—there. Leaning against the far wall, weight balanced on legs kicked out in front of him, bent nearly double and looking, honestly, somewhat tragicomic in his floppy hot dog costume, is Pete.
For a hanging second, a little part of Ben—his sober self, maybe, or his single self-preservation instinct—claws its way to the surface. It informs him, in rather a shriller tone than is entirely necessary, that what he should do, right now, isturn back. Pete came here to be alone, physically ran awayspecifically from Benin order to achieve some solitude, and Ben has no business tracking him up here like a bloodhound.
But—God, Ben had gone through this phase in middle school, or maybe early high school—oh, he doesn’t remember now. He’d been young and angry, that was the important thing, an unhappy, slightly smelly little cauldron of unfamiliar hormones and haunting new insecurities and the creeping suspicion that maybe hewasn’tgoing to find himself developing an interest in girls any day now. Little things would set him off and he’d blow up, say something about how it was sostupidand they were allstupidand being alive wasstupid, because he was in that awkward period of teen rage where frustration cut off access to his inner dictionary. Then he’d storm out and go stand outside, committed as a postman, stubbornly waiting in the rain or the snow or the dark of the night until he felt less like he was going to explode.
Ben wanted to be alone in those moments; of course he did. Ben is so, so good at being alone. He wants to be alone when he locks himself in the bathroom on twenty-seven so he doesn’t scream in Jessica’s irritating but undeserving face, or when he stays in his apartment on a Friday night instead of trying his luck at another meetup group or speed dating event. It’s better, in his experience, to be alone when you’re on fire—easier to avoid burning anyone. Easier to keep anyone from knowing who you are in that kind of agony, to sidestep the sick vulnerability of being seen that raw.
But he would be lying, wouldn’t he, if he said he hadn’t wanted someone to come out after him, every time. If he said that he hadn’t been desperate, standing out there sizzling in front of the restaurant in whatever weather, for someone to step through the swinging doors and dump a bucket of ice-cold water over his head. If he said that, when he’d eventually stoppeddoing it, it was for any reason other than wanting to cut away how much it hurt—to ache for that relief, to have it never, ever come.
It’s this that pushes his hesitant feet one in front of the other, footfalls sure but largely silent, regretting leaving his peacoat behind downstairs as he makes his way across the rooftop. Pete doesn’t seem to notice him coming, doesn’t look up, but as Ben gets closer, he can see that Pete’s back is heaving under the cheap fabric of the hot dog costume.
When he’s a few yards away—far enough that it will be easy to slink off if Pete makes it clear he wants Ben to go—Ben takes a deep breath, and squares his shoulders, and says, “Hey.”
Pete, unsurprisingly, jumps. It’s an impressively small jump—Ben would have flailed like Kermit the Frog, not remotely intentionally—but his whole body seems to shudder, after, and he quickly turns his face away. His voice is low, rough, when he says, “Uh—hi. Sorry, I’m—you’re not catching my—best moment.”
“I’m actually weirdly familiar with a wide variety of moments you might categorize as less than your best,” Ben says, before he can stop himself. “Not that I’m judging, or anything—the opposite—but like. If I was going to care about that sort of thing, probably I would’ve thrown in the towel about six minutes into the first video, you know?”
To Ben’s surprise and considerable relief, Pete lets out a shaky laugh and runs a hand over his face. “Well, that’s…probably true, yeah.”
Ben, emboldened by the magic of the beautiful beverage he’ll curse in the morning, decides to take this as permission to approach. He steps closer, then leans against the low brick wall next to Pete at what he hopes is an appropriate distance away as he says, “Anyway, I wanted a break. I will always take one person over a whole party full of people—easier to keep track, ifnothing else. Plus, did you know, I heard someone put peyote in the pierogies? I call that shocking.”
Pete laughs again, realer this time. “I did hear that somewhere, yes. Just from the one source, though, so I’m not sure how trustworthy it is.”
“Really? I heard that guy’s basically a genius,” Ben says lightly. “Speaking of which, here’s another banger of an idea—you want some of this drink? I don’t remember what they called it, but it’sgood. Gin and lime and—St-Germain, I think?”
