by Jeff Oliver
“Only the freedom of my people. But I would give all that up to have dinner with you tonight,” Al-Asari said with a sly grin.
Jennings turned to Sara. “Is this guy serious?” she asked. When Sara nodded, Jennings blushed. “But I haven’t even showered,” she said, suddenly playing with her hair. “I’m all crunchy.”
“We’ll get you set up in a suite at the resort,” Sara said. “Great water pressure.”
Jennings eyed Al-Asari and decided to make a dangerously un-PC joke. “Make sure the bed’s extra sturdy too,” she said.
Everyone erupted with laughter, including Al-Asari.
Nice call, Jennings, she said to herself.
On set, Team Mise En Bouche dug around the edges of the boat’s enormous hull. Several bystanders broke through the police line to catch a glimpse of the biblical treasure. Tanya bent over to take another selfie. She stuck out her tongue, Miley-style.
“I’m going to call this one Noah’s Twerk,” she said, aiming her iPhone.
And that’s when the police decided to shut down the shoot.
“Jesus Christ, Sara, this was supposed to be low profile,” Genevieve Jennings said when they were in police custody.
“It was,” said Sara.
“So you dig up proof of God’s existence? That’s your idea of low profile?”
“Cowboy went out of the zone. Some could call it a miracle,” Sara said.
“Or a disaster. I’m not paying an overage on this if we have to postpone production. Won’t do it. This one’s on It-Is-What-It-Is.”
An officious-looking man with a serious face and a small moustache entered the room and sat across from the two women. “Guard, some water for our guests,” he instructed the tall man with a uni-brow who stood at the door. As water was poured into plastic cups, the officer eyed Sara and Jennings. Then he frowned. “We checked your papers,” he said. “Everything is in order.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” said Sara.
“However, we have a problem with your statement,” the officer said.
“But it’s just like we went over,” said Sara. “One of our chefs dug outside of the marked area and…”
“Yes, Chef Dex McNaughton, or ‘Cowboy’ as you call him,” the officer said. “Tell me, what is Cowboy’s background?”
“Uh, he’s from Texas,” Sara said.
“Yes, yes. Not too big of a Jewish population in Texas, is there?”
“Not too sure what that has to do…”
“Quite small for America, actually. In fact, I noticed that there are very few Jews in your entire cast. Why is that?” asked the officer.
“We didn’t realize it would be an issue,” said Jennings.
“Not an issue, just an odd choice. But Chef Tanya. Yes, Chef Tanya Lazar. Not only is she Jewish but Bat Mitzvahed in Tel Aviv, right here in Israel. Isn’t that amazing?”
“I suppose it is.”
“Oh, it is,” the officer smiled. “And so isn’t it absolutely remarkable that a Jewish girl who was Bat Mitzvahed right here in the land of her forefathers would be the one to discover…”
“But she didn’t…”
“What a story!” marveled the officer. “That Tanya Lazar, the sole Jew in your cast, a real beauty too, would be led by God to reveal a treasure of our past. And your little television show goes on without pause. But with Chef Cowboy from Texas discovering it, there might be problems. Permits misplaced, fines for ripping up the beaches, footage seized for investigation…”
“Is he suggesting an overage?” Jennings said to Sara, nervously. “Because we can’t have one.”
“We understand completely,” said Sara. “It was Tanya who discovered Noah’s Ark. That is, as you said, absolutely remarkable.”
“Did you just say Noah’s Ark?” the officer said, having burst out laughing. “Ha ha! You secular Jews and your biblical fantasies! Noah’s Ark? Now that’s rich! Raffi, did you hear that?” The uni-brow at the door chuckled. “Someone here has a touch of Jerusalem Syndrome, no?” the officer said. “No, no. What was found by none other than Tanya Lazar was part of a ship that brought Jewish refugees through the Red Sea during the Holocaust. We thought the boat was lost at sea, with everyone devoured by sharks. But miraculously, it was right there on the beach. Noah’s Ark. Ha! You people!”
The officer laughed heartily. He looked at Sara. Sara laughed. Sara looked at Jennings. Jennings laughed. The guard with the uni-brow joined in again, laughing too. “So, we are clear about who made the discovery?” said the officer.
