Naked in Dangerous Places - Cash Peters [92]
All of us feel awkward, terrible. The poor sap's been duped, same as us. Much as we may want to, we won't be filming shots of his beautiful hotel for the show. There's no point. It'd be a waste of tape.
“Thank you for doing this,” he adds, very sincerely. “We appreciate it.”
“No problem.”
Oh dear.
Once the pair of them have slunk back into the shadows again, going off to do whatever perfectly formed, beautiful, rich, important people do in Marrakech by night, Tasha slopes off to the other side of the room for a smoke and to file her daily report with the producers in L.A. Meanwhile, Kevin heads out onto the patio to take some still photos for his private collection, and Mike goes with him, leaving me alone with Jay.
“So how're you doing? How's the leg?”
Mere pleasantries. It's quite obvious how his leg is.
“I'm doing okay,” he says.
The guy is such a bloody trouper. I couldn't be more impressed. The show is as good as it is mostly because of Jay's dedication and his attention to detail. And I admire his stamina enormously, the way he pushes on through the debilitating agony, sustained only by a steady diet of painkillers and the possibility that he'll be home very soon.
Problem is, painkillers will only get you so far; then you need something a little stronger. Such as a hospital.
“There are treatments I can have and I'm going to have them the moment I get back,” he says. “I just need to rest.”
“Of course you do. You must look after yourself. Luckily you have the whole of Christmas and New Year's to recuperate before we head off to Alaska in January.”
Instead of agreeing with me, which is what I'm expecting, he goes quiet. “We'll see. Depends how I feel.”
“I know.”
“But to be honest…”
Oh no! Don't say it.
“… I'm pretty sure I'm not going to be up to doing the Alaska shoot. And maybe not even the ones after that. I'll see how things go.”
I mean … how can … what do … huh? You're leaving me?
I'm in shock. First Tasha, and now Jay!
“Sorry, Cash.”
“No problem. Really.”
Why don't you just take your butter knife and stab me through the heart with it?
With this hefty burden off his chest, he struggles to his feet, just as Kevin returns, camera in hand, looking anything but happy, apparently with his own announcement to make.
No, let me guess—you're quitting the show too.
“I've given this a lot of consideration,” he says ominously, taking up a position at the end of the table from where he can address us all, “… and it's not something I do lightly, but…” He launches into a speech he must have been preparing in his head for days. It boils down to this: “I'm tired, man. And with the flights situation, and you know what's gone on these past few weeks … well, it's not the best situation, as you know. This job takes you away from home a lot. It's tough when you have kids. I need time to spend with my family. Take a vacation. Get to know them again. Which means …”
Bingo.
My eyes are pinballs, flicking from one face to the next—Jay, Kevin, Tasha—trying to feign calm, when I swear I'm due for an aneurysm any second.
“… I won't be doing the Alaska shoot with you.”
Oh my God. Et tu, Kev?
I don't know if anyone's keeping a tally at this point, but by my rough estimate I currently have no crew left, because where Kevin goes Mike goes too, we all know that, which makes the total—let me just double-check—yes, ZERO! The ship isn't even sinking, but the rats are leaving anyway. Actually, I mustn't call them rats, that's wrong of me, I take that back. I love these guys. I want whatever's best for them. Tasha's getting married, Jay's sick, and Kevin's right—of course he should spend time with his family.
We all should.
But I can guess the subtext. It's a protest vote, right? A tactical screw-you perhaps to the producers for all the inconvenience, the lousy flights, the excruciating layovers they've suffered these past few weeks.
“Sorry. Nothing personal,” he tags on needlessly.
“I know.”
Suddenly, I'm a goldfish in a tank. They're all staring at me, waiting for some kind of reaction. A bout of pathetic weeping