Chapter 3 #3
Ben grimaces as he jumps jerkily to his feet, but Pete rolls his eyes and, after standing and stretching lazily, bumps his shoulder lightly against Ben’s and gives him a reassuring little smile. Then he takes a step ahead, draws in a deep breath, and enters the office first.
It doesn’t help, Ben tells himself. It does not help; of course it doesn’t help. Why would it help? What good is the brief pressure of Pete’s shoulder against his, in the scheme of things?
Ridiculously, stupidly, he feels the ghostly sensation linger anyway, seeming to nudge him into the room a step or two behind Pete, as though Pete himself is chivvying him gently along.
God, Ben needs to sleep; his brain is playing nasty little tricks on him, that’s all it is.
Nothing worth dwelling on—nothing he needs to worry about.
Rick is, at least, alone in the office. He’s seated behind his desk by the time Ben shuts the door; his elbows are resting on the frosted-glass surface, hands folded, chin sitting on top of them. He is, in a word, glowering.
“What did I say to you?” Rick says, glaring first at Pete. “Even you can’t have forgotten—it was only a week ago!”
“You said that the worst thing that could happen was for this to go well,” Pete admits, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand.
“Because if it went well, I’d have to do a bunch more of them, and since I’m such a disaster the minute we start rolling, I’d probably end up accidentally killing us all? ”
Sharply, Rick says, “That’s not what I—”
Pete waves off the rest of his sentence with an easy hand.
“Oh, don’t, I know. You said it would be bad because it would give the Formica executives an excuse to swoop in and change how everything works, but I have to say, I think my thing hits closer to the reality.
” He looks—a little sheepish, maybe, but that’s all.
None of the gut-churning anxiety that Ben himself is feeling appears to be manifesting for Pete in any way, in spite of the fact that working here is his full-time job, and so, of the two of them, he is at more risk of being in serious trouble.
But he seems cheerful enough as he adds, “But, in my defense, you told me to lean into my natural tendencies, which I did, and I’m really sure I did a bad job, so.
Can you blame me for this one? I don’t know. ”
“Which brings me to you,” Rick says, turning his glare on Ben. He turns his laptop around to face them without breaking gaze; it appears to have their video open, full screen, and Rick reaches over the top to hit play.
“Hi, I’m Pat!” the smaller, on-screen version of Pete says; the image freezes, and then, as a ghostly hand draws a little jester hat on Pete’s head, Ben’s voice-over comes in: “This is Pete.”
On-screen, the video cuts to Pete waving his knife in one gesturing hand and saying, “Uh—hey—has anyone seen my knife? Chef’s, six inches, wood handle—oh, I’m holding it.
” Then it cuts again, to Pete standing over a sizzling cast-iron pan full of chicken thighs and saying, “So for this recipe you want to burn the chicken—brown. Brown the chicken! You don’t wanna burn it, I said that because I think this batch is—yeah, yep.
Super burnt. Torched, actually. [BLEEP]!
” The image cuts again, this time to Pete singing softly to himself as he washes the kale.
“First, you put kale in! Then you give it a spin! Then you throw your croutons on—no, wait, what am I doing?”
There’s another cut, to the clip of Pete accidentally tossing his spoon in the air, and the video freezes with it poised mid-flight. Ben’s voice-over returns, wry this time: “If Pete can make this, anyone can. Even you. Maybe even your dog.”
Rick pauses the video again and resumes glaring at Ben, although Ben supposes it’s not as though he ever technically stopped.
“This is funny, Ben. It’s entertaining. I told you, didn’t I?
I was as clear as I could be without saying anything that could get me in hot water—don’t do too good a job, I said!
For the best if it’s a little unwatchable, I said!
But do you know what the internet loves, Ben? It loves to be entertained.”
Ben’s not usually great in a situation where someone is angry with him.
His move is generally to apologize, and then apologize some more, and then sullenly feel resentful about apologizing later when he’s had a chance to think it over and realizes he’s not sure he did anything particularly wrong.
So he doesn’t know where within himself he finds the gumption to jerk a thumb at Pete and say, “I think that’s his fault, really.
If he’d been able to do even an impression of a remotely normal human being, at all, it wouldn’t have come to this. ”
Pete snorts and then affects an expression of perfect, angelic innocence when Rick’s glare whips towards him. “What? It was a cough.”
“God help me,” Rick mutters, and closes his laptop screen.
“Look—I don’t have much time before the boss gets here, but I need the two of you to understand something, okay?
I think this is a doomed venture that we’re all going to regret embarking upon, but it’s too late for all that now.
Sometimes, even if you know it’s going to be a low-bite day, there’s nothing for it but to go out on the lake and give your worms a good soaking anyway.
