by Jeff Oliver
It all happened in seconds. Along the road, three army Jeeps sped wildly towards the set and screeched to a halt. Then a dozen men in army khakis, black ski masks, and red kafyias burst out holding semi-automatics in the air. Where was security? Suddenly gone. Sara stepped in front of the Medic, landing a protective hand on her arm. The Medic, a tough Israeli chick, shrugged it off.
“Who’s in charge here?” the tallest terrorist barked in thickly accented English. “Stand before me, Infidel!”
Warren Lopez, the hard-partying, barely-working Executive Producer and owner of It-Is-What-It-Is Productions (IIWIIP), woke from his nap, brushed pita chips off his belly, and uncharacteristically declared his role as leader. “Uh, yeah. That’s me. What can I do you gentlemen for?”
Two masked men ran up to Lopez and jabbed him in the ribs with a gun butt. Almost the very second Lopez buckled to his knees, they threw a black hood over his head.
“Who’s next?” asked the tall terrorist.
Sara took a step forward, but this time it was the Medic who pulled the back of her shirt, stopping Sara in her tracks.
“Wait a second. Just wait one fucking second,” Chef Tanya jumped in. “That’s the ambulance driver. He’s got Brandon’s blood on his shoe. Look! This is bullshit. These guys aren’t terrorists. They’re phonies!”
Tanya pointed at them. The terrorists had no response. They shuffled and looked around aimlessly.
The leader finally puffed up. “Yes, we are terrorists. We’re bad men from ISIS,” he said.
“Yeah, and I’m Daniel Boulud,” said Tanya.
Lopez lifted his hood and called out to Strider, “Stay rolling. We’ll fix it in post. Tanya, would you just suspend disbelief for a minute? We’re trying to set up your next challenge.”
CJ Bazemore strutted out with freshly written copy in hand: “Teams, get ready for the next twist. You are no longer battling each other. These crazy Islamic terrorists are now your culinary foes, and it’s up to you to banish them from the land of milk and honey using only your chef knives.” There was an awkward pause, after which Bazemore asked Strider if he needed him to do a safety.
Lopez sighed. “Hey, terrorists? That’s your cue. Jesus Christ!”
The tall terrorist coughed. “Oh, uh. Long live ISIS! Down with Israel and America! See you at dawn for your Cannibal Challenge.”
The terrorists all shot blanks into the air and drove off in their Jeeps like a bunch of clowns. On cue, the chefs started booing and saying dumb shit like, “We’re going to terrorize you, motherfuckers!”
“And that’s lunch,” the Second AD called out. The crew dropped everything and sprinted to the meal tent.
Lopez tossed his hood to a PA and walked up to Sara, who was still standing next to the Medic. “Network called last night, pissed,” he said. “They have a new mandate. All about higher stakes—real stuff too. They’re getting killed by Run Around Sous, so they forced my hand. Make the Challenge about ISIS terrorists. Told me I couldn’t tell a soul so that it’s shot crazy-style. It was all their idea.”
“What about the schedule?” asked Sara.
“Screw the schedule. They approved an overage,” Lopez said. “American culinary heroes versus Islamic terrorists. Writes itself.” Lopez grabbed for his vibrating cell phone. “Aw, fuck, it’s my wife. Hold… Hi, honey. No, just working. Well, sometimes I have to put it on silent. Well, I’m sorry if I’m missing the baby’s bubble bath. Can you snapchat it to me?”
Sara’s headache intensified as Lopez walked off.
“This is madness,” the Medic said, storming off. “How do you sleep?”
“What about our deal?” said Sara. “You promised to talk to the guards in exchange for…”
CHAPTER 2
Despite what all of them expected to be a logistical nightmare the following day, a night of compulsory hard partying was already underway for the crew. Just about everyone had headed to The Golden Buddha, a newly opened Thaithemed dance bar just down-beach. The paint was not yet dry on the walls, and port-o-potties in the alley were functioning as the only restrooms, but the bar offered “ten-shekel shots” (less than $3 U.S.), and there was enough sexual curiosity between the Israeli locals and American crew to guarantee a wild evening.
