Chapter Seventeen Who Framed Roger Rabbit, dir. by Robert Zemeckis
Eli knows he should never wake up on a Monday feeling hopeful. But he can’t help that rise in his chest as he opens his eyes
just a few minutes before his alarm goes off. Sure, his body is fighting against him like it always does, and he lies there
in bed scrolling on his phone until the absolute last possible second.
And it’s raining, so his perfectly styled hair plasters itself to his forehead and the toes of his socks are soaked through
thanks to a puddle he doesn’t see.
And the first bus that comes Eli’s way is out of service.
And the second bus is packed full of wet people who smell like sweat.
But he’s hopeful .
He walks into the Vent offices still feeling like he’s finally won, even as he sits down at his desk in front of Michael’s empty office, the ever-constant
reminder of where he’s stuck. Except now he isn’t.
Well, hopefully he isn’t.
He resists the urge to email Michael, to walk around the office until he finds him, to ask him if there are any updates on
the article. If the editorial team has gotten ahold of it, if the article is going to come out soon.
Eli has to stop himself, knowing he won’t get anywhere rushing things.
He’s waited five years for this.
He can wait a few more days.
Besides, he has bigger things on his mind. Like how this dinner with Peter is going to go. Maybe he should’ve given Peter
a heads-up, told him that he wanted to have a serious conversation about where they’re at, how things will be moving forward.
Because this doesn’t feel fake anymore.
At least, not from Eli’s perspective.
And Peter deserves to know that, just as he deserves to decide for himself. Whether or not he still wants Eli to be a part
of his life knowing... knowing that Eli loves him. Eli pulls his phone out of his desk drawer, checking the last messages
he sent to Peter the night before.
Eli had tried to stay up as late as he could, just to keep Peter company.
But he can see the moment he fell asleep, just as Peter was explaining his late-night dinner of peanut butter and Ritz crackers.
He stares at his phone, unable to help the smile that creeps up on him. It’s so hard to believe that things finally feel...
whole?
Maybe he’s putting all his eggs in a single basket, something his mother always warned him about. But he can’t stop the way
his heart leaps in his chest.
Eli tries hard not to think about the fact that Michael’s been missing all morning. But after several hours of fielding Michael’s
calls and telling his coworkers that he doesn’t know where Michael is, he has to take a look around.
Michael’s things are here, so he’s been in the office. Eli checks the bathrooms and the meeting rooms, the private offices,
and the lounge area.
And there’s no Michael to be found.
He nearly goes to Keith to ask him if he knows anything, being the brownnoser he is. But Keith isn’t in his office either.
“Gwen?” Eli calls for her just as she’s passing his desk on her way to the elevators. “Have you seen Michael or Keith?”
“I think I saw them heading up to the cafeteria?” She looks at her watch. “That was first thing this morning, I’m not sure
where—”
“Hey, Eli!” Owen, the hire who stole Eli’s staff spot, decides to insert himself into the conversation, rapping his knuckles
on Eli’s desk.
“Oh, hey, Owen... Looking for Michael?”
“Oh no, no, I just wanted to give you my congratulations!”
Eli freezes. “Congratulations for what?”
“For the article? What a hilarious read.”
Hilarious? Eli can think of a few jokes peppered throughout the Lavender Country article, but he wouldn’t go so far as to describe it as hilarious. “Wait... does Michael have you editing it?”
“Editing?” Owen stares, stealing a piece of candy from the dish on Eli’s desk. “No, it’s on the site.”
“It was posted?”
“Yeah, like half an hour ago, I think?” Owen opens the candy carefully, the wrapper crinkling in his hand. Gwen gives Eli
a confused look. “What a ride, I couldn’t stop reading. That disaster date, I don’t think I would’ve given someone like that
another chance. You’re better than me for sure.”
Eli’s stomach sinks.
“What are you talking about?” His words come out slowly, careful, almost as if they aren’t his own.
Owen just looks confused, because why wouldn’t he be?
“What article are you talking about?” Eli asks him.
“The one about dating? That guy you fixed. What else could I be talking about?”
“Michael accepted a piece you wrote?” Gwen asks. “That’s great, Eli!”
“No, no, it’s not,” he whispers under his breath.
He doesn’t bother looking it up on his computer; he doesn’t want Owen or Gwen to see his reaction.
So instead, he goes into the bathroom, hiding in one of the stalls.
He pulls Vent up on his phone, hoping that he’ll have to scroll pages to find the article.
