Season 20, Episode 3 Cave of Blunders
“Cave of Blunders”
When Hartt slipped in the mud, it reminded me of my daughter falling on the playground—except she’s never cried as much,” I said, hitting the punchline hard.
A wry smile escaped Zara, but it vanished just as quickly.
Taking Shawn’s advice, I’d brainstormed harmless ways I could incorporate the kids into interviews without exploiting them.
At least that was the goal. As we finished my session, I briefly glimpsed a toddler in the snow on the home screen of Zara’s phone.
Did we actually have something in common?
“I didn’t know you had kids.”
“Nephew,” she replied, not looking up.
I knew I shouldn’t, yet… “I’m sorry, but did I offend you somehow?”
She squared her shoulders. “Luke, I don’t know what your previous producers were like, but your position here demands being candid about your life.
Mine, frankly, does not,” she said curtly.
“If you have questions about your contract, I’m your point person.
If you want to discuss your feelings, find Troy.
We fulfill different purposes. Now, please get Melange.
I need to interview her about eliminating Winston in the last Trial. ”
My knuckles sufficiently rapped, I found Melange upstairs, dressed like an archbishop at a drag show.
Shiny spiked epaulettes capped a red lace top and leather bra, her tresses crimped into a frenzy atop a crown of crucifixes.
She struck a pose proudly. “So, am I serving Vatican Versace realness or what?”
“Sorry, I’m not that kind of gay.”
She grimly gave my T-shirt and jeans the once-over. “No one thinks you are.”
“Zara’s ready for you.”
“And they’re ready for you down the hall.”
“Who? For what?”
She winked coyly over her glimmering shoulder. “Deal with the devil.”
I entered our increasingly musty bedroom to discover Troy against the wall, two camerawomen and a sound guy flanking him. PB reclined on the bunk across from mine in a cut-up Harvard tank top, fondling an old tape recorder.
“The man of the hour!” Troy exclaimed. “PB asked to film with you, and I thought interview day could afford you two some privacy.”
I nodded to the tape recorder. “What’s that for?”
“Occasionally one needs receipts, but you I trust,” PB said, tossing it aside and gesturing me to my bunk. “So, how do you feel about your position in the game?”
“As a one-man Bad News Bear?”
“You might be at the bottom of the rope, but guess who’s the schmuck clinging above you?” He smiled wryly. “We’re floating, just like Melange, and it’s time we three unite against Hartt’s alliance. Those unimaginative goons will target you two for the Trials every time.”
“I can handle the Trials.”
“Yeah, congrats on rediscovering your balls the other night, but you won’t win this game simply by surviving every elimination.”
“I have before.”
“When you were a child.”
I inhaled, not appreciating his smugness. “And you care what I do because…?”
“Because I can reverse our trajectory, but even I can’t dismantle that voting bloc alone.”
“If you’re such a wunderkind, why isn’t anyone else begging for your help?”
“Do you know I’ve won this show four times?” he asked, and it was hard not to be impressed. “That doesn’t come without pissing people off. You and I, however, have a clean slate. Plus, Melange likes you, and her instincts are razor sharp.”
“You’ve had a week to approach me. Why come courting now?”
“Would you align on day one with a total stranger who hasn’t competed in a decade? No offense, but you’re not exactly up to speed on the state of this union,” he replied. “Do you even know why I started Endeavor?”
I shrugged. For all I knew, he was setting me up to slice my throat.
He adjusted himself on his bunk, eyes not leaving me. “I was originally on Off the Wall.”
“With Vanessa. Definitely got that memo.”
“After school, I got a finance job right when OTW was casting. It was kismet. Fish jumping, high cotton, supermodels in champagne rooms, the Manhattan dream.” So reality TV snapped up PB out of college too, an echo of my own past that wasn’t lost on me.
Nonetheless, I wanted to prove he wasn’t the only one reading the room.
“Supermodels,” I repeated pointedly. “Is that when you dated Jiamin?”
His veneer cracked for barely a breath. “That’s when we got engaged.”
“Except now you don’t speak?”
“Well, this genius wanted to impress his flashy Beijing in-laws with, dare I say, a crazy rich wedding. When I had the opportunity at the firm to make extra funds, off the books—”
“You participated in insider trading?”
“Hopping on your high horse?” He raised those eyebrows, and I didn’t press. “Anyway, the Feds came calling with an offer: immunity for tattling on the higher-ups. I also lost my FINRA license, and you can’t be on a show about traders when you’re barred from being one.”
“And Jiamin?”
“Said she could live with a thief but not a liar. Very Ocean’s Eleven.”
“I can relate,” I replied. “Sorry.”
“I don’t blame her. I was a scrappy kid from Joliet, and she was… a goddess. I still can’t believe it took her that long to jump the shark.” He clapped his hands once, onward. “So there I am, unemployed in a Tribeca loft I can’t afford, when guess what?”
I knew this song. “The phone rings.”
“Inviting me to compete for $1 million in Botswana. If I was going to be a thief and a liar, why not do it legally?”
“Jiamin was already on Endeavor then too, wasn’t she?”
“Now he’s putting his Dartmouth degree to work.” PB smiled ruefully. “Jiamin had indeed done a couple seasons, but she quit the second she saw me, never to return. Until last week.” He shot a bitter glance at Troy.
“So, now that you’ve waltzed with the skeletons in my closet, shall we talk business?
” he asked, shifting lanes. “You’ve dominated the physical stuff every time you’ve competed, but someone else always manned the political chessboard for you.
You thrive with a partner. And unlike your past consiglieri, you don’t even have to blow me. ”
I glared. “Vanessa didn’t provide a ringing endorsement of how you treat allies.”
“Well, it’s tough when you’re aligned with someone who refuses to be saved. I’ve never voted against her, but she always implodes and leaves me cleaning up the craters,” he said evenly. “But I’m pretty sure you know a little something about friendships that come with their own line of baggage.”
I nodded grudgingly. “So if we team up, what’s your plan?”
“To start, destroy Hartt and Chrissy, our resident power couple.” His eyes lit up as he proceeded to outline scenarios based on years of the entire cast’s voting patterns.
“Except you’re forgetting one pretty big problem.”
“See, I never said you weren’t smart.” He grinned. “How to get Hartt and Chrissy into the Trial when they have the votes locked up?”
“Let alone guarantee they’re opposite Angels who can beat them.”
“Meaning Hartt and Chrissy skate by, making the season a snoozefest. But imagine Melange beating the Botox out of her cousin, or you pummeling Bizarro-Luke to smithereens? Clash of the Fucking Titans! TV gold!” he cackled, his gaze never leaving me.
“Your genius strategical assessment is… we’re totally doomed?”
“The Alliance of the Totally Doomed,” he murmured. “Long for a hashtag, but catchy.”
I couldn’t help but wearily laugh. As hopeless as PB’s schemes seemed, it was admittedly refreshing for the game to actually feel like a game and not a gulag.
“Look, do you want to keep toting your metaphorical albatross around all by your lonesome, or would you rather have somebody to shoot the shit with?” he asked. “Because if I have to spend another week discussing the nuances of CrossFit in broken English with Aspen, I’m holding you responsible.”
How I prayed I wouldn’t regret this. “To the Alliance of the Totally Doomed.”
His eyes blazed as he clasped my hand. “Long may we be fucked.”