VIEW THE PRODUCT – PART 21

 WE VIEW THE PRODUCT – PART 21

The "welcome to Italy" meeting is held in the hotel bar—a fitting venue, given how badly some of us already want a drink. Everyone’s present, eyes darting, smiles tight. It’s one of those situations where your body shows up, but your soul lingers by the exit.

One of the executives involved in the firing of the dead is there. Instinctively, we do a headcount. He’s the kind of man who wore trust like a rented tuxedo—looked the part, but never really owned it. I knew him from before this job, and once believed I could trust him. That illusion would unravel when I learned that every "private" conversation we had—each sworn secret—was immediately passed up the executive chain. I confronted him about one particularly sharp betrayal, something only he could’ve leaked. He denied it, of course. But his fingerprints were all over the knife.

Still, the cast is quietly panicked. We’ve come this far—Italy!—and yet a sense of dread lingers. Would they really fly us all the way here just to fire us again? Absolutely, we all think. With this company, anything is possible. We sit like children on cracked eggshells, holding our breath.

We’re told we’ll be receiving a larger per diem than we did in the Bahamas. That’s something, at least. Since Italian laundry options are either nonexistent or extortionate, we’re also getting a laundry stipend. Most of us just buy clotheslines and hang underwear in our showers like rebellious teenagers.

The Assistants are staying at a different hotel, just across the train tracks. It’s a short walk away—through the station, up a side alley—and also where the Director, Choreographer, and any visiting executives or costume and casting staffwill be staying. Useless is there temporarily, before she’s moved into our hotel to continue her reign of poorly executed leadership.

We’re handed access passes to the shipyard. They include our photos, company information, and the name and number of the director’s secretary—who, I will later learn, is the one honest, competent person on staff. She’ll become a lifeline. The kind of person who answers the phone when everyone else disappears. I will eventually thank her with more sincerity than I’ve ever offered anyone on this job.

By mistake, I’m handed an executive pass, which gets me into areas normally restricted to high-level staff. “Your real one will be ready in a day or two,” someone says, but I keep it as a souvenir—and as a secret weapon. It comes in handy. Many times.

Casting tells us we’ll be staying in this hotel for our entire time in Italy—except for ten days during Carnivale, when we’ll be moved to a “luxury Greek cruise ship.”

Power Suit stands up and tells us she’s personally seen the brochure and that the ship is “just lovely.”

(Later we’ll learn that either she was handed a brochure for another ship entirely—or she has an incredibly dark sense of humor.)

Other details emerge: we’re expected to tip hotel staff, and rehearsals will be held in a local gym. We’re even told we’ll get a discount on a gym membership, so we can “stay in shape” when not being used in rehearsal.

Ah yes. Used. The correct term.

The meeting wraps. The lies are wrapped in Italian hospitality and corporate charm, so it all goes down easy—for now.

That night, we eat our first meal on Italian soil. Real pasta. Real wine. For a moment, the dream feels real again. I sleep deeply, almost peacefully.

Morning comes fast.

Vans—rented once again by the company—shuttle us to the shipyard. We climb aboard, still groggy. Excitement and dread play tug-of-war in our chests.

When we arrive, we’re divided into groups of five. Each person is handed a hard hat—a necessary detail we’d once laughed about but now wear with grim purpose. We walk toward the "product."

It looms before us—towering, skeletal, unfinished. From tip to tail, it's the size of the Empire State Building. Its sheer scale is awe-inspiring and terrifying. We climb the gangplank, dodging wolf whistles and exaggerated gestures from the Italian shipyard workers, who treat the women in our cast like pin-up posters come to life. They make kissing noises, grab their crotches, and mime enormous breasts like it's a national sport.

Inside, it’s a war zone of steel, sparks, and exposed wires. The ship is a maze of half-built structures and dangling hazards. Sparks rain down from welding torches. Metal groans under pressure. Pipes hiss and pop.

Our tour guide gestures enthusiastically: “Over here is where the stage will be. Over there, beautiful lights will cascade from the ceiling!”

We stare at wires sparking against beams, their little zzzt zzzt sounds like Morse code for run.

Somewhere in the distance, a siren begins to wail.

A warning.

An omen.

Or maybe just Italy saying, "Welcome to hell, Americanos."