I was in heat that made my boobs slap together like wet, golden cymbals. I was part of a film crew ‘on location’ far from home. It had already been a horrendous waking nightmare of car accidents, injuries, hurricanes and the drunk gay stand-in humping the hot nanny in the pool of our very motelish hotel. Oh it had been an adventure alright.
My job? Well, I’d had a few. The first AD had a bit of a thing for me and so kept making sure that when one contract ended, I had a new one…nearer him. Oy Vey as the Joo-ish people say, Oy Vey indeed.
My job on this tit-drippingly hot day, Cast Coordination. Oh the joys! Oh the bountiful pleasures of coordinating 400 extras, NONE of which who had the decency to ever learn Great Britannia’s mother tongue. I mean, so what, so you can’t afford an education, I mean, I know you can barely pay for food or shelter in your should-be-illegal-to-live-in-these-conditions squatter camps, but for God’s sake, have a little decency, learn the way of the Brits goddamit. I mean, why on earth should I, privileged, educated, not-ever-disadvantaged, why should I learn your language? I mean, it doesn’t make any sense, you are so spoilt. I spit, spoilt. Oh, to be a flagrant vagrant…!
So, there I was, eloquent and well-dressed and there they were, all 400 of them, in torn old clothes (excellent job wardrobe department), thirsty, tired and very poor, working a 16-hour day to earn a pathetically small amount of money. Pathetic, really. The only reason the film crew had chosen this spot in the depths of Africa was because of the cheap labor and to have sex with monkeys. Um, the latter is not 100% true. So, my job was to get all of their details: height, shirt, trouser and shoe sizes. Easy enough. I also wanted to keep them in high spirits through the tedious work, or rather, keep high spirits in them. So, I had a secret stash of cheaper-than-free vodka. Poison, I’m sure, but wondrously effective in causing acid-like hallucinations to make the time go by. On our breaks, we laughed as they taught me their African language and I forgot the horrid torrid weather for a while.
The sun was violent with its laser heat by midday, I thought my skin itself was going to clamber off my body and go and bathe in the marsh mirage with the elephantoms. Hot hot hot. Blisters started emerging on my lips, a very effective Botox replacement! Half my nose scraped off, burnt and bleeding. Cheaper than plastic surgery! My tongue and throat were like sandpaper trying to make a fire in my mouth. HOT!! And my pale complexion reddened minute by minute, damaged and ageing from the cruel rule of the African sun! You’re a bully, sun! A pimple-faced bully! I was HOT! And my African counterparts? Laughing, dancing, stripping and unconsciously tipsy with a perfectly-even lineless tan! Why God! WHY ME!? Why do I get burnt with uneven bikini lines and blistery lips. WHY?! Oh. Wait. Um. Oh. Right. I remember. Nevermind. All’s fair. Forget it. Sorry to bother! Love to your wife!
I was about over half way in the queue, and pretty pooped. So pooped in fact, I was doing an impressive would-be-foxtrot trying to stand up straight. My frustration levels had gone higher than Willy Wonka’s elevator. I could only communicate in violent hand gestures and a very broken combination of their must-not-be-named language and mine. Directly translated, I was saying, ‘How long is your weight? How tall are your feet? How much is your shortness? How big is your bodytop?’ END IT! END IT ALL. 1, 6, 19, 54…how many people to go? Need a drink. Need a rub. Need a good shag. Oh wait, I just had one. Sorry, time juggled.
Typically, as a consumer of the dialect of Her Highness, when trying to speak another language, my tone may sound like,’ I’M TALKING YOUR $%^&* LANGUAGE! ARE YOU $%^&*%$ HAPPY NOW!!? ARE YOU! YOU DIRTY DEAD DILDO! DO YOU EVEN UNDERSTAND ME YOU IDIOT!!?’ Yes, it may come across as arrogance, perhaps, but the truth is, I’m just very ashamed that I can’t communicate in any other way, at all. AT ALL!
I was racing through the queue now, if I finished in time I could go and play pool with the sexy French cameramen who could speak English. Who’s next? A man was pushed forward in a wheelchair. I greeted him, trying very hard to focus on the task and not show any sympathy or acknowledgement, trying to treat him normally, making him feel normal. Oh the pitiful human race. What has television taught you. NOTHING!
I spoke my unforgiveable samples of his language asking the questions which I had almost perfected. I asked him, ‘How tall are you?’ He shook his head. Of course, he was in a wheelchair, it didn’t matter. Next question! Don’t show emotion. Think French man fondling. Just act normal. Treat him the same, ‘What size shoe are you?’ No reply. Deep breath. Asking again, now with hand gestures, ‘WHAT (gesturing with shoulders that I’m asking a question) SIZE (putting hands together as if measuring a fish) SHOE (lifting up my foot) are YOU? (pointing to him)? No reply. Feeling my blood boiling to vapor and my heart rate matching the Hulk doing a cardio workout, I looked to the guy who had been pushing him. ‘WHAT SIZE SHOE IS HE!!!!??? ASK HIM.’ The pusher stared at me blankly. ‘SHOEEE SIIIZE. WHAT? SHOE? HELLOO? DOES ANYONE UNDERSTAND ME?!’ Louder now, ‘HOW BIG ARE YOU FEET?!!”
Then. With a horrified sadness, as if Oprah had called me personally to tell me that she had put all the weight back on. The old man in the wheelchair shook his head, looking down. I followed his eye line. My heart atrophied. The heat had frozen around us. The tiny hairs on my lip bleached themselves. I felt a torrent of vomit surge upwards looking for an exit wound. As I looked down, I saw that this quiet, honest and simple man…was an amputee.
Ring Ring, Ring Ring
‘Yes, Hello’?
‘Hello ma’am, Front Desk here. Congratulations! Your place in hell has just been confirmed!’