” When Rick receives, in response to this, the blank stares of two people who are not committed to the art of fishing, he sighs, clearly disappointed, and carries on.
“People are going to get involved in this now. Powerful people, in this building. There’s only so much I can do, at this point, to keep an eye out for either one of you.
Pete, we’ve already talked about your… situation… and I’ll do what I can, but—”
“I know,” Pete says, and shrugs, and looks away. Ben wishes he’d say more, offer up a scrap of additional info to go off, but all Pete adds is, “It is what it is.”
Rick frowns, looking for a second as though he’s going to say more, and then dashes Ben’s hopes by turning to face him.
“You—look, this is not normally the advice I’d give, kid, but you’re in a tricky spot here.
This isn’t the kind of work you usually do, and with this traffic, they want someone more tested.
I lobbied for you, and I think it worked—the voice argument was pretty strong—but don’t try to push back here, okay?
Not yet. Just… agree, for now, until we can prove it wasn’t a one-off, and I can work the rest of it out.
Assuming you want to keep doing it, of course—editing for the show, that is. ”
“The… show,” Ben repeats, slowly.
“Yes,” Rick repeats, even slower, as though he’s talking to a child.
“This video has more than five million views now—they want a whole web show, Ben. Nine episodes to start, but probably more once they’ve worked out sponsorships—they want to cash in on the golden cow.
If you don’t want to do it, that’s one thing, but I figured…
” He sighs, and shakes his head, as though wrestling with some internal question, before he finishes, “Well, I think they’re going to go ahead with it either way, so.
I figured you’d probably want the option. ”
“They… want me,” Ben says, hardly daring to believe it, “to edit a show? Like, officially?”
“‘Want’ is a strong word,” Rick says with a grimace.
“I’d say it’s more of a—they’ve agreed to let you edit the show.
On a temporary basis. To see how it goes.
In case—and you understand that this is coming from them, not me—that video was a total fluke, and all you had in you creatively.
No offense or anything, but your resume doesn’t exactly… line up with this type of work.”
“I still think it’s ridiculous that they’re not offering a full-time role immediately,” Pete mutters, mulishly. “The whole thing is because of him! Without him it’s two hours of footage of me basically—”
“Your objections have been noted for the record,” Rick says sharply, with a quick glance towards his office door and a significant look at Pete, who clams his mouth shut tightly but manages to look a little mutinous about it.
Lowering his voice to a hiss, Rick adds, “And I don’t even disagree!
But we both know how it goes, okay, and there’s only so much I can do, so—can you trust me? That I’m trying?”
Pete folds his arms, and says, “Hmph,” which normally Ben would be interested to note is not exactly a yes.
He’s not interested to note it now, though.
He’s not interested in Rick’s obvious concerns, or the various signs that this whole situation is steeped in a layer of something he, Ben, does not yet understand.
He’s not concerned about the red flags, or what he’s going to do about his regular job, or the pay, or the fact that the executives didn’t want him on board.
He’s not concerned about making a decision like this on so little sleep, or while his whole body is trembling slightly from caffeine and shock.
He’s not concerned about anything at all.
He, Ben, is going to edit a show for Gastronome.
A real show! Sure, okay, a web show, and a weird show, and a show that’s going to involve quite a lot of difficult work that will make Ben want to throw his computer out a window, but Ben wants to throw his computer out a window several times a day already, so that’s a wash.
And, most importantly, it’s for Gastronome.
It was one thing, less real, when it was Rick’s weird attempted flop—a one-off, nothing job that didn’t count.
But this… Even if it doesn’t work out long term, Ben’s going to be able to put this on his resume.
It’s not just going to be technical editing and cutting together videos of weddings, or bar mitzvahs, or corporate conferences—it’s going to be a real creative job, for a real publication, with recognition and actual status and its name scrawled on several of Ben’s childhood Halloween costumes.
“Sure,” Ben says, even though his moment to say this in the conversation passed some time ago.
“I’ll—I’ll do it. Whatever you want, or the execs want, or whatever.
” Turning to Pete, abruptly realizing he doesn’t know the answer, he asks, “You’re doing it, right?
” before he can think better of it. Before he can remind himself that really, he shouldn’t care at all—if anything, he should want someone else, someone better and less all over the place on camera and not so distractingly good-looking that Ben ever finds himself staring at him like a dope.
And Pete… Pete gives Ben this look that Ben doesn’t quite understand, sad and surprised and pleased and sorry, all at once. When he speaks, his voice is quiet. “Yeah, I’m doing it. One way or another, I’m doing whatever Formica Media asks me to do.”
“Well,” says a voice from the waiting area, “isn’t that what we like to hear,” and Ben turns in time to see a tall, sharply dressed, auburn-haired woman walk through the door.