Chapter 16 #2
“So what’s the plan here, Pete? Did you just want to come on and tell us about it?
Are you hoping to appeal to fans of your show, asking that they contact Formica Media and tell them what’s what?
” Brian O’Malley is doing his best to appear innocent, as though he doesn’t know what’s coming, but through his swimming vision, Ben can tell the mask is starting to slip.
There’s a glimmer of devilish excitement in the man’s eyes: A true professional, a veteran of the industry, O’Malley is a man who knows good television when he’s about to make it.
With the hand that isn’t clutching his phone, Ben grips at the leather seat of the cab and digs his fingers into it as the camera swings back to Pete. What is he going to say?
“No, I hadn’t thought of that,” Pete admits, and then adds, “Yeah, honestly, if anyone watching does want to do that, don’t let me stop you.
It couldn’t hurt.” He pauses, taking another deep breath and seeming to steel himself.
“But really, if someone is going to right this wrong, the person with the best shot at it is me. I could refuse to do the show without Ben—they could fire me, too, sure, but it would be wasting all that momentum I built up for them. All I’d have to do is tell them we’re a package deal, and they’d probably reconsider. ”
Ben, no longer remotely aware of where the cab is in the city or even whether or not it’s moving, nods furiously at the screen.
He’s had that same thought a hundred times in the past two weeks, and it’s gratifying, in a strange way, to hear Pete say it, too.
So why didn’t you? he wants to scream at his phone, holding it in only out of respect for his cab driver, who so far has been mercifully non-chatty.
But Brian O’Malley, thank God, seems to be on the same page that Ben is: “So why didn’t you do that, then?” He’s hamming up the innocence so much now that he might as well be dripping with it; his eyes are gleaming with excitement. “Why not tell them no, if you think the show needs Ben?”
“Well, Brian, the truth is, I have a secret,” Pete says.
“And a few years ago, I trusted someone at Formica with that secret. That person and I were friends, when I made the choice to tell them—soon after, we stopped being friends, and I realized it was a huge mistake. Too late, though. It was made clear to me that unless I did anything and everything this person asked of me, my secret would… stop being a secret. And I have to tell you, man, I really did not want that to happen. I put a lot of work into burying that particular truth—I even changed my name—and so for a long time, I just went along. Did what was asked. It seemed better than letting all that work go to waste, or dragging all that old stuff back into the light.”
“But, Pete,” Brian says, with dramatically widened eyes, “that sounds like blackmail!”
Pete shrugs, obviously uncomfortable. “I’m not here to name names, or to throw accusations around.
That’s not what I want; that’s never what I wanted.
” He looks directly into the camera, and Ben nearly bites his tongue off with surprise, with the sense that Pete is looking right at him even though he knows, he knows, it’s impossible.
“I thought what I wanted was to live a quiet life, under the radar, anonymous and unknown. But it turns out that’s a lonely way to exist. What I really wanted—what I think we all really want—was the opposite: to be known, truly and deeply, by someone worth knowing.
Someone who makes me want to get out of bed in the morning just to talk to him.
” He swallows, still making direct eye contact with the camera.
“I had that, or I think I did, and then I screwed it up, and you know what? Living without it sucks more than living with the secret out in the open ever did. If it’s a choice between one of the other, as it turns out? Easy call.”
Ben lifts a hand to his mouth as Pete squares his shoulders, takes one final deep breath, and says, “My name’s Pete Bailey these days, but I used to be Pete Castillo, and even before the Gastronome show blew up, you might have seen my face. Brian, do you want to roll the—ah, yep. There it is.”
And Ben watches in overwhelmed silence, his heart so full he thinks it might burst in his chest like a tomato left too long in a hot pan, as the video and then the associated famous meme of Pete as a child plays for the entire audience of Late Night Live.
“Wow, yeah, I remember this,” Brian says, his tone light, after the clip ends. “It was everywhere for a while, wasn’t it? What was that like?”
“It was hell,” Pete says grimly. “I was a teenager when it went viral overnight, and I still hadn’t grown into my features yet, so I looked a lot like I had as a child, which is what I was in the original film.
So, suddenly, it felt like everyone recognized me, and uh, not in a good way.
