Chapter 5: REEFER MADNESS

 


Chapter 5: REEFER MADNESS

The holes left by the "dead" in the show are vast. Originally, I was understudying three major roles, but now I've been assigned a fourth, and I'm in every single minute of all three shows. Understudy rehearsal starts for me in the bathroom, where I carry my script and rehearse in the company of porcelain. The bathroom becomes my sanctuary—no one can bother you there. And with the mounting stress, my body seems to think that every moment is an opportunity to go. We all deal with the pressure differently. My roommate, for instance, blasts the Spice Girls on repeat 24/7. Tell me what you want, what you really, really want? I can think of a dozen ways to destroy that damn CD, and none of them are pretty.

Fear has us in its grip. We smile, fake it, eager to please, but inside, we’re slowly dying. A new contract is handed out to us, and we’re told to sign it by the end of the day. It strips away the few rights we still had. "Sign it or leave on the 2:45," they say. And as mistakes get made—flubbed lines, missed steps—we joke about the 2:45. The closer it gets, the more palpable the fear becomes.

We’ve moved out of the carpeted rehearsal halls and into the theater. Halloween is on the horizon, another excuse for a party, so preparations begin. One cast member has been collecting string and feathers left behind by a Cuban show that shares our space. Our new rehearsal space is a massive stage, with a thin board sitting atop 12 feet of concrete. My shins and back groan every time I dance, but I keep smiling and tell myself, "Just keep going."

The drug testing is now in full swing. Since I’ve tried pot, I’m in the last group to get tested. “I just didn’t inhale,” I tell them. This last group consists of people who’ve been overdosing on Golden Seal, hoping to beat the system. We laugh, wondering if it’ll actually work.

The testing takes place in the island's hospital, which reminds me of those desperate boat scenes in movies where people are fleeing a war-torn country. If I see a chicken sitting on someone’s lap in the waiting room, I swear I’m out of there. The nurse sticks me four times with a needle before she finally finds a vein. She tapes it down, and I can’t help but feel something’s wrong—this shouldn’t hurt this much. When she’s done, I look at my arm and see a giant bruise, four separate ones that have grown into one.

I’m supposed to return to rehearsal, but instead, I head to the pool. The sound of waves crashing behind me soothes my mind, and as I soak up the sun, I tell myself, "All is right with the world." I eventually drift off to sleep.

I wake to the shrieks of children in the pool. Collecting my things, I stumble back to my condo to enjoy the blessed air-conditioning. But I’m out of coffee—the one thing that keeps me from completely losing it. So, I throw on some clothes and walk to the only coffee shop on the island.

I approach the counter, ready to get my fix, and ask for a bag of beans to be ground, along with a large coffee. “No coffee,” I’m told. The man behind the counter points to a handwritten note taped to the register. It simply reads, No Coffee.

No coffee in a coffee shop? I can’t even process it. “No coffee on the island,” he confirms.

I stand there, dumbfounded. My brain tells me this is absurd, but it’s true—there's no coffee. I’m pretty sure I’m going to die from this. But then, I remember—there’s still vodka. I’ve reached a point in my life in the Bahamas where nothing makes sense anymore, and at this stage, I’ve just accepted it.

Later, I prepare for the Halloween party. I dress in all black, throw a cheap hood over my head, and walk into the party as the Grim Reaper. Though I look more like a deranged Fosse dancer, I don’t care.

Paper tombstones fill the house, with cheeky epitaphs written on them for the "dead." Paper bats with the faces of the producers hang from the ceiling. The party’s in full swing when the news hits.

Someone’s drug test came back positive.

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