13
2015
SEASON 20, EPISODE 1:
“The Viper Room”
It was nearing midnight after the Tribulation, all of us sweaty from the relentless Italian heat. Still, we filmed Ecklund explaining what would happen the next day. As the winners, the Devils would select one of our guys and a male Angel for the Trial. Trials still alternated between genders, so the women were safe this episode, likely because the network wanted a cock fight for the premiere. Zara cycled each of us through quick customary “on the fly” post-game interviews, truly a marvel of efficiency, before finally declaring, “All right, OTFs are wrapped. Cast to the house!”
As we trundled out of the Arena, I noticed Erika, the young trans woman, grabbing a bottle of water at craft services. There were no cameras, so this was likely my best chance to attempt something sincere. “You were fantastic out there,” I offered tentatively, and she jumped at my voice, clearly shocked. “Sorry, I just meant… you’re a great athlete.”
“J-just another day at the office,” she stuttered, fingers fidgeting with her braid, though her eyes bore none of the animosity I deserved. Before my reply, a shoulder charged between us.
“Erika, on the bus. Now,” Imogen commanded sharply. Erika hesitated but nonetheless darted off, Imogen’s gaze burning into me. “Stay the hell away from her.”
I’d dreaded a moment like this, yet the unflinching disgust in her voice made it even worse than I’d imagined. “I’m guessing I shouldn’t ask how you’ve been?”
“I’ll only say this once,” she growled. “Don’t co-opt that girl for whatever pathetic redemption tour you’re plotting. I mean,her? Of all people? There’s not much beneath you, but at least pretend you have a shred of decency.”
I struggled to respond, acutely aware anything I said might be accompanied by involuntary tears, when Troy swooped in. “So am I getting a camera to catch this, or should we discuss you violating the show’s no-violence policy when you hit Luke, Imogen?”
“She didn’t mean to hit me,” I blurted out. “She was swinging for the snake.”
“Seriously?” Troy asked.
Imogen inhaled pointedly, eyes flashing. “Would Luke Griffin ever lie?”
Troy threw up his hands. “Both of you on the bus.”
Imogen glared at me as he left. “You won’t last. Not anymore,” she said, stomping off. “Enjoy your one episode.”
Luckily nobody was allowed to talk on the bus since the story was “on ice.” The cameras weren’t there, so we couldn’t converse unless they had access to us—at least outside the house. Inside you could speak freely at any time, and it was up to the crew to catch what they could. Still, tiny stationary cameras recorded in the crevices of every room, with microphones embedded throughout to supplement our personal ones. The bathroom was the only place with any expectation of privacy.
The bus eventually approached a stark medieval building, red and blue spotlights illuminating what once had been a monastery or convent. This was no Renaissance palace; it was an imposing skeleton from the age before, a vestige of Catholicism’s most tightly gripped era. As we gatheredto film the classic “Discovery of the Mansion,” I recalled how Ecklund used to call these properties “cribs” without a shred of irony. Here I was again, about to pretend I’d never seen anything more amazing. Of course, the first time I hadn’t had to pretend at all.
We tore inside, no time to appreciate the burnt-tile floors or milky plaster of the walls with people pounding up the stairs, desperate to secure sleeping arrangements while crew members dodged the stampede. I followed the whoops up top, a long terra-cotta corridor offering bedrooms with varying numbers of bunks, cliques already in concrete.
Hartt met me at the door of his room. “Sorry, dude, only four beds here, but if you want bottom bunk, Chrissy and I will be sharing the whole time anyway.”
I peered at Aspen and Chase already pouring shots. “No, I’ll find something.”
I progressed down the hall, people rushing past with open bottles of alcohol. Almost every bed was claimed, bunks marked with jerseys or orphaned luggage. In one room, there were no open berths, but I found the giant man, asleep already, gently snoring. I noticed his jersey folded neatly on his suitcase, his name revealed:Fortune.
I entered the largest room and tossed my backpack on the lone available mattress, no idea who my roommates would be or what time it was. I felt like a weary tourist trapped in a Vegas casino, oblivious to whether the sun was going or coming. Moreover, the raucous revelry below meant it was way too early to isolate myself more than I already was. Even though I was optimistic my win at the Tribulation would keep me from the Trial, barricading myself upstairs like Boo Radley certainly wouldn’t change anyone’s preconceptions.
As I exited the room, blond hair flickered down the corridor. As if I were the headliner of a bad Western, Greta Hendricksen cornered me at high noon on Main Street.
“You have always been a dark horse, haven’t you?” She opened her arms for an embrace, making little pawing kitten gestures with her hands.
“Hi, Greta…”
“Luke Griffin, there’s only one man I’d be more surprised to see—and you’re divorcinghim!” she said, squeezing me. “I swear I haven’t called Barnesoncesince the story broke. I was too devastated for you and those perfect babies. How are you all coping?”
“I’m just trying to keep things as normal as possible for the kids. I mean, that’s why I’m here,” I replied tightly, still in no position to put a foot wrong.
“I completely understand. Daddy needs to be the provider now,” she purred, a trace of cigarettes on her breath. “Obviously I’ve experienced betrayal recently too, but I don’t have to tellyouwhat a humiliating messBeverly Blondewas this season.”
I’d never watchedBeverly Blondein my life but forced a smile as she clutched my hand, pastel nails digging into the shallow punctures where the snake bit me earlier. “Confidentially? I almost skippedEndeavorthis time,” she sighed. “I couldn’t imagine filming with Shawn.”