Sara hung back in her room and dialed up her brother Nathan on Facetime, as she did every night at what was midmorning in Reno, Nevada. But when the call picked up, instead of Nathan answering, a thirty-something Indian man stared impatiently back through the screen.
“I’m done, Sara,” the man said. “Your mom hasn’t paid me in two months. I get here, she’s gone. I can’t do this anymore. I quit.”
“You say that every time I call, Simon,” said Sara. “Where’s Nathan?”
“Playing Minecraft.”
“I thought we agreed to limit that.”
“I’m not limiting anything, Sara. I’m done—walking out. I can’t pay my rent.”
“I sent money two weeks ago,” said Sara.
“Never saw it, but that explains your mom’s recent casino binge. Goodbye.”
“Look at me. I’ll immediately wire money directly into your account. It’ll be available to you in three days. How much total does she owe you?”
“Including what she borrowed? Forty-five hundred.”
“I’ll take care of it. Nathan’s fourth on the waiting list at Newberry Academy. Should only be a few more weeks until we hear…”
“You think you’re going to afford that fancy place?” Simon scoffed. “They do credit checks, Sara. By the way, a couple of shady dudes keep dropping by asking for your mother. Big dudes with neck tattoos. Seems like I’m not the only one she owes.”
“I’ll handle that.”
“I’ll work to the end of the week, but that’s it. I’m sorry, Sara. I have a Masters in autism research. I’m not a baby sitter.”
“Put Nathan on.”
Nathan appeared on-screen. He looked like Sara, but fifteen years younger and without all the hard edges. He wore a loosefitting pajama shirt, and his boyish Jewfro was pressed to one side, bed-head fashion. Nathan looked off-screen with a mischievous grin that Sara recognized well.
“Minecraft? Really?” she said.
“Mom said it was okay,” said Nathan.
“Mom’s not in charge. That’s why I call every day.”
“Is forty-five hundred dollars enough to buy our video-game theatre?” Nathan asked.
“It’s a start.”
“Zane says it will cost way more.”
“Who’s Zane?”
“Zane says it’s not the theatre that costs a lot, it’s the licensing fees. Zane says the only way to make money in theatres is popcorn. Zane said that even super-old games like Zelda are going to cost a lot of money, and there’s no way we’re ever going to open the theatre unless we win the lottery. Do you buy lottery tickets?”
“Who’s Zane?”
“One of the guys looking for Mom,” Nathan said. “He has a tattoo on his neck. I think it’s a bull, but the horns are on fire. Says he has something for her but wants to give it directly to her. They keep missing each other, like the most epic game of tag ever.”
“Nathan, listen to me. Do not talk to that guy.”
“But he comes all the time … and Mom’s always out, even one time when I was sure she was home. Then, last time, Zane brought another, even bigger guy. Simon says he’s a famous UFC fighter or something. He’s got tattoos of broken bones on his hands.”
“Nathan, where’s Mom?”
“Probably out getting what the guys want.” Nathan shrugged. “Hey, Combat Rush will probably be expensive to license too, right? It’s underrated and word’s getting out. What about Brainpop? Although it’s more of an educational app, it’s still sort of a game, right?”
“Management will have to discuss,” said Sara. “Nathan, who do you call if there’s an emergency?”
“911.”
“What’s our emergency phrase?”
&n
bsp; “Will you sing it if I tell you?”
“No.”
“Then I don’t know.”
“Fine, I’ll sing.”
“Chasing Pavement is the worst song ever written,” Nathan said, reluctantly.
“Good. Tell Mom to call me as soon as she gets in.”
“Cueing music.”
And then… Adele, Chasing Pavement. Nathan grabbed a comb, Sara a walkie battery, and the siblings sang the pop-hit karaoke-style all the way through before hanging up. It was their daily ritual.
The Golden Buddha Bar was turning into a schvitz lodge. A flashing neon dance floor of spastic Israeli resort workers and drunken crew grinded to Major Lazer. What united Americans and Israelis most was their adoration of mindless pop combined with their ability to make fun of it at the same time. The Israelis were more into it, closing their eyes and hooting wildly, but the crew matched their laughter, and when a Ke$ha remix blasted on, they knew it by heart.
At the bar were some off-duty army guys, and Sara noticed the Medic amongst them. One of the drunker guys was pushing a drink on her. She barked a refusal at him and he put up his hands in submission.