“Like a summer’s day,” Sara replied.
“Excellent,” the officer said. “Tanya is an amazing patriot to the Israeli people. A true member of the tribe.”
Just then a bald bespectacled man with a clipboard appeared at the door. “Ah, here’s the reporter from The Times,” the officer said. “Let him know exactly what happened today. Everything you told me. Hold nothing back.”
“Copy that,” said Sara.
“Madame,” the officer said to Jennings. He bowed and kissed her hand softly before walking out.
Jennings turned to Sara, blushing. “What is it about these Middle Eastern men? Am I really that bang-able here?”
After Sara and Jennings were released from the Eilat Police headquarters, they discovered Tanya surrounded by a frenzy of reporters outside.
“I just felt this divine light,” Tanya said into the throng of microphones. “It was Hashem urging me to reconnect with my ancestors.”
“Will you make Alliyah, Tanya?” a reporter asked.
“Totally!” she said. “Hey, do you guys want to hear my Torah portion? I think I still totally remember it. Vay-itaaaain, Et-Ha Shulraaaaan veyole helmo-ed….”
Sara grabbed Tanya’s elbow and led her away from the crowd. “Enough for now. Thanks!” Sara told the press.
There was an audible sigh from the crowd of delighted reporters. Tanya blew them kisses as she was hustled off into a van.
“Oh my Gawd,” she tittered. “I’m gonna get so many new Instagram followers, it’s sick.”
CHAPTER 7
Genevieve Jennings’ rigorous pre-date beauty regimen included an Ahava Dead Sea mud-mask facial followed by an hour-long soak in fragrant sea salts while surrounded by lavender aromatherapy candles. She did this all while typing out fourteen pages of notes on a Fine Cut 3 version of a half-hour pilot about chef tattoos. “More tattoo porn!” was a recurring note, along with “music needs an overall re-think.”
She tried on three outfits, six pairs of heels, and seven different jewelry combos before dousing her wrists with a perfume endorsed by Rihanna.
Genevieve Jennings was in total control of every aspect of her life—from how she looked (think Kerry Washington at the Emmys), to her brilliant rising career as a television executive, to the way she categorized her friends and family. She was the envy of her high school reunion; the woman who had it all. Everything except for the obvious. She had never figured out men.
Sure, she could produce a hit series about the psyche of men in the online dating world (winning two Digital Emmy Awards, thank you very much). But face to face with their hungry eyes, thoughtless grooming, and constant advances and retractions, men made Genevieve Jennings feel completely out of control. So much so that when Al-Asari knocked on her hotel room door, Jennings flinched, spilling her three-hundred dollar Rihanna fragrance all over the floor. “Fuck,” she said, sopping it up with a towel. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” She tossed the towel into the closet and kicked it shut. Al-Asari knocked again. “A minute!” Jennings called out. She peered into the mirror. “You can do this, Jennings. Go out there and be amazing. Master of your domain… master of your domain.” She took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, then opened the door.
Al-Asari held out a bouquet of roses. “You look ravishing,” he said.
Jennings froze. Say something. “White roses,” she blurted. “My favorite color!” Then she thought, Wait, is white even a color anymore or more of a sh
ade? Kind of the way Pluto was downgraded from a planet to a big ball of ice? Who keeps up on astrology anyway?
“Do you mean astronomy?” Al-Asari said.
“What?”
“You said astrology. I think you might mean astronomy. The study of planets,” Al-Asari said.
It was then that Jennings realized she’d been speaking her thoughts aloud.
“Yes! Astronomy! Ha, what a dummy,” she said. “I actually produced a series on the planets for PBS when I first got started. Samuel L. Jackson was supposed to voice it, but we ended up with Blair Underwood instead, so you know, kaput ratings. Did you watch LA Law?”
“I don’t think so,” said Al-Asari.
“Of course not. Why would you? My senior year at Sarah Lawrence, I had my deviated septum operated on and I watched the whole series before binging was even a thing.”
“How interesting.”
