here telling you this.
The crew has gone back to Los Angeles. They left this morning after breakfast, with the usual cries of “Missing you already. See you soon!”
I'm less lucky. For reasons of flight availability, I leave tomorrow, armed with an itinerary that could only have been devised by opening up a map and letting a small blindfolded child scribble on it for ten minutes with a crayon. So much for “It'll never happen again.”
“Bye, Cashmatic!!!”
“Have a safe trip.”
“You're sure you'll be okay?”
“I'll be fine. Don't worry”
“Bye!”
The crew van, having been parked half on the curb blocking traffic, which is how they do things in Italy, swerves into the narrow ravine of a street, nearly hitting a pedestrian, which is also how they do things in Italy, and disappears from view, leaving in its wake … nothing.
Stillness. A vacuum.
We shot the ending of the show in a great hurry after breakfast in a sunny piazza close by our hotel. Took six takes to get it right. It's not a natural act, talking to a camera lens; even after eighteen shows, I'm still not used to, or good at, it. But finally:
“Cut—aaaaaaaaaaand it's a season one wrap!”
Veni video'd vici.
When Director