Pete takes a deep breath through his nose, as if trying to gather himself, and then releases it slowly through his mouth before he smiles lopsidedly at Ben and says, “You know what? Yeah, that sounds nice.”
Ben passes the glass over, and Pete takes a considering sip, then smiles. “Mm, yeah. A gin Collins, I think, with lime instead of lemon, and maybe some juniper infused in the simple. It’s good.” He takes another sip before passing it back. “Thanks.”
“Sure,” Ben says, and takes a sip himself. Then, half-convinced it’s a critical error even as he does it, he adds, “Are you okay?”
“Oh,” Pete says, and blinks at him for a second. Then: “Yeah. Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Well. To be honest. You don’t…seem okay,” Ben says, wincing slightly. “No offense.”
Pete pauses for a moment, taking this in. Then he sighs, and there’s a capitulation in his voice when he says, “None taken. I guess I probably don’t, do I.”
It’s not really a question and Ben doesn’t think it needs an answer; he offers Pete an apologetic little shrug instead and looks away, trying to make space for him to talk if he wants to. The silence stretches, and Ben fights the urge to fill it with chatter, sarcasm, anything that isn’t the yawning void of anticipation?—
—and then Pete says, low and unhappy, “Listen, the stuff in the videos, the way I…kind of…freak out?”
Ben tries not to let his voice go too dry as he says, “I’m familiar, yes.”
“It’s not… I’m not doing it as a bit, or a schtick, and I’m not, like, allergic to cameras.” Pete punches out a breath, like it’s a marathon to get the sentence out, before: “I get like that when I’m trying not to have a goddamn panic attack. I’ve got some weird stuff about, uh…fame, or whatever. So being in front of a camera like this is… It kinda…makes it hard to…hold it together.”
“Oh,” Ben says, a little surprised, but only by the bit about fame being at the root. As far as Ben’s early cursory Googles turned up, Pete Bailey’s fame extends to recipe bylines, but he doesn’t think this is the moment to pry. “I mean—jeez, man. That sounds like it really sucks.”
Pete takes another huge breath. “Yeah, I don’t love it, to be honest with you. Ireallythought about quitting, but—look, it would be too hard to explain, but I can’t afford to walk away from this right now, even if it means I have to be in front of a camera. I just can’t. But seeing those guys—theirHalloweencostumes… I don’t know. I couldn’t deal.”
“Yeah, that makes sense,” Ben says, trying to keep his voice gentle. It’s not one of his more typical registers, outside of trying to sweet-talk Roux into taking necessary, life-saving medication, so he hopes he’s hitting the right note. Knowing he’s going to hate the answer, he can’t help but ask: “Do you have a panic attack after every shoot, then?”
Pete winces, looks away for a second. But then he looks back, and his voice is steady if sheepish as he admits, “I, uh… Yeah. Pretty much.”
Ben thinks, but does not say, a variety of colorful swear words; that’sbad, is what that is, and not at all sustainable.For himself, an incredibly anxious and neurotic person who can get stressed out over a glass of water, Ben tries to hold a hard limit at three work-related panic attacks per business quarter—anything more than that is edging into territory too damaging to his equilibrium to be manageable. But someone like Pete, who seems by and large to be a fairly affable person, not easily rattled, calm and unbothered in the face of change, should not be havinganywork-related panic attacks per business quarter, let alone five to ten, and maybe dozens. How often is he getting recognized? Does this happen every time? Ben’s been harboring secret, silly thoughts about making a real career out of this show, but he’s not going to be able to do that if it’s eating away Pete’s will tolive.
This isn’t the time for any of that, though. This is not about Ben; this is not about the show, orGastronome, or stupid Chris downstairs, not bothering to pay Pete any attention at all. This is about Pete, who is here, right now, on this cold, empty rooftop, breathing faint little clouds into the air, telling Ben something he can tell without having to ask that he has not talked about with anyone. This is exactly the kind of moment that Ben traditionally mishandles, and so he tries to think slowly and carefully, to move with purpose and forethought.
What he decides, eventually, to say, is: “I’m so sorry, Pete. That sounds really hard. I know—obviously—I’m probably tangled up in the whole nightmare of the thing for you, but. Is there anything I can do? Anything that helps?”
