The Job Pirate Read online

  “Oh God, I so needed that.” She tilted her head back and exhaled through a loud sigh. “This place is like a prison, man. Six days stuck in this dump with all these fucking drunks and speed freaks. Fucking rich losers who can’t handle their own shit, man!”

  “What’s your story?”

  “Me?” she asked as decoration on her ready reply; one which she’d probably already shared a dozen times since arriving at the house. “My parents threw me in here! I’m not here by my own decision. Dad gave me the ultimatum: Come here or move out. So I came here. I had no choice.”

  “What was your vice? Pills? Grass? The White Lady?”

  “Me?” she asked again, but this time genuinely. “You think I’m a coke addict? Like these crazy fucks in here? God, no! I’m here because of these …” And she raised her half-smoked cigarette to eye level. “My folks found out that I started smoking over the summer, and it didn’t mesh well with their ritzy weekend set, so they chucked my ass in here until I quit. Thanks, guys. Thanks, Blue Cross.”

  “You’re in here because of cigarettes?” I couldn’t grasp the concept. “But you’re a kid! You’re not even addicted to them yet?”

  “I’m not a kid!” she exclaimed. “I’ll be 18 in a few months. And I am seriously addicted to these. You don’t know me! You don’t know how rough I have it!”

  It was then when I wanted to take back the cigarette I had given her and call her a faker; a little spoiled teenage girl reaching for anything that would make her more special. I wanted to tell her that the reason our entire health-care system was so fucked up was because of shallow, self-interested people like her and her parents, who would force their insurance carrier to pay $6,000 a week to cure a girl of her four-month-old experimentation with tobacco—and she didn’t even inhale! When my mother found out I smoked cigarettes at 15, she forced me to strike every match in a 2,500-plus box of strike-anywhere matches before being allowed back in the house. It didn’t quell my lust for cigarettes, and it may have actually awakened the slumbering pyromaniac inside me, but it was a hell of a more fitting punishment than putting your kid in a treatment facility with upper-crust drunks, lace-curtain junkies, and wealthy wife-beaters.

  But before I could tell her all of this, I realized—at least realized how it would look to my employers—that I had supplied a “tobacco addict” in a treatment facility with tobacco, thereby not only breaking two major rules on my first day, but this third one as well.

  “I didn’t know you were in here for that … So, you never saw me, alright? I never gave you that cigarette, alright?”

  She smiled, snubbed out the cigarette in the dirt, then threw the filter onto the roof. “Tell you what,” then her smile grew even wider, “you give me that pack of Basics and your lighter, and then I never saw you.”

  Always the optimist, I congratulated myself on buying generic cigarettes that morning. Even as broke as I was, it wouldn’t be so difficult to part with a near-full pack of the cheap shit. But there were still over four hours left until quitting time, and with the way this job was crawling along I was definitely going to need a few cigarettes for my afternoon. And even though I didn’t like the fact that she was trying to blackmail me, I knew she’d rat me out faster than one of her crackhead roommates would cook up a pale Fruity Pebble on a piece of tinfoil. So I needed to negotiate the terms of this ransom.

  “Tell you what. I’ll give you half of this pack and a full book of matches,” was my counteroffer. “It’s a solid deal. Matches are easier to conceal, and you know the counselors are going to find your cigarette stash by tomorrow, so there’s no good reason to deprive both of us of these cigarettes.”

  “Tempting offer,” she frowned her top lip to camouflage a mean smile, “but no. I want your full pack and your lighter. Or I just might have to tell Denise that you offered me the very same shit that my parents are paying a lot of money to make me quit.”

  Damn, she was playing hardball with me. I wish I had something like economic sanctions to threaten her with, but those never worked anyway. I could try to subsidize the deal to my advantage; offer her my new cigarette investment package.

  “How about this,” I countered again. “You get the half-pack and matches right now, but I also throw in an additional 3 cigarettes per day for the rest of the week. That’s 12 additional cigarettes spread safely out over the next four days. That’s cigarette security right there. We have a deal?”

  “No dice,” she snapped back. “That’s a sucker’s bet. You’re not even going to be here tomorrow.”

