Page 48 of Cuts like a Knife
“Fuck no, I don’t care. But the reality TV craze is what? Twenty years old at this point? It’s not news. Everybody on Hot Slice is an adult who knew exactly what they were getting into when they signed on. That producer a—hole, Shane Hampton, the one you pissed off earlier — wasn’t wrong about that. This is what these folks signed up for. Literally signed, you realize. They all signed about 75 different waivers and agreements while this thing was still in the planning stages. There’s no story here. No confused, doe-eyed victims of big bad media exploitation. The only story here for you is the one that people want to hear — who’s participating, who’s hooking up, and who can actually cook. It’s not that deep.”
“None of them can cook. Not if that is the winning dish,” I say, gesturing to the rapidly-disappearing block of meat in front of him.
He shrugs again as he shovels the last few bites into his mouth.
“Can I give you a piece of advice? From an actual reporter?” I can see the half-chewed meat in the cavern of his mouth as he speaks. “A real-life old-school soon-to-be-extinct journalist? Because I’ve been doing this for thirty years and I know what I’m talking about.”
“I feel like you’d give it to me whether I wanted to hear it or not,” I say. “So go ahead.”
“Do the job.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“Fascinatingly helpful. Thanks.”
“I’m being serious. Do the job that you were hired to do for the publication you were hired to write for. Don’t like it? Then f—ing quit. Write for somebody else, about something else. Or if writing is not what you want to do, do something else entirely. You’re young. You have plenty of time. If you don’t want to be here, take off. It’s that simple.”
It’s not that simple, but he can’t possibly know that. Can he? Does he know Alan Segal, I wonder? I can’t ask him. He probably doesn’t. If he did, he wouldn’t be speaking to me. He’d be acting like I had the plague. That’s what reporters do.
“I’m not that young,” I finally say.
“It’s a relative thing.”
I just nod and don’t say anything else.
After awhile, all of the show’s stars dribble out of the kitchen and through the restaurant to the pool bar. The rest of the episode will be shot poolside as the contestants decompress, rehash their kitchen fiascos, and get progressively drunker.
Eventually, there’ll be kissing. Messy kissing. Probably in a pool166. Ick.
A floor director officially releases us, and reporters and extras start exiting the restaurant. Some disappear, most likely returning to their rooms, others head immediately poolside, trying to sidle up to and befriend the so-called stars.
I decide I’ll park near the action and watch for awhile. Maybe pop off another story and take some notes about my observations for tomorrow.
I look back over at my dining companion. He’s finished both our plates, and has gone back to sipping his drink. The televisions are now showing some baseball game and he’s got one eye on it, and the other on his phone. He’s ignoring me.
“Well,” I say. He barely looks up. “Are you heading to the pool?” I ask. It seems rude to just walk away now when we’re most likely going to end up at the same place in the next ten minutes.
“F— no. But you have fun.”
“It’s not fun,” I say.
“No, it’s not, is it? It’s work. See? We finally understand each other.”
I roll my eyes.
“Yeah, definitely. Thanks for all the unsolicited advice.”
Ignoring my sarcasm, he replies. “No problem, kid. Good luck.”
I stand up and walk out of the restaurant and back into the warm, damp island air.
That was a weird experience, but whatever. I put Mr. Sentinel out of my mind and make my way over to the pool bar. I park at a table with my laptop, and smash out 750 words on the various mishaps of the first challenge. Without bothering to proofread, I throw a headline and deck on it:
Searing Steaks and Spicy Insults
The competition heats up as the new season of Hot Slice kicks off in the Bahamas
