Tribesmen Read Free Page B

to sleep on the cramped, turbulent plane.
    “That’s Umberto Luigi. He also goes by Brent Cisco, his American stage name.”
    “He can’t speak English, but he has an American stage name?”
    “Well doesn’t he look American to you?” Jacque asked.
    “His hair is blonde, but there’s just something Italian about him. Some kind of extra quality,” she said. She was the most polite and demure New York girl that Jacque had ever met.
    “Could be that every time he exhales, my eyes tear up from all the garlic and bad cologne, couldn’t it?”
    She chuckled and covered her mouth the way Geishas in old Japanese movies did when they laughed. Jacque liked that. Maybe this job wouldn’t be so bad.
    “Hello, my darling.” A thick plume of cigarette smoke heralded Tito’s approach. Before the smoke had a chance to clear, he was leaning over Umberto’s seat, his sweaty old-man gut pressing up against the big unconscious Italian’s ear. “My exotic jewel, my starlet for a new age, my mulatto Fay Wray for the 1980s.”
    Tito’s accent was in full swing, but his English was perfect. Jacque suspected that he turned it on and off at will. Tito sank down lower, going in for the kiss and spilling his drink onto Jacque’s notebook. Cynthia offered only her cheek, not wanting to kiss the old Euro-pervert.
    Jacque breathed a sigh of relief. He didn’t think he could handle watching this lovely girl lock lips with Tito Bronze.
    “Hey you, uh, Jacque,” Tito said, pretending to forget his name and slurring enough that Jacque could tell he was halfway drunk. He cringed to think that he’d spent enough time around Tito (three films now) to tell when he was sloshed. “Where is Denny? I look everywhere for Denny. I want to talk about apertures, f-stops, light meters, all that shit.”
    If he was trying to impress Cynthia by discussing the finer points of cinematography, he was doing a terrible job of it.
    “I don’t know,” Jacque said. The cabin was only about twelve feet long. Jacque made an exaggerated attempt to look for Denny, the camera man, even turning around in his seat to check behind him. “I don’t see him, do you? Maybe he’s in the bathroom.”
    “That fucking kid has some kind of bladder problem. He’s always on the shitter,” Tito said. He took a sip of his scotch and then flashed a caustic smile back at Cynthia. “Ciao, bella,” he winked and stumbled off to find his seat, fighting a losing battle against both the turbulence and his buzz.

Chapter 3
    Dennis Roth
Cinematography
    The touchdown of the small plane jolted Denny awake. The needle in his arm bobbed up and down until it finally clattered to the floor of the cramped bathroom.
    He rubbed his eyes and then worked the strip of rubber tubing from around his arm into a loop and tucked it into his back pocket. After he daubed a bit of toilet paper against the flecks of semi-dried blood in the crook of his arm, he tried to stand. Failing, he flopped back down into his seat.
    His closed his eyes for another moment, re-awoke to banging on the bathroom door.
    “I’m coming,” he yelled as he stood up from the toilet.
    The water from the sink flowed out a dribble at a time and Denny was too impatient to fill his hands before wiping the few drops on his face and beard. He rolled his sleeves down over his pale skinny arms and buttoned the cuffs.
    His shirt was sticking to his flesh. This was no good: he was already caked in sweat and he hadn’t even stepped foot on the tropical island yet.
    Around this time last year, he would have inspected himself in the mirror to make sure that he hadn’t drooled down the front of his shirt, and paused to ask himself why he kept doing this. But he didn’t even bother doing that much anymore.
    Denny took a deep breath before undoing the latch and sliding the door open, shielding his eyes against the light of the cabin.
    “Where have you been? Did you fall asleep?” Jacque asked, tossing him his duffle bag.