Chapter 1 #3
I haven't done anything except sit here, following Gary's instructions like a good little boy, trying desperately to blend into this world of practiced indifference and invisible games.
This feels... demeaning. The word forms in my mind, sharp and painful. It's more than just embarrassment—it's a stripping away of my dignity, piece by painful piece, all for the entertainment of people who see me as nothing more than a prop in someone else's show.
I do the only thing I know how to do. I retreat to the script, reading my lines as if Vince's little stunt never happened. Stick to the script. That's what Gary said. That's all I have to do.
I manage to keep things on track for a few minutes, my voice steady as I read my lines, but I can feel Vince's eyes on me like laser beams burning through the side of my skull.
His gaze is intense, calculating, and I know with a certainty that settles deep in my bones that he's just waiting for the perfect moment to strike again. It's a predator's patience.
The script becomes my lifeline, my shield against whatever verbal assault Vince has planned.
My eyes scan the words, but they're just black squiggles on white paper, meaningless against the backdrop of my racing thoughts.
I can hear my own voice, but it sounds distant, disconnected, as if it belongs to someone else entirely.
Sweat beads on my forehead, each droplet a tiny bead of liquid anxiety trickling down my temples.
And then it happens. The moment I've been dreading since he first compared me to a cartoon shepherdess. Vince leans in closer, his expensive shirt rustling against the wooden table, the scent of his cologne—something woodsy and expensive—invading my personal space.
"You know," he says, his voice low and intimate, a conspiratorial whisper that somehow carries across the entire studio, "I bet you're really good at herding sheep, Andy." The name lands like a punch to the gut again.
"Fact of the matter is, one of our contestants, Marshall, is recovering from a knee injury and still decided to be part of today's games." I say, looking back at the papers in my hands, my voice barely steady. "He's really risking everything in hopes of winning this cash, Vince. Actually, before—"
"Relevant question," Vince cuts in, his voice smooth as silk. "Do you write Andy on the bottom of all your shoes?"
I freeze, my eyes locked dead-on with the camera lens. The script trembles slightly in my grip against the wooden desk. I can feel Vince's amused stare burning into the side of my face, but I refuse to turn toward him.
Of course I've seen Toy Story. I know exactly what he's talking about, but I didn't drag my ass across town in these suffocating dress shoes to be publicly ridiculed for an hour.
Vince pivots back to face the camera and crew, whose eyes remain glued to us. He possesses this bizarre ability to be utterly ridiculous while maintaining an air of professionalism, as if he's the most competent man in the room. I've never encountered anyone quite like him.
Is this his "character"? Is he just "on" right now?
What kind of character is this supposed to be?
Who is Vince, really? Who is the man who offered me that genuine smile earlier?
The one that actually reached his eyes, that made me feel seen for a split second before he retreated behind that camera-ready mask?
My brain struggles to keep up with the rapid-fire humor this show seems to demand.
It's like trying to catch rain in a thimble—each joke lands before I can even process the last one, leaving me drenched in confusion and inadequacy.
I'm completely out of my depth here, uncertain if I'm succeeding or failing miserably.
The script in my hands might as well be written in hieroglyphics for all the good it's doing me.
"I write Vince on the bottom of mine," he continues, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone. "As of today, I have yet to lose a shoe."
In the periphery of my vision, I can see Vince turn toward me, his gaze like a physical weight on the side of my face.
He's watching for my reaction, waiting for me to crack under the pressure of his ridiculous joke.
I might have shot him a glare without fully turning my head, a brief flash of defiance that probably goes unnoticed in the harsh studio lights, but I quickly redirect my gaze back to the camera lens, my jaw tight.
"Not joking, Andy," Vince says, and I can still feel his eyes on me, practically pleading for me to respond, begging me to look at him.
The name lands like another punch to the gut, but this time I refuse to flinch.
His voice is smooth, practiced, but there's something beneath it—a hint of desperation, maybe, a need for validation that he's actually being funny.
"Not even one."
His desperate need for my attention sends an unexpected thrill through me.
I bite my bottom lip to suppress a smile, maintaining my focus on the camera despite the urge to turn.
There's something about Vince's humor that's starting to get under my skin.
It's the stark contrast between his polished appearance and his childish antics.
I wonder if that's his thing, his character.
The handsome, professional-looking man who's secretly an overgrown child.
I'd never heard of him before this. I don't do social media, and I certainly hadn't researched this project before arriving.
I had no idea I was auditioning for a comedy role.
The ad simply said they needed a co-host for a reality show. Easy money, no experience required.
Vince takes over leading the script from there, my silence following his second Toy Story jab leaving him no choice.
In the last forty-five minutes, I've been confused, horrified, and, if I'm being honest with myself, slightly amused by this unexpected turn of events.
That's when it hits me—why they're struggling to fill this "easy" role.
Vince has probably run off every other candidate.
He makes them slip up, grow self-conscious, and ultimately fail the audition.
That must be why Gary was so specific about how to interact with him.
Vince is like the final boss in a video game, appearing out of nowhere when you think you've already won.
"And that's essentially how we'll be narrowing down contestants for the next round. Groundbreaking game, right Andy? I'd almost say this is better than hockey, but that's near impossible."
I stay silent.
"Andy..." Vince tries again, his voice softer this time, more insistent. "Hey... Andy..."
I'm intentionally ignoring his attempts, keeping my gaze locked on the camera lens like it's my lifeline in this storm of manufactured chaos. The silence stretches, thin and taut, until I feel it—a sudden pressure on my leg, just above my knee.
His hand, warm and firm, squeezes the flesh where my thigh meets my leg, a quick, deliberate grip that sends a jolt through my entire body. Then, just as suddenly as it appeared, it's gone.
Oh.