Page 4 of Bringing Home the Bacon
My hands are shaking just as hard as they did back then, and I’m sweating like a pig, which I suppose is appropriate, considering my nickname is Bacon.
That’s right, Bacon. I’m a grown man, and everyone in my life calls me Bacon. The nickname started in high school. I hated it at first, but here I am, over fifteen years later, proudly introducing myself like I’m a celebrity pork product—no last name necessary. Somewhere along the line, I got used to it.
Unlike my short stint as a high school thespian, I’m not playing George in Of Mice and Men today. Luckily, I’m just me. But I’m a contestant on a reality cooking show called Yes, Chef. Which is so foreign to me, it may as well be Shakespeare. Set on the moon.
The cooking part is easy. And up until now, we’ve filmed each episode on a closed set, so my nerves have been relatively calm. But today, we’re filming in front of a live audience for the first time.
I’ve never felt more out of my element in my life.
I auditioned for this show as a joke. A dare, really. Over a few beers one night, my buddy Trent said I needed to “shake things up” in my life and try something new. He’s a hard guy to say no to, so I gave it a go and—what do you know—I booked it.
I’m just as surprised as anyone. I am not a reality TV guy. All those shows whipping up drama for drama’s sake? No, thank you. I’ve had enough real-life theatrics to last me a lifetime. My family wrote its own salacious story without the help of producers or network TV.
Now, I’m the only one left in that family.
I’m alone.
“Hey, April?” I call after her as she juggles a million tasks during those last precious minutes before the cameras start rolling. “My buddy Trent Cartwright is supposed to be in the audience today as my guest. Do you know if he made it?”
I squint at the overhead monitor, which shows the studio audience getting settled on the other side of the curtain. I don’t see him. Dammit, I wanted him here for this one. Today’s show determines who makes it into the top ten. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I really want to be one of those contestants.
“Trent Cartwright? The thriller writer?” April says, eyes widening.
“Yeah,” I say proudly. “Have you read anything he’s written?”
“Of course! Only the Lonely? Wake Me When it’s Over? The Sticking Point? He’s amazing. His twists are legendary!”
I nod and smile. “I’ll tell him you said so.”
If he ever gets here.
April quickly scrolls the guest list on her tablet. “Sorry, hon. He hasn’t checked in.”
Just as I go to power down my phone, a call comes through from the man himself.
“Speak of the devil.” Even I can hear the relief in my voice when I answer.
“You were speaking of me, were ya?” Trent chuckles.
“Eh. More like talking shit about you.”
“To whom?”
“Anyone who will listen, buddy,” I joke. “Hey, you up for some constructive criticism, sir?”
“Always.”
“Cool it with the whom stuff, will ya? I know it’s correct grammar and all, but between you and me, it just makes you sound like a punk. A pretentious punk.”
“Noted, Porky.” Trent laughs.
“I am Bacon.” I do my best Christian Bale Batman impression. ”Not Porky.”
“Just trying to keep you grounded, man. It was one thing when the girls in high school called you Bacon because you’re ‘so sizzling hot.’” He does an impression of a teenage girl. “But now that you’re making national news, I gotta help you keep your ego in check.”
“Says the guy the New York Times just called ‘The Next James Patterson.’ If we need to worry about anyone’s ego, it’s yours.” I scan the monitor one more time. “Where are you? The show is going to start any minute.”
“I know. I’m so sorry but?—”
