Chapter 6 #5
“I’m actually weirdly familiar with a wide variety of moments you might categorize as less than your best,” Ben says, before he can stop himself.
“Not that I’m judging, or anything—the opposite—but like.
If I was going to care about that sort of thing, probably I would’ve thrown in the towel about six minutes into the first video, you know? ”
To Ben’s surprise and considerable relief, Pete lets out a shaky laugh and runs a hand over his face. “Well, that’s… probably true, yeah.”
Ben, emboldened by the magic of the beautiful beverage he’ll curse in the morning, decides to take this as permission to approach.
He steps closer, then leans against the low brick wall next to Pete at what he hopes is an appropriate distance away as he says, “Anyway, I wanted a break. I will always take one person over a whole party full of people—easier to keep track, if nothing else. Plus, did you know, I heard someone put peyote in the pierogies? I call that shocking.”
Pete laughs again, realer this time. “I did hear that somewhere, yes. Just from the one source, though, so I’m not sure how trustworthy it is.”
“Really? I heard that guy’s basically a genius,” Ben says lightly. “Speaking of which, here’s another banger of an idea—you want some of this drink? I don’t remember what they called it, but it’s good. Gin and lime and—St-Germain, I think?”
Pete takes a deep breath through his nose, as if trying to gather himself, and then releases it slowly through his mouth before he smiles lopsidedly at Ben and says, “You know what? Yeah, that sounds nice.”
Ben passes the glass over, and Pete takes a considering sip, then smiles. “Mm, yeah. A gin Collins, I think, with lime instead of lemon, and maybe some juniper infused in the simple. It’s good.” He takes another sip before passing it back. “Thanks.”
“Sure,” Ben says, and takes a sip himself. Then, half-convinced it’s a critical error even as he does it, he adds, “Are you okay?”
“Oh,” Pete says, and blinks at him for a second. Then: “Yeah. Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Well. To be honest. You don’t… seem okay,” Ben says, wincing slightly. “No offense.”
Pete pauses for a moment, taking this in. Then he sighs, and there’s a capitulation in his voice when he says, “None taken. I guess I probably don’t, do I.”
It’s not really a question and Ben doesn’t think it needs an answer; he offers Pete an apologetic little shrug instead and looks away, trying to make space for him to talk if he wants to.
The silence stretches, and Ben fights the urge to fill it with chatter, sarcasm, anything that isn’t the yawning void of anticipation—
—and then Pete says, low and unhappy, “Listen, the stuff in the videos, the way I… kind of… freak out?”
Ben tries not to let his voice go too dry as he says, “I’m familiar, yes.”
“It’s not… I’m not doing it as a bit, or a schtick, and I’m not, like, allergic to cameras.
” Pete punches out a breath, like it’s a marathon to get the sentence out, before: “I get like that when I’m trying not to have a goddamn panic attack.
I’ve got some weird stuff about, uh… fame, or whatever.
So being in front of a camera like this is…
It kinda… makes it hard to… hold it together. ”
“Oh,” Ben says, a little surprised, but only by the bit about fame being at the root. As far as Ben’s early cursory Googles turned up, Pete Bailey’s fame extends to recipe bylines, but he doesn’t think this is the moment to pry. “I mean—jeez, man. That sounds like it really sucks.”
Pete takes another huge breath. “Yeah, I don’t love it, to be honest with you.
I really thought about quitting, but—look, it would be too hard to explain, but I can’t afford to walk away from this right now, even if it means I have to be in front of a camera.
I just can’t. But seeing those guys—their Halloween costumes… I don’t know. I couldn’t deal.”
“Yeah, that makes sense,” Ben says, trying to keep his voice gentle.
It’s not one of his more typical registers, outside of trying to sweet-talk Roux into taking necessary, life-saving medication, so he hopes he’s hitting the right note.
Knowing he’s going to hate the answer, he can’t help but ask: “Do you have a panic attack after every shoot, then?”
Pete winces, looks away for a second. But then he looks back, and his voice is steady if sheepish as he admits, “I, uh… Yeah. Pretty much.”
Ben thinks, but does not say, a variety of colorful swear words; that’s bad, is what that is, and not at all sustainable.
For himself, an incredibly anxious and neurotic person who can get stressed out over a glass of water, Ben tries to hold a hard limit at three work-related panic attacks per business quarter—anything more than that is edging into territory too damaging to his equilibrium to be manageable.
But someone like Pete, who seems by and large to be a fairly affable person, not easily rattled, calm and unbothered in the face of change, should not be having any work-related panic attacks per business quarter, let alone five to ten, and maybe dozens.
How often is he getting recognized? Does this happen every time?
