Dining For Revenge

Dining For Revenge

“These collard greens smell like five-day-old grass clippings after a raccoon urinated on them.   And I’m betting the only thing that’s free-range about your chicken is the bacteria. Medium rare is not an option!”

  I held on to my composure for dear life, but he continued. No use; the coffee mixed with some swiss cheese concoction fermented his breath and soured my hopes as he volleyed more abuse four centimeters from my wilting face.  I stood like an obedient Marine and tried to keep my breakfast in place.

“Is this almond milk in your creamed spinach?” I stood tall.

“It’s a vegan revolt, and it sure is revolting!”  He almost looked proud of his sad wordplay.  And still, I stood.

“I can’t even discuss the mashed potatoes, but I would like to know if you’re married to the microwave or presently un-attached?” I looked forward, not sure if I even blinked. At this rate, I just might get enlisted.

The famous Bobby Vino spat more words onto my face, but now they melded like an unruly casserole. Although I was getting more steamed up than my opponent, Raji’s over-cooked broccoli, I stood and took it. Like my chicken, he still was not finished.  I wiped some words off my face as his rant continued.

“Look at you, some chef, ‘wannabe’.  You’re wearing camouflage. Unfortunately, I can still see you!” 

Later, as I walked off the set, I smiled, just wait ‘til he tries my Brussel sprouts.

 It was harder getting on to this show than entering the CIA or a top clearance position in a defense company but I weaseled my way in with some cleverly placed lies, false documents, and legendary bravado.  My initial application, to the casting, took months of preparation and television viewing to see exactly what sob stories worked for past contestants.  I had to have the right diagnosis of sadness, determination, and a dusting of optimism. Finally, I made it to the ultimate interview with the arrogant Bobby Vino. Ratings did seem like the Holy Grail of this show.  

A crew member, Sharee’, told us all about the three ”R”s, and we nodded like unashamed bobbleheads, ratings, ratings, and ratings.  Reality’s version of real estate buying, she explained. She waved a lime green colored claw and held her coffee cup in a death grip with the other and continued, 

“Drama, fighting, crying, and a smidge more drama equals good ratings, which means more “clams” for us. They picked you for your good backstories. Illnesses, family struggles, broken dreams, and homes make for good TV. Let’s just be real.” 

 The reality was getting a bit too unreal.

I was a killer marksman and I was going to make my mark indeed.  However, now I was getting beaten down more than my Francaise batter on my chicken. Somehow, I had to rise above this chaos like the cream on Sharee’s latte.  I had to stay on for another round, so I could get a “round” off on the arrogant beast.  I simply could not overuse the word “arrogant” when talking about Bobby Vino.   

Suddenly, things became crystal broth clear to me as I saw one of the producers wink at me.  Do they still do that?  Well, I’ll give them more drama than any housewife, real or otherwise, bachelor or 

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catfish hailing from Jersey, New York, or Georgia, wielding tiaras, duck whistles, masked or naked, Keeping up or not. I will blow them away!  However, my daydream of stomping on Bobby Vino’s smugness vanished as he once again spewed from his vinegar and water persona, wink, wink. Yes, It’s still done.

“You have one more chance to show some type of skill camo girl, dessert time. Contestants take your places.” 

Did he especially dislike me? Did he or the producers somehow make the connection between my sister and me? I would revenge the brutality he unleashed on her two years earlier.  Carly was never the same after her time on the show and I despised the arrogant, (sorry, one more) Bobby Vino for that. Raji and the others looked at me and smiled. What did they know?  

Earlier that day, I met the production coordinator and charmed him with my so-called dream to be a chef and follow a family tradition, but he ignored me and went to talk with the director.  Then I got swept up in the tsunami of assistant director, production manager, best boy, grip, and other names, but no best girl, all that washed over me.  Throughout my day, I carried on as Deliah Jones, from Florida.  My story of helping my poor family and overcoming hardships to get on the show was consistent. My well-rehearsed lines never faltered.  I did belong on television for my super-star acting ability, after all.

Finishing up my attempt at Creme Brulee', I spied my knapsack left on a chair with my paintball gun tucked safely inside.  I scanned the room; no one else seemed aware, Score! Okay, maybe you should remove the “bad” in badass when describing me, and just have “ass”.  All this work just for slathering him in paint!  The vengeance would have to wait one more minute, however, my Creme Brulee’ could burn. After I rescued my creation and appeared innocent enough, I made my move.

Suddenly, I threw my mitts down and lept to the chair, grabbed the paintball gun, which for some reason seemed heavier than normal, and squeezed off a shot.  It hit Bobby Vino on his clean, white crisp chef shirt. 

I began my speech to him about how he was a piece of crap for dismissing dreams so easily, berating people like it was nothing more to him than wiping off a nuisance smear on his cutting board.  People put their hearts and souls into this chance to shine and he ruins everything with his evil comments.  He should never have been so terrible to my sister, but he wasn’t listening, actually, no one was.

I gaped, he crumpled. People ran, there were screams. Why were they doing this?   It was just “paint”.  But why was Bobby Vino moaning on the floor and red was spreading all over his shirt?  I always used blue paintballs. Why was the producer smiling?

Doreen Shea

August 2021