“Well, depends who you ask,” said Jennings. She smiled. This was okay. She was happy just to be talking. That had to be better than awkward silence, right?
“Shall we?” said Al-Asari, extending his arm.
“What happened to your hand?” Jennings said, noticing the bandage there.
“Oh, an old lady next door locked herself out of her house. When I climbed onto the roof to go in through her attic, my hand caught on a shingle.”
“Oh, you poor thing.”
“As it turned out, she had the keys in her purse the whole time,” said Al-Asari. “My fault for not asking.”
Jennings smiled. Her eyes sparkled. “Well, let’s go.” And just like that, Louboutin heels clicked down the hall and Jennings entered a taxicab alongside her date, a man she’d met on set, a handsome-if-professorial-looking man from the Middle East. So what about it?
They cabbed it down-beach to a nearby hotel restaurant. It was dimly lit with white tablecloths and red bouquets at each table.
“This is the kind of place where people propose,” Jennings chuckled. “Did you bring the ring? Heh, heh.”
“Table for two?” asked the maître d’.
“Unless you’ll be joining us,” Jennings said, unable to stop herself.
“Right this way,” the maître d’ said.
Al-Asari pulled out a chair for Jennings, then sat and folded a napkin across his lap. Jennings also folded her napkin across her lap, but then couldn’t think of what to do with her hands. She felt them flap around like fish on the table. She checked if the salt and pepper caps were properly tightened. They were. And even though countless therapy sessions had been spent analyzing why she had the habit of flapping her hands around when she was nervous, she just couldn’t stop.
“Dating scares the hell out of me,” she admitted finally. “There, I said it. I blather—I’m blathering now. And my hands flap. I date online too because where do you meet people these days? But it never works. Not one good date. Well, one, but… oh forget it. Have I got stories…”
“I understand,” said Al-Asari.
“You do?” she said, surprised. “I think I’d remember your Match profile.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean…”
“I think I was one of the first online daters,” said Jennings. “I mean since MySpace. I recently tried Tinder, but the idea of people swiping me away with their finger—well, that creates a whole new business of creating the perfect profile pic. Do you know there are consultants now who help you develop your online persona? Even help you take selfies so you don’t look too, well, selfie-conscious. Ha, talk about a scam.”
“Why would you want to claim to be someone you are not?” asked Al-Asari.
“Oh, I don’t know. Marketing?” Jennings laughed too loudly. She looked at her empty wine glass. “Wow, who do I have to blow around here to get a Chardonnay? I mean, does the waiter have any next of kin?”
“Genevieve?” Al-Asari said.
“I’m burning up…”
“Genevieve.”
“Yes?”
“We are simply two adults sitting down for a meal,” Al-Asari said. “You are an attractive and accomplished woman. I am an interested man who wishes to get to know you. It is that simple. There’s no need to be anxious. You don’t even have to consider this a date if that makes you feel more comfortable.”
“Of course. I understand,” she said, hands flapping away.
“So, as two adults simply sitting down to dinner, tell me about yourself. What do you really love in life, Genevieve Jennings?”
“Me? Oh well. What a question!” Jennings said. “I’m, uh, I’m really into my career, obviously. And, uh, finding solutions to the new challenge of transmedia storytelling. That’s the new frontier. People will all be watching TV on their iWatches in a minute, don’t you think?”
“I suppose so.”
“Well, they will. Research proves it. So the key is finding a way to tell stories that seamlessly flow from on-air entertainment to digital without breaking story. It all has to be additive. Am I speaking too fast?”
“Just fine.”
“Oh, I don’t know. Work has really been stacking up, and of course this is a very important show for me. Glen says my promotion depends on it. I could run Non-Scripted if this one hits. Of course he’s been dangling that carrot in front of my nose for years. I think it’s a big power game. Do you know that he didn’t invite me to his birthday party? Claims his assistant messed up the Evite. Then why not fire her? I hate that smug Berkeley bitch.”
The waiter arrived and Jennings ordered two chardonnays with ice cubes and then asked what Al-Asari wanted.
“Sparkling water,” he said.
“Listen to me blathering on,” said Jennings. “You! When you aren’t a terrorist consultant for TV shows, what do you do with your free time?”
