Chapter 6: THE 2:45 PREPARES FOR TAKEOFF – PART 1

 


Chapter 6: THE 2:45 PREPARES FOR TAKEOFF – PART 1

We’ve been warned repeatedly during our meetings about the dangers of poppy seed muffins, how they can cause a false reading in your blood, making it look like you’re on heroin. So now, we need to come up with another story. "Who is it?" we ask, glancing around. We've sat through countless drug speeches and seminars put together by the "Company" to show us the perils of a "wild" lifestyle.

I look around the room. No one's bingeing on snacks, no one's laughing uncontrollably, and no one's tracking their fingers with their eyes. All the signs they warned us about—signs of pot smoking—are nowhere to be found.

We feel like we’ve been dropped into a Shirley Jackson novel, the one where someone draws the black dot from the bag. I’m sure another speech about the dangers of drugs is coming. I'm 33 years old, and I feel like I can’t dress myself, feed myself, or even use the bathroom without getting a lecture on how to do it “correctly” from the Company. The rules, too—so many fucking rules—it's nearly impossible to keep track. The rulebook we’re handed has been rewritten so many times it’s practically unrecognizable. Point with two fingers, we’re told, when giving directions, so no one thinks you’re pointing directly at them. All I can think of is that one finger I want to point today.

At the party for the dead, one of my friends stumbles into the room so drunk that he closes one eye to focus on me. “Oh Christ!” he says, teetering on his six-inch heels. "I knew this would happen." His drink splashes out of the glass as he crashes onto the couch. I have no idea why he’s wearing heels today, yesterday, or any day, but I’m an early adopter of the “Don’t ask, don’t tell” policy.

Once again, what should be a celebration turns as sour as the milk in my fridge during a Bahamian blackout. No one feels like partying, but everyone sure as hell wants to drink.

The doorbell rings, and everyone jumps. We’re used to people walking in without knocking, so this must be something important. A cast member answers the door. Standing there is one of our performers, his face streaked with tears. Without warning, he blurts it out: “It’s me,” he says. “I’m the one who had the positive drug test. I smoked pot two weeks before I came to work for the company.”

“That’s it!” I shout. "Two weeks before? Christ, you don’t need to be Colombo to figure this out." We feel like we’ve cracked the case wide open—our alibi, the golden clause, the icing on the cake. We’re smug in our legal knowledge. “If you smoked pot two weeks before you were hired, there’s nothing they can do. You weren’t even under contract.”

“I already tried that defense,” he says meekly. "And it didn’t work." I can almost picture Power Suit sitting on high, her long white wig flapping in the wind, banging her gavel. A lesson must be learned, she screams.

So, we do what we do best. We help him pack.

 

 

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