Lopez intercepted Sara on his way to the can. “How’s my rockstar Co-EP? Crack the story yet?” he said.
“Like you said, ISIS terrorists versus American culinary heroes,” said Sara. “Writes itself. Double eliminations. We’ll need the terrorists to move into the cast house.”
“You think?” Lopez said.
“Separate wings, but we need the drama,” said Sara. “And the hook-ups.”
“Hook-ups with ISIS. Not too polarizing?”
“Forbidden fruit, yes, but also shocking to liberal viewers who’ll have to face their feelings about sleeping with the enemy. Not to mention some interesting digital extras.”
“I like the way you think.”
“Casting did a solid job; half these guys graduated Cordon Bleu. We should have a good match. We’ll just have to fudge the end to make sure the good guys win.”
“L’chaim to that,” Lopez said. “Oh, forgot to tell you: Strider’s out in the Bedouin desert for the next few days shooting a development piece for me. Bedouin camel warriors are still a thing, believe it or not. Nomad Network’s paying for the sizzle.”
“But…”
“Oh, don’t stress. I’ve seen you direct. You’re a natural. Besides, you’ll have Zack.”
“I’ll have Zack,” Sara sighed.
Lopez took a long swig of his orange blossom vodka tonic. “You ever been married, Sinek? Didn’t think so. See, the thing about marriage is you’re a team for a while, and you think, ‘How can anyone compete with a team?’ You’re chasing your dreams, got someone to laugh at all the bullshit with, sex is all the time. Then, one day, SNAP, you’re a prisoner to a bank account and there’s a stranger in your bed glaring at you every time you play Sugar Rush on your Blackberry.” Lopez shook his head slowly and set his glass down on the bar. “Hey, barkeep?” he said. “Give my rockstar showrunner here what the locals drink. I gotta piss.”
Lopez threw a wad of shekels on the bar and walked off.
“Bedouin camel warriors,” Sara muttered.
The bartender, a pink-mohawked nymph in a mid-riff shirt, handed Sara a wine glass topped with an umbrella that smelled like petrol and rosewater. She winked before walking away, maybe letting Sara know that the door was open to flirt, or maybe she was just playing for a bigger tip. Sara looked along the bar and caught eyes with the Medic. She frowned at the sight of her, so Sara frowned back theatrically, managing to earn a grin.
Just then, the drunken army guy shoved another drink in the Medic’s face, spilling a good half of it on her. She slapped him away, and again his hands went in the air. “Okay, okay, woman!” he said.
Sara pulled out her cell phone and texted her mother: “Leave the casino or I call social services.”
She looked up at a TV screen across from the bar. Some new terrorist group named Mal-Malaika was on the news. A bombing in Haifa, Israel. Seven dead. IDF raid of Mal-Malaika headquarters. Shootout but no bodies. Perpetrators on the run. Should end badly, Sara thought. The dance floor erupted when Nicki Minaj came on.
A text buzzed back from Sara’s mother: “Almost home! Car broke down—something about combustion. $2,000! Wire $$ plz?” Sara sighed and tucked the phone back in her jeans.
Over at the bar, the drunken army guy was getting handsy with the Medic. His buddies laughed as he grinded up to her holding two shot glasses high in the air. “Come on, baby, you’re hanging around too many idiot Americans. Let’s have some fun.” When he leaned in for a kiss, the Medic pushed him away and one shot glass went flying. He grabbed her arm. “Why you have to act like such a hard-ass bitch?”
Sara took a swig of her rosewater petrol and headed over. She decided to go old-school.
“Hey,” Sara said to the drunken soldier.
The soldier couldn’t believe his eyes. He dropped the Medic’s arm. “Who is this fuckim?” He turned to his friends and laughed. He then swiveled and put a hand on Sara’s shoulder. His thick, drunken breath invaded her nostrils. “My giant lesbian friend,” the soldier slurred. “Do you know what titsim godolim are? It’s how you say in idiot land, big titties? This one has titsim godolim for miles.”
Sara said nothing, looked at the hand on her shoulder, and then at the other guys. He didn’t look so big, but trained. It will take precision timing.