“I have a dog,” Al-Asari replied.
“Interesting.”
“She is what you Americans call a therapy dog, but she is not trained. I found her amidst the rubble of a war in my home village. She is gifted with sick people. Born to bring them happiness. So on weekends, I take her to hospitals and to the bedsides of the terminally ill. It’s the least I can do. It’s amazing what a little touching can do.”
“Yes, very therapeutic.”
“Give me your hands,” Al-Asari said.
“Excuse me?”
Al-Asari reached across the table and placed Genevieve’s hands in his own. He rubbed his thumbs along her palm, kneading the tension from the center to the outer edges. “As humans, we yearn to be touched and yet, here we sit, feet away from each other,” he said. “Across tables, afraid to be the first to make contact. Afraid of being misunderstood. In my culture, we always hold hands. It lowers stress. In my community, there is surprisingly little heart disease—and this despite an illegal foreign occupation. Because we touch. Isn’t that remarkable?” He slowly moved his hands to her wrist. She closed her eyes. “Tell me—how does that feel?”
“It’s, um, nice,” Jennings said. Her face flushed.
“And?”
“Um, I feel relaxed. Almost peaceful.”
“Exactly. Human touch—it is the least prescribed medicine in the Western World. Where I am from, it is primary medicine.”
Jennings’ hands closed onto Al-Asari’s. Her fingernails dug into the bandage on his left hand. “I feel it. I’m really feeling it,” she said.
“Yes. Let your hands explore… That’s good.”
“Yes.” Jennings let out a little moan. “Yes, I really feel it…”
“More wine?” the waiter cut in.
“Wha—?” Jennings crashed back to earth, her eyes popped open, and she pulled her hands away from Al-Asari’s. “Yes, um… No. Later! Okay, one more pour.” She took a long swig, then pointed back at the glass for a topper.
“Sorry,” she said to Al-Asari. “Seems I lost myself for a moment.”
“That’s good,” said Al-Asari. “We all need that.”
“You’re an interesting man, Mr. Al-Asari,” Jennings said, taking another
gulp of wine.
“Call me Izzeldin,” he said.
“Exotic,” Jennings said. “So tell me, Izzeldin, how did you move into this line of work?”
“Let us not talk of work,” Al-Asari said. “Let us discuss pleasure. Outside of work, what brings you the most pleasure, Genevieve?”
Jennings thought about it. She moved close as if to reveal a secret that might get a little naughty. “Honestly?” she said. “Sitdown interviews.”
“Interviews.”
“When I was a segment producer on Today, I used to love doing sit-down interviews. Getting to the bottom of stories, calling people out on their bullshit while they’re in the chair, making them cry. Oh, I had a talent for criers. When I was at Media Nine, I tallied the most cries in company history. Won a Kindle Fire. Then I moved to the Network side and it’s just notes, notes, and more notes. I never get to be back in that interviewer’s chair.”
“If that is what you love, then you must do it,” said Al-Asari.
“I know, I know. But how?”
“I believe you will find a way, Genevieve Jennings.” Al-Asari raised his sparkling water. “To you, and to sit-down interviews.”
Jennings raised her glass and smiled. There was a glint in her eyes. She was really connecting with this guy.
CHAPTER 8
The next day, in the calm, marble-laden cast mansion overlooking the Gulf of Aqaba, the cast of Natural Dishaster: Season Five sat in a circle engrossed in their Elimination Deliberation. They were separated from the terrorists, who had their own deliberation taking place on the upper veranda.
“I say Tanya gets immunity,” said Chef Chrissy, strategically. “She knows the culture here, and that could really help if challenges start to get more Jew-y.”
“I once dated an orthodox rabbi,” Chef LizZ reminded the group. “Plus, Tanya admitted that she’s never even heard of Kabbalah.”
“All in favor of Tanya’s immunity?” said Chrissy. Seven chefs raised their hands. Tanya blew them kisses.
“Horseshit,” LizZ said.
“I say Cowboy goes into the elimination battle,” said Chef Joaquim. “He totally went off the reservation with his digging, and how did that help us?”