Naked in Dangerous Places - Cash Peters [17]
It's not a lost cause yet, but quite clearly, in the name of self-preservation, I have to do something to heal this rift.
As I continue to loiter among the trees in the hot sun, brushing flies from my face, trying to come up with an ingenious idea for yokoing my way into their beatles, I spot Tasha walking by a gap in the foliage up ahead.
“Hey, what's going on back there?” I call out to her, being extra friendly.
“You'll see. Not long now.” And she disappears again.
“Oh,” I whimper. “Okay.”
My clothes are starting to itch. The crew's lucky, they can wear what they like during the shoots; I can't. And unfortunately, to the daffy lady hired to buy my wardrobe in L.A., the words “steamy jungle setting” must have conjured up images of A Passage to India and of me flitting about the set in light cocktail attire, the sort of thing one might wear to a polo match, for instance. Or in court when I'm suing her. Because I'm standing here in ninety-four-degree heat in a thick shirt, heavy beige pants, and white sneakers, roasting.
Eric reappears to give me instructions, which he does with the mild disdain of a Best Buy assistant who's been asked one too many questions about photocopy paper and is about to snap. “Alright, here's what's going on. It's the opening of the show. You've wandered out of the airport and you stumble into this place.”
“How?” I ask.
“What d'you mean, how?”
“I've just landed. The airport's fifteen miles away. How could I have stumbled fifteen miles in two minutes? It's not—”
“Pah! We'll shoot a walking montage later. Nobody will ever know.”
“They won't?”
“Nope.”
“Oh.”
“When Mark shouts ‘Action,’ you walk out of here”—indicates bush—“and along here”—indicates pathway—“and into there”—indicates large clearing beyond. “Then you'll find … er … well, you'll see … just talk to … whoever … Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Oh, and wipe your forehead. You're sweating.”
No shit.
Thirty seconds later, Mark's piercing whistle ricochets among the trees.
“Action, Cash!”
Not knowing what to expect, I follow the path around the bushes and step into a dreamy, dappled glade overhung by magnificent banyan trees, their branches a matrix of spindly fingers locked together into a protective atrium above my head, in the shade of which stands a huddle of topless women wearing ankle-length grass skirts. Alo! At Director Mark's request, they have their arms folded over their boobs. It's either that or we pixelate them later, to spare the blushes of puritanical Christian watchdog groups in the American Midwest who have set themselves up as the sentinels of good taste, not only for themselves, but for the rest of us as well, and for whom tits, I'm told, are taboo.
“Anyone here speak English?” I ask breezily.
“'Es.”
A young man, conveniently placed on the edge of the glade, steps into my eyeline. Athletic, he has a beautiful round face carved into a goofy gap-toothed grin. His name is Tom, he reveals, soft-spoken to the point of being inaudible.
“Hi, Tom. My name's Cash. You speak English?”
“'Es, I speak English,” he says.
Of course you do, I thought to myself. It's television!
Did I mention that, unlike the women, Tom's completely naked?
Actually, that's not quite true. He's wearing just the one item: a provocative, permanently erect sheath made from coconut leaves tied in place with a string around his waist like a thong and decorated down below with a dangling sporran of hay. This is a nambas. I don't want to go into details, but let's just say that it does for the penis what buns do for hotdogs. It's also considered a powerful male fertility symbol. Nambas come in all different dimensions. Tom's, I'd say, is about the size of a small car-jack handle.
“You come and meet the chiff,” Tom says.
“Chiff?”
“The village chiff. You meet him.”
“Oh, the chief! How great, yes, I'd love to. Thanks.”
Like a kitten mesmerized by a metronome, I walk into the village, trying not to look down at his horny