“What’s wrong? You don’t speak?” the soldier said. “Are you retard? Are you a retarded Mrs. Trump? Do you hear me in there?”
Sara caught the gaze of the Medic, who gave her a “he’snot-your-problem” look, but Sara couldn’t help herself. “That word you just used,” she said. “We don’t use it anymore in the States. It’s outdated, low class. Offensive too. So unless you want trouble, I suggest you—”
The Medic chose that moment to forcibly drop a barstool onto the soldier’s nose, with the blood spraying Sara’s face. In less than a second, the Medic was grabbing the guy by the hair and giving him a quick kick with her knee. From behind, one of the guy’s friends made a move to grab the Medic.
Sara chopped the guy in the neck, grabbed him by his ear, and looked hard into his eyes. The guy put his hand out in submission and fell to his knees gasping for breath. The other guy backed off like it was all none of his business.
“Grab some air?” the Medic said.
“Lead the way,” said Sara.
They walked out of the bar into the cool night breeze. Sara lit a cigarette and the Medic grabbed it from her mouth.
“Don’t you ever buy your own?” Sara asked.
“Name’s Ruti,” the Medic said. “And you are Sara Sinek, Co-Executive Producer of this freak show. Nice IMDB page—Cook’s Kingdom, Mega Chef—and suddenly you’re in charge. Quick rise for a metumtam.”
“You Googled me.”
“Of course. But I learned much more about you just now.” Ruti blew a perfect smoke ring. “How long did you serve in IDF?”
“I don’t follow.”
Ruti scoffed. “Look, I recognize that chop you did on the soldier’s neck and your pulling of his ear. You didn’t learn that at Jewish summer camp.”
“Krav Maga. It’s all the rage in West Hollywood,” said Sara.
“Okay, I get it. You’re Ms. Showbiz now,” Ruti said. “But I know Israeli military training when I see it. And you know what else I know? You’re a terrible singer. Worst Adele cover I ever heard.”
“You’re full-on spying on me.”
“You pissed me off today. I needed something on you, and I got it.” She lifted her cell phone and played a video of Sara singing Adele, which the Medic had shot through the window of her hotel room. “Your brother, he’s…”
“He’s my brother,” Sara said, a hard edge in her voice. She pulled out another cigarette.
“Right,” Ruti nodded. “I have a cousin. She is also… my cousin. So I delete.”
They walked ba
ck to the resort grounds and into the main lobby. Janitors and cleaning staff, still prepping for the official opening, nodded reverentially at Ruti. Sara gave her a curious look.
“My father ran a hotel here years ago, before the land was bought for development,” Ruti said. “He made a deal with the bosses that no matter what happens to the hotel, the staff keep their jobs. Even though he is dead now, they all still know me as the boss’ daughter.”
“Sounds like a good man,” said Sara.
“He was. But bad men got him. So that’s that.”
Ruti led Sara to a staff-only door, through the laundry room, and onto the stage of the empty pavilion space where crew meetings were held each morning. There was a ladder behind a velvet curtain that led up into the rafters.
“Coming?” Ruti said, climbing up. “No staring at my ass, metumtam.”
Sara followed. At the top of the ladder was a small audio mix room that overlooked the stage. Inside was an army cot, a minifridge, and an iPod speaker.
“Secret love nest?” Sara asked.
“More like a hideout,” said Ruti. “Matisyahu is scheduled to perform here when the hotel opens next month, so it’s a big deal we have an engineering space. But no one will use this until then, so it’s all mine. Plus, I get to eavesdrop on your fancy production meetings. You know you have a slight public speaking problem, right? You sometimes stammer a bit when you talk to the crew.”
“I’m working on it.”
“Meditation?”
“Xanax,” said Sara.
“Nothing to be ashamed of,” Ruti said, sitting down on the cot. “Hey, you want to play a game with me?”
“Does it involve public speaking?”
“Little bit. Rules are I ask you a question about your life and you answer to my complete satisfaction.”
“Sounds like an interrogation.”
“Each time I’m happy with your answer, I remove an article of clothing.”
“More promising,” said Sara. “What if my answer isn’t up to snuff?”
“I add clothes.”
Sara leaned up against the soundboard. “Shoot.”