  “Yeah, I am! I work here. I’m the new call operator for that commercial they aired. I’ll be right back there in the garage. It’s really an office. Ask Denise.”

  “Seriously,” she folded her arms, “you won’t be here tomorrow. I heard Denise on the phone about an hour ago, and she was yelling at whatever temp job company you work for. She had to pay like $500 dollars to break whatever contract they had. That’s where she’s at right now.”

  “Seriously? I was supposed to be here for four weeks.”

  “Hence the $500 fee to break the contract. I guess that commercial they did was a total joke. So, are we going to do this deal or what? What other counteroffers you have for me?”

  “None now,” I answered.

  “I get the whole pack and your lighter then?”

  “You get shit. You have nothing to bargain with now.”

  “I’ll still tell Denise,” she acted frantically knowing her cigarette deal was nearly off the table, “and she could still tell your temp company what you did. That would really fuck you up, man.”

  I lit another cigarette from the cherried butt of my first, mostly for the dramatic effect of not offering her another one. Then I tucked the pack back into my blazer pocket. “Being 17 and not having tasted the pungent fruit of responsibility yet, you probably don’t quite understand that working for a temp company is what you do when you’re unemployable. It caters to people like me. I could take a shit on the floor in there and get fired from here today, then start working someplace new tomorrow. I am invincible.”

  She nibbled on her thumb before asking, “Can you leave me one or two then? You know, a couple of smokes for the road.”

  I had never before used laughter as a response to a question, but it was effective and worked quite well. I walked into the secluded backyard to pee behind the garage and could still hear her shouting obscenities at me from the kitchen door. She was a terrible negotiator and an even worse insulter; everything had either a “fuck” or a “punkass” in it. I returned to my garage as soon as I heard the door slam and poured myself a fresh cup of coffee. The phone still didn’t blink or ring, so I opened The Bell Jar and resumed where I left off.

  “That was weird.”

  “Very. And I think it also reinforces my theory about sex.”

  “I don’t think it does. No, I’m positive it doesn’t. There was nothing to do with sex whatsoever in that situation.”

  “It was mostly implied sex. Didn’t like her one bit. Big faker. Looks like we’re getting fired again, though. That’s something. An honorable firing.”

  “That’s something alright. Hey, she lost her virginity. I was wondering if that was going to happen. And to Irwin. Seems like a nice enough guy.”

  “That Plath. She can sure weave a tale, man.”

  The end couldn’t have been better timed; just as I turned over the last page of the book Denise walked into the garage with her bad news. She explained that this would indeed be my last day, as no fault of my own—which is rare to hear in those types of circumstances—but, as a consolation to my newfound unemployment, I could leave right then and get paid for the rest of the day. So that was exactly what I did. And I pocketed The Bell Jar as severance.

  THE PORN IS MIGHTIER THAN THE SWORD

  JOB #69

  “Dude, it’s fine,” Corey said. “We’re in fucking Jamaica. This is our last week of filming.”

  The long tour bus lumbered d
own the dilapidated dirt road like a frog jumping from electrified toadstool to electrified toadstool. Every pothole and trash heap and who-knew-what-else in our path caused our eight-wheeled mammoth to sink and lunge every few seconds, sending the thirty passengers several inches above our seats before dropping us back into them.

  I was sitting in the second to last row, with two very comfortable seats all to myself. In the twenty rows ahead of me sat an exotic and colorful assortment of people, half of whom were treating the bus ride like a singles’ beach party, while the other half slept with heads shoved under pillows and jackets. Big bearded guys in bandanas, shorts, and sunglasses, who looked like they should have been touring with the Allman Brothers Band were happily sipping beers in their seats and making conversation with a handful of very attractive blondes in bathing suits. Half a dozen guys in cargo shorts and sleeveless tees were rooting through duffel bags, coiling loose wires, and finessing pieces of camera equipment under dim overhead lights. A brunette lowered the business section of her New York Times and flashed two of the bikers her breasts. Then a couple of well-dressed older white men glanced around at their travelmates from behind thin, expensive reading glasses before shrugging them off and returning to their briefcases and Blackberries.

