“Dreadful,” Mrs. C says cheerfully. “One of the worst voices I ever heard; like if Donald Duck drank acid. But that’s part of what it was for me. His voice was awful; it was an enormously tacky thing to do in a roomful of his peers, especially since many of them had known Suzanne a long time. Everyone, in the end, found it quite funny—Harry had that way about him—but it was therisk, you understand? It was him caring about my opinion more than any of theirs. He was willing to stand up and make a fool of himself for me, and so I was willing to trust him, and risk him making a foolofme. Which, I’m happy to say, he never did. Not once.”
“I’m glad,” Ben says. Then, looking for a way to say it that won’t offend her and not finding many good options, he goes forbroke and asks, “Uh. Why are you telling me, though? Not that it’s not interesting, just?—”
“This Pete of yours sounds, in many ways, like a lovely man,” Mrs. C says. “And I’d wager there’s more to this story than meets the eye. But whatever it is: His backbone’s weak, I’d say. It sounds like he’s not willing to make a fool of himself for you, or for whatever is between you.” She reaches over and places a chilly, wrinkled hand over his. “You deserve someone who will. If this Pete won’t, well, then, he’s not your Harry, and you should go out and try to find the man who is.” Winking at him, she adds, “Maybe he’s in California. With that job in—wine, was it?”
“Juice.”
“Same thing,” Mrs. C says, patting him twice and moving her hand away. “Just don’tstay still, that’s my real advice. Whatever you do, move forward. You’ve got so much left to do—you owe it to yourself not to shrivel up.” Perhaps catching Ben’s thoughts reflected on his face, she adds, “And I do know I, of all people, have a lot of nerve saying that. But: I, of all people, know what I’m talking about.”
Ben has to give her that; the conversation turns to lighter fare, and they have a pleasant rest of the evening, and journey home. When Ben walks her up to her door, she kisses him on the cheek, and swats at him when he tries to thank her again for waiving his rent, and tells him maybe she’ll let him take her out again sometime, if she can muster the energy for it.
Then he goes downstairs and sits on his living room couch, holding the card Larry the juice guy gave him. He sits there for nearly an hour turning it over and over between his fingers, thinking about California sunshine and what he might find under it.
SIXTEEN
Things move quickly after that.
Speed is not what Ben was expecting—it’s the holiday season, after all, and surely, Larry has better things to do with his time than woo a freelance video editor. Ben figured he’d send Larry an email and maybe get a leisurely reply somewhere in the back half of the week, and then they’d exchange a few more emails and maybe a couple of calls, before eventually Larry suggested Ben come out and see the property. He’d anticipatedthatas a brief, mid-week visit, maybe sometime in early January, with accommodations at a Best Western or Embassy Suites near the airport. That, in his view, is what would have been normal.
Instead, Larry replies to Ben’s email, which he sends at 10:31 a.m. on Sunday morning, at 12:30 p.m. Sunday afternoon, asking him to jump on a call the following morning. On that call, Larry makes it clear that what he’s looking for is not a contract video editor, or a freelance video editor, but a full time, in-house video editor, and one with an unusual amount of creative oversight. The benefits are excellent, the salary enormous, and could Ben come for a week? Next week, maybe? Of course Larry would cover flights, and put Ben up in their guest house, and have him back in time for his Christmas plans—oh, he doesn’thave Christmas plans? Well, he’s welcome to stay through if he likes, so long as he accepts the job! Larry and his wife and their children and what sounds to be roughly forty of their closest friends would love to have Ben’s company.
Ben hangs up dizzily, and spends the next week feeling dazed, and excited, and sad, though that last feeling plagues him without being identifiable for the bulk of the time. He has to spend several days turning it over in the back of his mind like a Rubik’s Cube, puzzling at it absently while he handles the huge pile of logistical challenges he’s unwittingly dropped in his own lap. As he hires a cat sitter for Roux, and asks his super to keep an eye out for any packages that might arrive from Michigan while he’s gone, and coordinates with Larry’s team on travel info, and updates Mrs. C on his plans, and re-cuts and updates his reel, and cleans out his fridge, and does all his laundry, and packs, and unpacks, and repacks, he pokes and prods at the emotion, trying desperately to identify it.
It only hits him properly the following Sunday morning; he’s set to fly out that night, landing in LAX early and then picking up a car that’s been rented in his name. He’s packed and organized and ready, so he goes down to his preferred local bodega and orders a bacon, egg, and cheese on a hard roll with ketchup, knowing without asking that they only use his preferred brand. And when he takes his first bite, it hits him—not just the tang of cheese against crisp, salty bacon and rich scrambled egg, but the fact that he is considering—really, genuinely considering—leaving New York.
He wants to cry suddenly, here on the scuffed and yellowed linoleum floor of the bodega, next to the aggressively humming glass-fronted refrigerator holding a variety of energy drinks. Is this really where he is? What things have come to? After all these years of living here, letting himself become part of the city, letting the city become part ofhim—he’s just going to flee?Run away? What will hedoin California, when he’s not working for Larry? Where will he eat breakfast, get coffee? Where will he go when he’s upset, or anxious, or excited, or bored? Is he even a Californiaperson, the sort who blooms in the sun? If he’s honest, Ben would expect himself to be more like a raisin: shriveling up under all that direct heat until he can barely even remember the grape he was before.
