You Can’t Be Serious(92)
“I’ll have a glass of water, please.”
“Would you like—”
“—no ice, please.”1
Eight seconds later, she returned. “Here’s your water, sir, and apologies for taking so long.” I considered asking her to stop apologizing but didn’t want to be disrespectful to rich-people culture. (Also… I kinda didn’t mind it?)
I had had the opportunity to fly business class—and on the rare occasion first class—on long-haul international flights for previous jobs (like The Namesake and Superman Returns), but always on more budget-friendly airlines.2 Those cabins were nowhere near as fancy as this. Aside from the awkwardness of the over-the-top service, this whole situation was objectively pretty awesome. The seat was complete with a side lamp and a big TV. If you pushed a few buttons, it would flatten into a bed, which of course the flight attendants also apologized for. “Sir, I’m so sorry I didn’t ask you sooner. Would you like a rest? Shall I push the buttons for you?”
The food situation was the bomb, and they served it on glass plates with silverware, not in a plastic TV dinner container with a peel-off cover. They even had fancy champagne. Goodbye glass of no-ice water!
Halfway through the flight, the woman in front of me turned around to tell me she was a big fan of House.
“Holy moly, you’re Diana Ross!”
How had I not noticed that she’d been sitting in front of me the whole time?!
“Thank you, Ms. Ross!” I said. “I’m such a big fan of yours too!” If you’re unfamiliar, Diana Ross is an icon. Motown. R&B. Soul. AND, she played Dorothy in the 1978 film adaptation of The Wiz. “You know,” I said, trying to connect deeper, “I played the Tin Man in our eighth-grade production.” Diana Ross looked past my drama club approach with a smile. She was really polite and friendly, and I loved chatting with her while the flight attendants distributed fancy chocolates that I couldn’t eat because I’m allergic to tree nuts.
If my grandfather were still alive, he would’ve first reprimanded me for drinking alcohol but then would’ve started shedding tears of joy at the sight of British people serving his Indian grandson and a Black American woman, and not the other way around. We made it, Grandpa! Brushes shoulders off
* * *
I landed in Mumbai not wanting to deplane.
I was greeted at the immigration checkpoint by a nice Indian lady in her midforties. “Passport, please.”
“Of course, here you go.”
“Oh! You are Mr. Kal Penn? Theeee ACTOR?!”
“Yes, I am. Nice to meet you.”
Her smile faded. A serious look of concern and disappointment took over. “You’ve put on weight.”
What the fuck?
Where were those polite British people who were paid to be nice to me? Bring them back!
I exited the airport to find what felt like the full population of all one billion Indians crowded around the arrivals door. I called up one of the producers, who was waiting for me in the crowd. “Bol,” he answered in an intimidating voice, using the Hindi word for speak. “Hey dude, it’s Kal Penn. I’m at the airport, just trying to figure out where to meet you.”
“Mr. Kaaaal Pain,” he said, “I’m just here.”
“Sweet, which one are you?”
“Have you come out from the door? When you come out from the door, I’ll just be there.”
I looked at the mob of people waiting, and they all looked the same to me, and before you tell me I’m being racist, you should know that each person was a five-foot-seven-inch-tall brown man in a beige short-sleeve, button-down shirt with a half-inch-thick black mustache. Half of them had silver cell phones sticking out of their front pockets.
“You see me? I’m just here.”
“Sorry, which one are you? I’m standing right in front of the arrivals door.”
“Do you see the sign for the Costa Coffee?”
“Yes.”
“I’m just there.”
After several “just here”s and “just there”s, I found the producer. On the bumpy ride to the hotel, he made every effort to reassure me that the escrow of the $11,000 was done. “I have personally myself confirmed it. It has been received in Los Angeles. You don’t worry.” He also nonchalantly mentioned that in addition to being a movie producer, he was some sort of construction magnate. In the New Jersey of my late-’80s childhood, urban legend had it that a construction magnate was often code for a gangster, usually someone in the mafia. Was the urben legend the same in India too?3
I checked into the hotel before rehearsal and called my agent to say I arrived safely. What hadn’t arrived, she promptly informed me, was the $11,000. Why would Gangster Producer lie about this? I confronted him after the first rehearsal.
“Just a simple miscommunication,” he said. He showed me a piece of paper confirming a wire transfer for $11,000 from the Bank of India to my agent’s escrow account in Los Angeles. “See? It’s there. It has been sent. Just not received. These things can take up to a week to process. You don’t worry.”
Filming started the following day, so I decided to table any concerns about delinquent payments for a few days. It was time to focus on the work I had traveled there for. I dove into my craft. Even though Gangster Producer was sketchy, the exact opposite was true of the cast and crew I was working with. They had all worked together several times before and didn’t hesitate to make me feel like a member of the family. My fellow actors wasted no time inviting me to dinner and making every effort to ensure that I was comfortable. The shoot was going great. When I checked back in with my agent a week later, the money still hadn’t arrived.