  We were a strange, diversified crew in that bus, vaguely resembling a modern-day Shakespearian troupe traveling to our next destination. And paired with the camera equipment stacked everywhere and lights and microphones poking dangerously up from between rows of seats, we could have easily passed for a contemporary, soon-to-be-televised performance of Hamlet coming to a town near you—had the Bard dabbled in pornographic themes, that is.

  Corey was a gregarious 24-year-old production manager that I had been traveling with for the past couple of months. He had commandeered the entire row behind me, and he passed ahead a wrinkled joint from between the headrests dividing us—its orange lit end illuminating his nose and brow in the darkness. The perplexed expression on my face must have spoken volumes once its pumpkin glow got close enough to me.

  “But the producers, they’re right there. They’ll smell it, man,” I explained as the joint crept closer to my lips. Corey and I had already gotten stoned together in a dozen different hotel rooms across the United States, but this was the first time we were doing it in the company of the entire film crew, on a crowded bus, in a country that wasn’t our own. Plus, this was my first big writing job and I didn’t want to toss away a “Head Writer” title in the closing credits of an actual television show by getting busted smoking a doobie in the back of a bus like some 1970s movie with Matt Dillon in it.

  “They’re already blazing one up there!” He pointed down the aisle to the midsection of the bus, where a joint was being circulated between the rows. “Just chill, dude. This is the last week of the job. It’s time to party.”

  So I took Corey’s advice and drew in my 1, 2 … 3 puffs and passed the joint across the aisle to Steven, the other, older, less-likable production manager. When I turned back to say thanks, Corey wiggled another lit joint at me through the headrests.

  “Send this one forward when you’re finished,” he advised, both hands diligently rolling a third joint in his lap. “They’ll meet halfway.”

  “Like lovers at midnight,” I added, and I was glad when he pretended not to hear it. I plucked the joint from his fingers just as the first three puffs slowly crept up on me. That was the problem with really good weed: It took a couple of minutes before it completely hit you, and then it was usually too late—too late to realize that you were going to be fucked for the next hour or two.

  But I did as Corey suggested—took my 1, 2 … 3 puffs—and passed the thick, smoldering stick through the headrests to the willing fingers and turned face of the guy in the row ahead of me. I watched it slowly handed from seat to seat, lips to lips, row to row, until those two joints did meet near the halfway mark. And then Corey’s third joint wiggled between the headrests at me, so I took my puffs and passed it to the row across the aisle from me. How in the hell Corey got that much pot in the two hours between landing in Kingston, Jamaica, and driving here to bum-fuck Jamaica, I had no idea.

  It took about eight minutes of staring out the window to realize it, but I was as stoned as an Iranian adulterer. I now possessed a perfect clarity, where I could finally absorb the lyrics of the songs on the Bob Marley album that had been blasting throughout the bus since this journey began 40 miles ago. It became so clear to me then. I am not going to worry about a thing, and every little thing really is going to be alright. The rattling bus began to feel like the Millennium Falcon going through that meteor storm right after its warp speed got fucked up, and the sights zipping by my window were at times both haunting and mystifying—splashes of third-world images briefly hitting the glass then disappearing forever; fleeting moments like windblown pages of a National Geographic magazine passing before the eyes. In the black of that Jamaican midnight, a shoeless farmer shepherded three sheep along a dirt path using only a twig to pat them with; a small, very vertical home made from nothing but front doors; a desolate town with darkened store fronts and wind theatrically whipping papers and trash across the ground. And the final memorable sight of that bleak three-hour bus ride before reaching humanity was an open-faced shack, maybe six feet high and wide, made from spare pieces of aluminum siding. It sat barren in the weeds and high grass about 30 feet from the road, and was surprisingly well lit against the backdrop of the surrounding blackness. As we sped by, I could see three barstools and a makeshift counter inside, a couple of liquor bottles behind the vacant bartender. And on top of the aluminum shack was a large plank of wood, most likely a found front door, set up like a billboard to the street. And crudely spray-painted in red letters atop this large plank of wood was its enticing name: MEAT N TINGS.

