You Can’t Be Serious(94)

“COUNTIT,” he said.

I emptied the cash on the table. Bills spilled out, and I counted $5,500. The phone rang.

“Everything okay?” It was Gangster Producer. “Car is downstairs.”

“Hang on a minute, man. This is only half of what you owe me.”

“Correct. You have two days of filming remaining, so second half you’ll receive tomorrow. Car is downstairs.”

Unbelievable. Even after sending Teeny Panda Giraffe Uncle to deliver half my salary in cash in a brown paper bag, this dude was trying to negotiate again. I suppose by his weird logic he wanted an assurance that I would show up at work the next day too. I locked the $5,500 away in the in-room safe and went downstairs, wondering, What if the bills are fake? I reasoned that there was no point in stressing about it because “there’s no way that money is going to still be there when I get home tonight anyway.”

When I got to the set, people were going about their business as if I hadn’t just held up production and arrived a few hours late. They all knew how the game worked.

The rest of the day was enjoyable without having the business aspect of things hanging over my head. When I got home that night, I was surprised to see that the money was still in the safe. I hadn’t slept that well since I’d arrived.

The following morning the situation repeated itself: The producers sent the car at seven thirty. I said I wasn’t going. Teeny Panda Giraffe Uncle came to my room with the second payment of $5,500 in a wrinkled brown paper bag, this time wearing a disappointingly normal beige shirt like the dudes at the airport. I went to work for my last day and finished the film.

Back at the hotel that night I was restless. These people know that you have eleven thousand in cash with you. They’re supposed to take you to the airport tomorrow evening. What if they send Teeny Panda Giraffe Uncle back, this time to steal the money? Or steal your kidney? Or slit your throat? Or steal your kidney, slit your throat, and THEN steal the money?

I plotted an escape from the hotel.

First step: I crept down to the empty lobby in the middle of the night and settled my bill with the front desk. That way I’d have the best chance of noticing if someone was watching me. But I didn’t officially check out, so I could mislead everyone into thinking I was still in my room. In the morning, I could disappear without any fanfare. If anyone did ask, I would say I was going to run an errand or visit family. I had this thing all figured out.

At 11 a.m., six hours before I was supposed to be picked up, I took the $11,000 out of the safe and counted it again. It was all still there. I put my laptop, passport, and the cash in my backpack, and walked down fourteen flights of stairs. I slipped out a side door, feeling ten percent like Jason Bourne and ninety percent like Kevin McCallister sneaking out of the Plaza in Home Alone 2. Merry Christmas, ya filthy animal.

Through an alley and around the corner from the hotel, I hailed a rickshaw. In passable Hindi, with my luggage and my backpack full of dead presidents, I told the driver to take me to the international airport, fast. I checked in early and cleared security, hopeful that Gangster Producer’s reach didn’t extend this far.

I boarded the plane and breathed a sigh of relief. I was in the clear! Away from Gangster Producer, Teeny Panda Giraffe Uncle—even the immigration auntie who called me fat. I was ready to get apologized to by British people on the return flight to LA.

As the plane approached LAX, customs forms were distributed. (“So sorry, sir, we should have handed these out sooner.”)

I’ve filled out these forms many times. They’re straightforward: No, I’m not bringing any snails or other wildlife with me. No, I haven’t been in close proximity to livestock. But when I came across question thirteen, my stomach dropped: Are you carrying currency or monetary instruments over $10,000 U.S. or foreign equivalent: □ Yes □ No

I have $11,000 with me! I have to check the Yes box. What does that mean?! I turned the form over as instructed. “The transportation of currency or monetary instruments, regardless of the amount, is legal. However, if you bring in to or take out of the United States more than $10,000, you are required by law to file a report on FinCEN 105 with U.S. Customs and Border Protection.” That’s fine, right? This is my legal pay. That I earned.

I felt so shady. Was it legal to be paid in cash like this, or just to carry the cash? What if the bills that Teeny Panda Giraffe Uncle gave me were actually fake? These dudes already forged bank escrow documents. Now I was going to be transporting these fake bills through customs into the United States. This was not good.

I declared the $11,000 on the customs form and waited in line, sweating the whole time. My turn came. I was assigned to a twenty-four-year-old customs officer named Parker who immediately lost his damn mind. “I’m a huge movie fan, especially comedies, bro! Especially comedies. Hahahaha, whaaaat!?! How is Kal Penn in my line right now? This is so crazy! You don’t have any weed with you, right? Hahaha, that would be sick if I got to bust Kumar for weed.”

I love my fans unconditionally, but I must have looked super annoyed. Officer Parker took a deep breath, acting like the last thirty-eight seconds hadn’t happened. “So, what brings you here today, sir. You have something to declare?”

I had to be completely transparent. I told Officer Parker the entire story of the $11,000 in cash I was carrying: about the wire transfers and escrow, Gangster Producer’s lies, the forged documents, the bank holiday excuses (“I mean how many bank holidays does India have?”), and Teeny Panda Giraffe Uncle dropping off the two bags of $5,500, “which I hope is not counterfeit cash.”