Ben’s been harboring secret, silly thoughts about making a real career out of this show, but he’s not going to be able to do that if it’s eating away Pete’s will to live.
This isn’t the time for any of that, though.
This is not about Ben; this is not about the show, or Gastronome, or stupid Chris downstairs, not bothering to pay Pete any attention at all.
This is about Pete, who is here, right now, on this cold, empty rooftop, breathing faint little clouds into the air, telling Ben something he can tell without having to ask that he has not talked about with anyone.
This is exactly the kind of moment that Ben traditionally mishandles, and so he tries to think slowly and carefully, to move with purpose and forethought.
What he decides, eventually, to say, is: “I’m so sorry, Pete. That sounds really hard. I know—obviously—I’m probably tangled up in the whole nightmare of the thing for you, but. Is there anything I can do? Anything that helps?”
Pete turns to look at him, his expression abruptly wide-eyed, his mouth parting slightly in surprise.
He reaches up a hand to run through his hair, pushing the top half of the hot dog suit off of his head as he does, so it sits behind his neck like a hood.
Pete’s hair is wild and mussed from its time in this costume, and for a second Ben can feel his whole body thrum with the urge to reach out and work it back into place, rake his fingers through the curls until they’re tamed into something approaching an order.
He wants to do it so badly his fingertips itch, and he rubs then slightly frenetically against the rough edge of the brick, trying to override the sensation.
Luckily, Pete doesn’t seem to notice this.
He’s still looking at Ben like Ben himself is a peyote-short-rib-induced hallucination, a ghostly apparition, or some other impossible phantasm.
Ben… can’t totally work out why. It was a simple enough question, wasn’t it?
Maybe he has something on his face, or in his teeth; he hopes not.
But surely, if that was the case, Pete would have noticed before now?
Ben has no choice but to sweat it out, so he waits for what feels like an eternity even though it can’t be more than a few seconds.
Finally, Pete says, “I don’t know, actually. What helps. I’ll… think about it.”
“You do that.” Ben offers him a small, hesitant smile. Then, thinking longingly of his peacoat, he adds, “For now, though, did you want to like—stay up here? I can leave you alone, obviously. Or I could go get Chris—”
“No,” Pete says, and shudders. Then, more quietly, he adds, “Sorry, that’s not—Chris is great, this just isn’t really, uh…
his area.” Ben decides, with the help of another sip of his drink, that he hates Chris.
Pete does not seem to notice this as he continues, “If you don’t mind.
I don’t want to stay up here all night or anything, but would you just hang out with me for a few more minutes? ”
“Oh,” Ben says, warmed through suddenly, forgetting about his jacket. “I mean—yeah, sure. If you want.”
Pete nods, and Ben settles back against the wall.
Within a minute, the conversation has turned to the food downstairs; within five, they’re laughing about some nonsense joke Ben doubts he’d even be able to explain to anyone else.
By the time they return to the party fifteen minutes later, Pete’s smile is bright and his eyes are clear, and he breaks off to check in with Chris in a great mood, his earlier despair forgotten for now.
Ben sighs, watching Pete smile at something Chris whispers in his ear, swallows down the last sip of his drink, and walks away. Through the party; through the empty halls; through the coat check, where he is reunited at last with the glorious warmth of his peacoat.
Abruptly too drunk for logic or good decisions, Ben makes his unsteady way to the nearest subway station essentially on autopilot, and rides the twenty-five minutes home in the slightly swaying fashion of the properly sauced.
He doesn’t talk to anyone, but he watches as he rides, taking in the uniformed woman struggling to keep her eyes open, the old man reading a Tolstoy novel, the scowling teenager glaring into space.
He’s struck, suddenly, with the knowledge of how separate they all are, even packed tight into the same densely layered city, the same unlikely tin car bulleting under the ground: together, undeniably—but, equally undeniably, alone.
As Ben walks the few blocks from his usual station back to his apartment, under the sort of soft, forgiving street lamplight he’s grown fond of lately, he thinks again of Pete.
His easy laughter; his complicated competence; the way he always seems to get Ben’s jokes, no matter how stupid or off-kilter or strange.
New York never sleeps, so the streets are still pockmarked with anonymous people, striding and shuffling about their singular business; surrounded by the safety of just being another soul amongst the rabble, Ben’s drunken, treacherous heart twists in his chest, and opens the door beyond which he keeps things he doesn’t want to know.
Ben takes a long, sobering look at the looming truth behind that door, its inarguable shape and unmissable features, the way it seems, already, to be threatening to break containment.
Then he takes a firm grip on the door’s metaphorical knob, and slams it shut.