“Building a Better Boyfriend” is all of the title that the trending page displays. Eli clicks on the link, redirected right
to the page where the full headline reads “Building a Better Boyfriend: How I Molded a Walking Disaster into the Perfect Date.”
By Eli Francis.
His vision goes blurry at the edges as he swipes through the article.
Because it’s his article, the fake one he wrote to convince Michael that he was still going along with this idea, the one that was never meant
to see the light of day.
It’s his article. He desperately doesn’t want it to be.
But it is.
“This doesn’t make sense,” Eli whispers to himself.
He never gave Michael permission to post the article; he didn’t even write an ending. He never saw the need to. Yet there
is one. Eli likes to think he’s good at recognizing specific styles of writing. He’s picked up on certain words or phrases
or ways of weaving a story that some writers love to use. He’s certainly familiar with his own writing.
After the first line, he can tell this isn’t his.
He got someone else to finish it , Eli realizes.
He stands, shoving his phone into his pocket, letting the stall door slam behind him. Just as he exits the bathroom, who would
finally make an appearance other than the two people he’s desperate to find?
“What the fuck?” he says as loudly as he can without actually shouting. Keith’s and Michael’s gazes both shift toward him, finding Eli in an instant, as do the eyes of some of his other coworkers.
“Oh, Eli. I was just coming to find you,” Michael says, continuing to his office as if nothing’s wrong.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Eli asks again. “The both of you.”
“Hey, what did I do?” Keith holds his hands up defensively.
“Don’t fuck with me, Keith.” Eli says the name with more malice than he ever has. “I edited and rewrote how many of your articles? I know how you write; I know you finished the piece.”
“If you want to talk about this like a civilized person”—Michael stares at him—“then I suggest you come into my office, Eli.
Otherwise, you’re free to leave.”
For a moment, Eli considers doing just that. He stares daggers at Michael, and then Keith, before he stomps into Michael’s
office.
“Give us a minute,” Michael murmurs to Keith as he goes to close the door, and Keith nods, walking off, leaving Michael and
Eli all alone. “Sit down.”
“Fuck you, Michael,” Eli sputters without thinking.
“Colorful language we’re using today,” Michael says as he takes his seat. “Will you give me a chance to explain myself, or
are you going to continue acting like a child?”
“A child? You went behind my back and stole an article. You published my work without permission.”
“Just like you went behind my back and wrote an article that I never told you to write?” Michael glares at Eli.
Eli opens his mouth to say something, but he stops himself.
“That’s not the same.”
“No, it’s not. Because I told you what I wanted from you. And you’ve strung me along for weeks, showing me bits of what I needed from you. Then you come to me with... whatever that last thing was. And you expected me to just be fine with it? To be okay with you lying to me?”
Eli doesn’t know what to say. A thousand things come to mind, at least half of them variations of “Fuck off.” But he stops
himself.
“You lied to me, Eli. And you thought you’d get away with it. But you didn’t. This is me teaching you a lesson.”
“What lesson?”
Michael types something on his keyboard before he turns his screen around toward Eli. “You’re top of our trending page. Online,
you’re a hot button. It’s been an hour and people have been talking all over about your article. Some TikToks have a few thousand
views. Talking about your work.”
The evidence speaks for itself. There are shares, posts, all discussing Eli’s article. From just a few feet away, he can see
some of the reactions.
They range from people calling “Alex” a loser and a freak, making fun of him for being almost thirty and never dating, to
people telling Eli that he overstepped, that he’s the asshole, wondering why a white man would write about a gay Korean man,
asking how he sleeps at night after exploiting someone like Alex.
His stomach sinks.
“That’s not what this was ever about,” Eli tells him, his words desperate. “This isn’t what I set out to do.”
“The numbers are only growing, by the way.” Michael ignores him. “The article is already the most popular this month.”
“Doesn’t it bother you?” Eli dares.
“Why would it? My paycheck is direct-deposited into my account every Friday, just like yours.”
“Don’t you give a shit? That I didn’t want to do the original article? Doesn’t it mean anything to you that I had to go behind
your back to actually write something worth reading?”
“Like how you considered Peter’s feelings?” Michael stares.
And suddenly, things go quiet.
“That’s not—”
“Fair? Welcome to journalism. I thought that I could teach you something, I thought that you had the chops to prove yourself
here at Vent . I wanted to mold you, Eli; you’re a good kid, and a hard worker. But unless you’re willing to adapt to what people want to read, you’ll never make it anywhere in this industry.”