  We finally reached the walled and well-guarded compound that was also known as Whispers, the world-famous, all-inclusive, clothing-optional, hedonism-friendly resort. Once past the 10-foot concrete barriers and inside the lively vacation spot, Jamaica was completely different—it was exactly what one pictured Jamaica to look like. Young white women were walking around in skimpy bathing suits and talking on cell phones, palm trees swayed above warm breezes, and middle-aged couples drunkenly laughed and sipped cocktails from the ledges of pools. I could see the white sand of a beach not more than a stone’s throw from the lobby, with small sailboats swaying in its mild current and patches of tropical jungle at either side. It was a paradise.

  It took about 30 minutes before we unloaded the last piece of equipment and luggage from the bus, and after the production assistants checked in and handed everyone their hotel keycards, we all scattered off to find our rooms. The “talent” was going to be arriving the following morning, and our first day of filming would begin shortly thereafter—but up until that moment, it was just me, a hotel room, and Jamaica.

  I passed two Olympic-size swimming pools, a Jacuzzi, and two outdoor cabana bars before reaching the building where my room was. This resort was so large that they had eight two-story complexes filled with hotel rooms of varying sizes and costs. I was pleased to discover that my room had a nice large queen-size bed, dining table, TV, and even mirrors on the ceiling. I was going to be calling this place my home for the next nine days, so I unpacked my bags and set up my laptop and printer—the traveling office—on the table.

  I made it to the outdoor bar I had passed earlier and took a seat at one of the frilly stools next to a heavyset woman in her 60s. She sensed me next to her and turned to face me, her large, sagging, tanned breasts resting merrily at both sides of her belly.

  “Good evening,” I said.

  “It sure could be,” she replied.

  “I’m going to have a drink now.”

  She raised her margarita to me, took a sip, and turned back in the other direction. That was a very smooth transaction, I commented to myself—a clean, friendly rejection of her not-so-subtle advances. I was quite proud of myself because, pu
t a few drinks in me, and there stood a very good chance I would be apologizing for my rudeness and playing hide-the-finger with grandma in one of the nearby Jacuzzis. Because that’s how I roll when I have drinks.

  A smiling bartender appeared from the other side of the counter. He was wearing a fancy yellow short-sleeve and short-bottomed suit, kind of like an antique stage monkey minus the little music box.

  “What can I get for you, sahr?” he asked in the type of thick Jamaican accent you only hear in movies. “We have margaritas, daiquiris, wine, and beer, sahr.”

  “How about a daiquiri. Yeah, let’s do a daiquiri.”

  “Very good, sahr,” he said, already pouring my drink from a premade batch in the blender. My natural reaction was to pull out my wallet, but he waved away my effort and reminded me, “This is an all-inclusive resort, sahr. You need no money for nothing.”

  I gulped most of the daiquiri down. “Oh, that’s wonderful. I’ll take a recharge since you’ve still got the pitcher in your hand.” He filled my plastic cup again. It took yet one more daiquiri before I got up the nerve to ask this complete stranger if he knew where I could buy some pot.

  “Ah, the ganja, mon! Of course, mon!” His face lit up and he fumbled under the bar for something. He pulled up a wrinkled brown lunch bag and slid his hand inside. “How much you want, mon?”

  “I guess this doesn’t fall under the ‘all-inclusive’ part?”

  “No, mon. This is my own private harvest.”

  I opened my wallet and pulled out a ten and a five. I let him see it then cupped the money in my hand and slid it across the bar to him as slyly as possible. Being a city toker like I was, you learned to make these sorts of transactions as covertly as possible, especially when doing it across a counter with the bartender. But apparently things were much different in Jamaica; the bartender made no effort whatsoever to conceal the two huge green buds he pulled out from the bag. He raised them to the overhead floodlight and pointed out the purple strands and microscopic crystals as he rotated them from front to back for me. They were two meaty stalks of the Indica variety, each nearly as long and thick as a Cuban cigar, and probably worth about $150 back in the States. I tucked them into my shorts pocket and patted them through the fabric every couple of minutes to make sure they hadn’t fallen out while reaching for a cigarette.