Page 41 of Cuts like a Knife
Wow.
Of course … he’s not wrong. As already established, he has already won. He’s a trash person and a misogynist and a liar, but there’s nothing I can do to change the past.
I was humiliated and sacked and forced to slink away to this much-less-prestigious job, but … it’s over.
I should let it go. He should let it go.
It’s just that … I never expected to come across him like this. And I hate leaving him with the impression that I’m completely beaten. Sure, I’m a shadow of my former self, but he shouldn’t know that. Even if it’s true, I don’t want him to know it.
Well. I’ll have to perform. Just a little bit. Just so I don’t seem completely pathetic.
With that decided, I sigh, then push my way through the crowd and up to one of the mics parked in an aisle. The whole Q&A thing is winding down and there is only one person ahead of me. She looks really young. She’s probably some sort of blogger who’s daddy paid for her to be here.
She tosses a suggestive softball of a question to Pete — it’s a question I’m pretty sure he’s already answered three different ways just in the last hour, but he chuckles good-naturedly and drops yet another quotable nugget on us anyway. There’s an appreciative titter from the crowd at his response.
Is he this naturally charming or very-well media-trained, I wonder? The guy is insufferable. I still don’t understand why he’s famous. What has he even done? Doesn’t matter. Focus, Lex.
The baby girl journo moves away and it’s suddenly my turn. I step up to the mic.
“My first question is for the producers,” I say, with no hint of insecurity in my voice. Nice. I can still seem confident when it matters, it seems. “What is your response to allegations of sexual manipulation, forced-drunkenness, and emotional abuse on the set?” I say.
The entire room goes silent. And mid-laugh, one of the producers turns, as if just becoming aware of me, looks me up and down, and makes a dismissive, judgmental face. It’s a performance not unlike the one Rian gave at the pool earlier.
“Well,” he drawls, “my response is irrelevant as we’ve had none of those specific concerns on our set.” I can read his name card on the table in front of him. Shane Hampton. “I know a few other shows that have perhaps been accused of such things,” he goes on, “but Hot Slice has never had any such problems. Perhaps you’re confused. It might be wise to do a little research before your next question.”
A light laugh travels around the room. So much for peer support. Journalists are such jerks.
My eyes dart to the left for a microsecond and I see that Rian’s supercilious gaze is still on me and his smirk has grown into a close-lipped smile.
“I’m not confused, actually,” I say, “but interesting response. Here’s another question for you, Shane. Here we are almost twenty years into the new millennium, correct?”
The producer rolls his eyes. Even from 30 yards away, his disdain is palpable.
“Yes. Is that your question? Moving on…” he gestures as if I should step to the side. Goodbye. Time to let someone else speak. That’s what his gesture means, but I ignore it.
“Not really. My question is, if you are indeed aware of the date, then why is it that Hot Slice always pairs its contestants heteronormatively and along racial lines? There hasn’t yet been a single same-sex, queer, or truly mixed-race pairing on the show, not even once in its entire multi-cycle run. There hasn’t even been a semi-interracial pairing. Why is that? I thought you were maybe confused about what year it was, but evidently not, so I’m just trying to understand.”
“Who the fuck is that?” Hampton mutters to another one of the producers sitting to his right, his hand over the front of his mic. He clearly means this comment to be heard only by the people nearest to him, but the mic picks it up anyway, and his voice is projected out over the entire space. I see him wince, but it’s subtle.
Another titter from the crowd154.
Kelsang and Owen have taken notice. I can see that they’re both looking up from their private conversation, noticing me. Noticing me being noticed.
All eyes are on me now.
“We pair contestants based on cooking ability and personality. Nothing more,” says one of the other producers. “Nothing else goes into the decision making, I assure you.”
“And whatever else happens between them is outside of my control, obviously,” Hampton adds. “This is unscripted reality, you realize? Reality is called reality for a reason. Every single person who’s ever been on this show is an independent, consenting adult who made and makes their own decisions. I’m certainly not in the business of creating contrived situations that cater to trends.”
This is an answer so disingenuous, so completely contrary to the facts about what reality TV is, I am flatly shocked, but I look around the room, and I can feel it. No one agrees with me. No one cares. No one is on my side. They’ve all drunk the f—ing Koolaid, but I’m not giving up that easily.
“I wouldn’t categorize queerness or interracial relationships as a trend, Mr. Hampton,” I say. “Interesting that you do.” I look down at my clipboard and make a motion is if I’m taking a note, and I feel it — the room takes a sharp breath in.
They’re shocked. And, I can sense it — they’re getting just a little bit angry. Like, how dare I?
This isn’t the White House press room. We don’t ask the hard questions here. It’s just not done.
“Who are you with, kid?” asks Hampton with a sigh. “What’s your name?”