The bullying got so intense at one point that I had to change schools—and eventually, like I said, I changed my name, so it wouldn’t follow me.
” He sighs and shakes his head. “But it followed me anyway, in the end, and I don’t want to spend my life hiding from it.
It’s too… I don’t know. Absurd, maybe? Wasteful? Stupid?”
“Maybe the best conclusion here is,” Brian says, clearly as much to the audience as Pete, “‘Don’t put embarrassing videos of your kids on the internet’?”
“Yeah,” Pete says. His tone is still heavy, but then he seems to get a handle on himself, and half-smiles. “I think that’s a good takeaway.”
“Always bizarre to revisit the ghosts of internet past,” Brian says conversationally.
“I feel like maybe I should ask you if I can haz cheezburger, just for the sake of continuity. Can’t quite bear to, though, so instead: Anything else you’d like to say to your viewing public?
Before I have someone escort you out with a fire extinguisher at the ready? ”
“Two quick things,” Pete says, looking back to the camera.
“Ben, if you’re watching—I’m sorry, okay?
I’m so, so sorry. I just panicked, and I know I handled it all wrong, but if you’ll give me another chance, I promise you, I’ll never make you regret it again.
” He pauses, seeming to rein back emotion, which makes Ben’s own heart twist in his chest.
Then, now sounding less pleading than angry, he adds, “And, of course, to my pals at Formica Media—you know who you are—this is my official notice that I’m not doing your show without Ben Blumenthal.
I straight-up won’t. You can try to mess me around however you want, but even if you do manage to force me in front of the camera, I’ll make sure every take is unusable.
You know I’m good at that, right? It’s practically my job description.
” He grins, looking abruptly and entirely wolfish. “Anyway. Your move.”
And then the camera’s panning back to Brian O’Malley, who’s saying, “Pete Bailey, everyone! After the break, we’ll be joined by our next guest—”
Ben doesn’t care about the next guest. He shuts his phone screen off and sits there, staggered, for a long moment. Then:
“Stop the cab.” The words are scraped out and hoarse, so quiet Ben almost doesn’t hear them; it takes him a second to realize they came from his own mouth.
The driver seems confused, too. She glances at him in the rearview mirror and says, “Hmm?”
“STOP the CAB!” Whoops; it’s too loud this time by such a wide margin that Ben and the cabbie both wince.
“Jesus H., dude, you don’t need to blow my eardrums out,” she complains. “I heard you the first time—you having some kind of freakout back there or what?”
“I’m not having a freakout,” Ben says, in the reedy tones of someone who is only a breath away from doing exactly that. “I just want you to stop the cab! So I can get out!”
Patiently—like she’s talking to a child, or an animal—the cab driver says, “The cab is stopped, man. We’ve been sitting in traffic for ten minutes. Are you good?”
“No,” Ben says, automatically, and then, as a smile that he’s sure looks totally unhinged breaks over his face, “Or, uh. Yes, actually, I am good—I’m so good.
I just, uh… I have to—change of plans—oh, hell, my suitcase.
” He pulls out his wallet, and, as he riffles through and glances at the meter, says, “Look, you know what? I’m not normally a trusting person, or somebody who’s rolling in dough, or someone who asks service workers to go outside their job description, okay?
But I will give you the entire fare I owe you, and another—uh—forty-three dollars?
If you will just take my suitcase back to the building where you picked me up and leave it with the super.
Tell him it’s for—you know what? Tell him it’s for Mrs. Collins, and she’s sending Ben to bring it up for her. Okay? Will you do that?”
“There a bomb in it?” The question is calm, measured. More inquisitive than concerned.
“Of course there’s not a bomb in it,” Ben snaps, annoyed, eager to be done with this conversation. “Why would there be a bomb in it?”
The cabbie shrugs. “You never know. Drugs, then? Contraband?”
“Underpants!” Ben cries, at the end of his rope.
“Shirts! More shoes than one person probably needs for a week in California! God, you know what, screw this, everything valuable is in my bag anyway. Here!” He shoves the handful of money at her and says, “I hope you don’t steal my suitcase, but if you do then—then—whatever!
Who cares! I have to go.” And he throws himself out of her cab, laptop bag firmly slung over his shoulder, before she can reply.