Naked in Dangerous Places - Cash Peters [93]
Yes, I know—you're leaving the show. Thanks. I'm way ahead of you, buddy.
But no. Well, yes, he is leaving the show, but that's not his announcement.
“If anyone's interested,” he says, his smile shining a ray of light into a nightmare moment, “there will be a sampling of some prime Moroccan hash in room number six shortly …”
Ah, yes.
On the short list of the three things that Morocco is best known for, here's the third. I imagine he got the stuff in the souks this afternoon. If you can buy live scorpions, six-packs of iguanas, and as many dead, decaying owls as your home's decor will allow without going over the top, why not drugs?
In my case, I decline. The kava experience is still all too fresh in my mind. As relaxing and enlightening as it was, that's two hours I never wish to repeat.
Mike retires to his suite, taking everyone with him—to celebrate their freedom, I wonder?—leaving me hunched gloomily on the banquette alone, adjusting to the prospect of making future shows in unfamiliar places with entirely unfamiliar people around me: a new field producer, a new camera crew, and a new director. What a catastrophe.
Inevitably, when you spend as long as the five of us have together, you develop your own cosmology, with your own rules, your own shorthand and in-jokes and nicknames. Mine is Cashmatic 3000. Awarded because I guess I do so many jobs and I work so hard that I scarcely seem human to the others, more like a robot programmed never to rest. If that's the case, then “melancholy” must be my default setting, because it makes me very sad to think that these people will remember me this way, as aloof, overcommitted, mechanical. Another reason I could become utterly depressed if I allowed myself to. And yet I want to laugh out loud. I mean, how could anyone take this travesty seriously any more? We're talking a mass evacuation. I've spent my whole life as the outsider, playing it solo, refusing to be a team player. As a matter of policy, I don't join things or belong to things. I'm not a member of any clubs, don't subscribe to any causes or support any teams, generally refrain from all group activities, and, apart from a short period working for the government in Britain—which was a massive mistake; I think the government would be the first to admit that—I've never held down a steady job. Now, though, at long last, I finally break all of these traditions by joining a team, and the bloody thing falls apart.
“It'll be okay, you'll see.” On her way to the door, Tasha gives me the biggest hug, head resting against my chest, smelling of Marlboro Lights. “I love you, Cashmatic. I'll miss you.” With that, she drifts off to join the others, turning around at the last minute: “Oh, one other thing. I just spoke to the office.”
“And? Any news?”
“Did Kevin tell you who'll be going to Alaska with you?”
“No he didn't…”
My God, that was fast! The walkout only just happened, but already they've replaced them. Such a cold, unsentimental business, this.
“… who will it be? Do I know him?”
She's not smiling as she tells me. And when I hear the name, I could die.
“Noooooooooo!”
The next morning dawns colder than any so far. In fact, it's not even dawn when we arrive with our bags—and still no tickets—at the airline check-in desk.
“Morning, guys.”
The terminal is empty except for a disheveled fat guy with the eyes of a recently bereaved corpse and a smug smile greasing his wet lips.
“Willy!”
As much as we hate this unctuous little worm, we've never been as overjoyed to see anyone in our lives. Especially when, at long last, he produces the tickets.
“Everything go okay with the hotel?” He smiles. “You got the shots you needed?”
“Sure, Willy, it's all good.”
By this stage, I think we'd say anything, whatever it takes to get our travel documents back.
Taking us at our word, he says, “Well, guys, it's