But:Move forward, that’s what Mrs. C had said. With no job, and no relationship, and no desire to watch the little friend group he’s finally managed to gather fall away because they’re still close with Pete, California is Ben’s path forward. West of what he’d hoped for, maybe, but still forward.
That’s what he tells himself for the rest of the day:West but forward, Ben. West but forward. It’s running in the back of his mind as he kisses Mrs. C on the cheek that night after dinner, thanking her again for everything. It’s playing on a loop as he apologizes to Roux, and tells her he’ll be back soon, and promises her groveling in the form of tuna when he returns. It’s what he’s thinking while he loads his large suitcase into the trunk of a cab, and as he slides with his laptop bag into the backseat, shuts the door, and asks to be taken to Newark Airport.
He’s annoyed, honestly, to be flying out of Newark—anything that has to do with New Jersey makes his thoughts slide treacherously towards Pete—but beggars can’t be choosers, especially when the person buying the tickets is a potential future employer. Still, he indulges in staring out the window as the cab creeps through traffic, watching light snow fall in little flakes over the slowly passing city. In spite of his general Grinch-like inclinations, he finds himself wondering if he’ll be back in time for Christmas, and then if he’lleverspend another Christmas in New York. If last year’s holiday celebrations, which amounted to eating dim sum alone in his apartment, were, without his even knowing it, his last shot.
He’s only distracted from this maudlin line of thought when he receives a text message from Adina, one so distractingly cryptic it immediately consumes him with curiosity.
ADINA:
Hey again, Ben. It seems like you’re not in a place to talk right now, and I understand. I might not be in your shoes, either. But I thought you’d still want to see this. You should click through. i think it’ll be worth it. Hope you’re okay. <3
He stares at it, mystified, the city streaking by unnoticed out the window of the cab, until a message containing a link appears below it. Then, too intrigued to let it go, he fishes his headphones out of his pocket, pops one earbud in, and clicks through.
Ben’s heart clenches in his chest when he realizes the page that’s loading is hosted on the website forLate Night Live with Brian O’Malley. It’s a clench of anger, admittedly, at first—for a second, until it finishes booting up, Ben thinks it’s going to be a Pete blooper reel, or some other mention of his original appearance on the show. He’s so annoyed that Adina would send him something like that right now, would imagine he’d want to think about Pete atall, that it takes him longer than it normally would to realize that what’s loading is not a clip from a former episode. It’s a live feed of the episode that’s happeningright now, the camera zooming in on the stage as the next guest is introduced.
When it’s Pete’s name that falls out of Brian O’Malley’s mouth, the clench in Ben’s chest shifts from one of anger to one too complicated to identify. Anger’s still in the mix, to be sure. But there’s also trepidation on Pete’s behalf, and on his own behalf, and sympathy for the hash Pete’s inevitably going to make of this, and, in spite of everything, the desire to sendMiranda two hundred self-dispersing boxes of glitter for making Pete do another live show.
But Pete, Ben notes with growing shock, does not look panicked, or semi-hysterical, or like he is about to throw up. He looks…resolute, maybe, is the word. Stalwart.Ready.
“Pete!” Brian O’Malley is saying; Ben’s barely looking at him, his eyes riveted to Pete’s tiny, pixelated face. “Good to see you again, in a way. We’ve neglected to give you a cooking segment today at the advice of the fire marshal. Hope that’s cool.”
“Probably smart,” Pete says, with good enough humor. But his face is serious, and his tone tilts that way, too, as he adds, “And it’s for the best, anyway. I’m not in much of a cooking mood.”
Brian turns to the camera. In confiding tones, he tells the audience, “Pete’s here to tell us a juicy story full of industry gossip, apparently. That sounded fun to me—does it sound fun to you?” His audience roars, and Brian smirks at them, and then at Pete. “Well? Go on, then. The anticipation is killing me.”
Ben knows that this can’t be true, at least not for Brian O’Malley. Brian O’Malley was surely briefed on what Pete is planning to say, because surely Pete had to explain it to the terrifyingly competent Priyali before he was booked in for a slot. The anticipation cannot be killing Brian O’Malley; he’s acting, playing a role, for the benefit of the audience.
On the other hand, Ben reallymightdie from anticipation. There’s every chance that, if Pete doesn’t start talking soon, his unfortunate cab driver will find herself in the Newark drop-off zone with a corpse.
Luckily, the camera swings back to Pete, who takes a deep breath and says, “Okay. Well. If you know me, you know me from the web show I do forGastronome.” There is a round of raucous cheers; in response, Pete smiles queasily. “Ha, thanks. You guys are fans, then?” Another round of cheers; this time,Pete nods. “So you know, then, that I’m only really half the show? And that the person who makes it watchable is my video editor, Ben Blumenthal?”
