“I took the ticket and brought her the fucking car—that’s what I did!” Cash said. “I mean, anyone should be so lucky. She tipped me twenty bucks. I’ve got it framed in my house next to my Teen Choice Award.”
As the car crossed the Texas state line, Cash became more and more animated about the stories he told. He spoke with much larger gestures, kept getting louder and louder, and rocked back and forth as he recalled the events. His behavior made the others nervous—it reminded everyone of how he’d acted the night of Rosemary’s Abortion.
“Let me give you some tips in case you ever find yourself on a red carpet,” the actor said. “Always start with a small smile, because your expression grows the longer you hold it, and you don’t want to look like Pennywise the clown in the premiere photos of Frozen. Nothing is creepier than an adult who’s super excited to be at a children’s movie. Flex the muscles under your tongue and stretch your neck to avoid a double chin, make sure to exhale so you’re photographed at your slimmest, and for God’s sake, find something natural to do with your hands.”
“Thanks for the advice.” Topher laughed. “I can’t imagine we’ll be needing it anytime soon—”
“I’m not finished,” Cash said. “Don’t try to look sexy—because it doesn’t work when you try. Instead, just think of the punch line of your favorite dirty joke—that’ll translate better. And if you ever find yourself in front of photographers you weren’t expecting, like paparazzi, go into the bathroom and blot your face with one of those paper toilet seat covers. It’s gross, but it’ll take the shine off, and if you’re shiny under bright flashes, you’ll look drunk. And if you are drunk, never look directly at the camera—you’ll look more candid and less sloppy that way.”
“You’ve really got it down to a science,” Joey said.
“Can we talk about something else?” Mo asked.
“Yeah—I think we get it,” Sam said.
Despite their requests, Cash wouldn’t change the topic. He was like an old man recalling the era he grew up in.
“Also, always be cautious around reporters on red carpets. You have to triple-think every answer you give like you’re running for president. They’ll take whatever you say and run with it as far as they possibly can. If you casually mention how hot it is outside, they’ll post a story with the headline Actor Breaks Silence About Global Warming Views. If you say you like Batman, they’ll write Shocking Revelation: What Cash Carter Has to Say About the DC Universe. If you imply you like potato chips, they’ll write Wiz Kid Speaks Out About Americans’ Addiction to Processed Foods. And the worst part is reporters never mention the questions they asked—they act like you just randomly decided to declare something to the world—STOP THE CAR!”
Topher slammed on the brakes and the station wagon came to a screeching halt.
“What the hell was that about?” Topher asked.
Cash was pressing his hands and face against the window in the back as if he had just seen a long-lost family member on the side of the road. The other passengers looked, too, but all they saw was a junkyard with a bunch of banged-up old cars.
“Are you guys seeing what I’m seeing?” the actor asked.
“A staph infection waiting to happen?” Mo asked.
“Look at that car in the corner!” Cash pointed out. “It looks just like a Porsche 550 Spyder!”
He was referring to a small convertible sports car. The vehicle was so banged up it looked like it had been recovered from the bottom of the ocean. It was missing its headlights, none of its tires matched, and it had either a coat of faded brown paint or a layer of rust.
“How can you even tell it’s a Porsche?” Joey asked.
“Any actor would spot that—it’s a Hollywood icon,” he explained, but they didn’t understand. “A 550 Spyder is the kind of car James Dean famously drove around town. He called it his Little Bastard! I’ve got to get out and see if I’m right.”
Before the others had a chance to object, the actor swiftly hopped over the backseat, crawled over Joey, and stepped out of the car.
“Didn’t he just say he wasn’t going to make us stop again?” Topher said.
“I think we all knew that wasn’t going to last long,” Sam said.
Cash crossed the highway and walked along the junkyard’s fence. A massive bullmastiff and a small pug came out of nowhere and barked ferociously at him. It got the owner’s attention and he came to the front to see what all the noise was about.
“Doc! Marty! Heel!” the owner said, and approached Cash. “Can I help you?”
“Hi! My friends and I were driving down the highway and I couldn’t help but notice your Porsche. That doesn’t happen to be a 550 Spyder, does it?”
“It was a 550 Spyder.” The owner laughed. “Just like I was a quarterback once.”
Once his hunch had been validated, Cash gazed at the car like King Arthur observing the Holy Grail.
“Does the engine still run?” he asked.