Chapter 1: Pandora’s Box – Part 7

 Chapter 1: Pandora’s Box – Part 7

I board the plane bound for the Bahamas, mentally noting which bag holds my suntan lotion. I’m sure I’ll be needing it—a lot.

The flight first takes me to Florida, where I’m instructed to transfer to a small plane the crew affectionately calls an “Island Hopper.” Once we land in Florida, we exit onto the tarmac. A warm, salty breeze greets me as I step into the sun. I breathe it in—it feels like freedom. Or at least vacation.

It’s a short hop to the Bahamas—less than an hour—and the landing is smooth. I step off the plane, expecting festive chaos: a bustling airport, maybe a few women in colorful Bahamian dresses offering rum punch and flower necklaces.

Instead, I’m met by flickering fluorescent lights and a steel band half-heartedly playing “Living in America.” There are no crowds. No garlands. No celebration.

At the gate stands the Company’s Casting Director, decked out in a loud white-and-blue Hawaiian shirt and a straw hat tilted slightly too far to one side. He grins and extends his hand.

“Welcome! But before anything else,” he says, lowering his voice, “you have to go through Immigration. Whatever you do, don’t say you’re here for work. You’re a tourist. Got it?” He smiles wider and gives my elbow a little shove in the direction of a nearby office.

And just like that, my blood turns to ice.

As an actor and dancer, I’m no stranger to bending the truth—on résumés, in auditions, even to myself. But lying to a government official? In another country? That’s a whole new level.

Inside, I’m greeted by a massive man in green fatigues. He has a pistol strapped to his hip and an unlit cigar clenched between his teeth. He gestures toward a chair without saying a word. The window unit behind him is dead. The air is heavy, hot, and dry. A single bead of sweat slinks down my back.

I sit. I smile. I prepare to lie.

The man asks me routine questions, and my nerves betray me. I stammer. My voice cracks. More than once, he raises an eyebrow and peers at me over the rim of his glasses. I am convinced he can smell fear—and Broadway dreams.

But somehow, miraculously, I get through. No handcuffs. No holding cells. No questions asked. Just a stamp and a grunt, and I’m out the door, blinking into the Caribbean sunlight.

Waiting for me is a familiar face—a friend and fellow dancer who also landed this gig. He’s volunteered to shuttle performers to their new homes and help get us settled. I throw my stuff in the back of a van, hop in, and off we go.

About thirty seconds later, a car swerves wildly in front of us, and my friend screams. Right. The Bahamas was once under British rule—they drive on the left side of the road.

We laugh nervously as he veers into the proper lane.

As we drive, I glimpse two versions of this island. On one side: lush resorts with pristine pools and guests sipping drinks in sun hats. On the other: cracked pavement, crumbling buildings, stray chickens in the road, and barefoot children raising empty cups to car windows at stoplights.

Eventually, we pull into a gravel parking lot several miles from the airport.
“This is it,” he says.

My new home.

I step out and pass through a rickety wooden gate that squeaks as it opens into a small patio. The condo has white stucco walls and a low ceiling. Lizards dart around my feet. Somewhere nearby, an animal makes a sound I’ve never heard before—something between a growl and a scream.

I haven’t even unpacked, and already something feels… off.