Chapter 9
NINE
The next morning dawns painfully—some might even say agonizingly—bright.
At least, Ben thinks so, although it might be his hangover talking.
He pours himself out of bed like so much blackstrap molasses, feeling equally bitter and ill-suited to most basic cooking tasks, and elects not to bother making himself breakfast. He stops at the nearest bodega, waits in an interminably long line, and orders a bacon, egg, and cheese instead, grimly housing it on the sidewalk directly outside.
He barely tastes it, but dutifully chews and swallows anyway, willing the grease to revive him.
It doesn’t really, and so Ben makes his way through his Friday morning meeting block on twenty-seven with bad grace, snappish and jumpy and sharper than he usually allows himself to be at the office.
People notice; Jessica, standing ten feet away and holding a can of disinfectant spray in front of her as though it’s some kind of weapon, asks if he’s feeling all right.
He is not feeling all right—he is feeling as though someone has taken a jackhammer to the back of his head, and also as though he’d like to be roundly sick into whatever trash can’s nearest. When she eagerly shoos him out before the next conference call can start, he happily goes.
He stops up at the Gastronome offices intending just to say hello—his edits on the Thanksgiving videos are all done and submitted to S he looks down and realizes his hand is on Pete’s arm without having ever received clearance to land, but Pete doesn’t shake him off, so he decides, for now, to press on.
“It’s fine. You’re still ten minutes early for your call time; I didn’t leave. It’s all okay.”
Pete stares at him for a second, and then nods, sucking in a huge breath. And then another. And then a third. After the fourth one, Ben says, “Pete? Are you… um… good?”
“I don’t want to do this, man,” Pete says, his voice low. “It’s going to be so bad, everyone’s going to see it, it’s going to be that whole mess when I was a kid all over again—”
“Hey,” Ben says, with a confidence he doesn’t feel, and squeezes Pete’s arm lightly.
“It’s not going to be like that again. For one thing, it’s not the early 2000s anymore; when’s the last time you’ve seen someone rolling around in a pair of Heelies?
” Pete laughs, so Ben, encouraged, continues.
“Also, you’re an adult, and also, sorry, but: You’re a disaster on camera like multiple times per week anyway? ”
“Thanks,” Pete says dryly, but he sounds grimly amused now, as opposed to panicked. “That means a lot, really.”
“Hey,” Ben says, letting go of Pete’s arm because he definitely should have already, “I’m not knocking you being a disaster on camera!
As it turns out, that works for people. It’s practically a superpower, so there’s no point in worrying about it.
This? One measly little five-minute segment on a show people regularly forget is even on?
It’s all going to be fine, man, even if you screw something up.
You’ll see—there’s only so off the rails this can go. ”
Ben means this very sincerely. He’s also very sincerely wrong.
The first impression Ben has of Studio 8B, where Late Night Live with Brian O’Malley has apparently been filming for the last fourteen years, is not dissimilar to stepping into some incredibly loud mass event, like a rock concert, or maybe gladiatorial combat.
There are so many people, all of them running and shouting urgently to one another—someone is frantically doing makeup on an actor who appears to be asleep across a desk—there’s a large sign plastered up against one wall which reads: Late Night Live: If You Can Read This, Good Luck!
He glances over at Pete, and is unsurprised to find him looking terrified.
Ben doesn’t get a chance to say anything to him, though.
Frankly, Ben doesn’t even get a chance to take in their surroundings, beyond observing that they seem to be in a long, wide hallway containing several chairless desks, off which there are a number of doors leading to God knows what.
Regardless, they aren’t there long; they’re approached immediately by a harried-looking, dark-haired woman holding a pen and a clipboard, who snaps, “Pete Bailey? Jesus Christ, finally, it took you long enough! You were supposed to be here an hour ago.”
“I was?” Pete looks baffled. “Miranda told me—”
“Who on earth is—actually, you know what, I don’t care and it doesn’t matter,” the woman says. “I’m Priyali; I’m the associate director. Is this what you’re wearing? Who are you?”