The Last One(14)
Zoo’s microphone pack is prodding the small of her back uncomfortably after her run. She fixes it, then turns to Air Force. “You okay?”
Air Force mutters that he’s fine. The host is trying to decide if he should call for an EMT. Air Force is clearly in pain, but he is just as clearly trying to ignore that pain. And he’s still on his feet. The host was told to reserve medical assistance for emergencies. This, he decides, is not an emergency. He unnecessarily informs Zoo and Air Force that they are the second and third to finish, then stands his post, waiting for the others while the first three exchange names and make small talk that will not be shown. Zoo does most of the talking.
Rancher is the next to arrive, an oak leaf speared on his right spur. He’s followed closely by Biology. Five minutes later, Engineer appears, and then Black Doctor, who blinks at the field in surprise. He hadn’t realized his instructions were effectively taking him in a large circle. Asian Chick and the red-haired man race for eighth place.
The red-haired man wins, and he hunches over to catch his breath. He’s dressed in plain outdoor clothing with his lime-green bandana tied above his elbow like a tourniquet. But he’s wearing Goth-style boots, and a heavy gold cross dangles on a chain next to his compass. The camera zooms on the cross, and then—a pre-taped statement, because the current shot cannot express this man’s essence.
He is dressed in what appears to be—what is—a black graduation gown with a hand-stitched white collar. His coppery hair is gelled, and curls upward like flames. “There are three signs of demonic possession,” Exorcist says. His voice is a grating, self-important tenor. He pokes his index finger toward the ceiling and continues, “Abnormal strength, like a little girl overturning an SUV, which I’ve seen.” A second finger flips up to join the first. “A sudden understanding of languages the individual has no right knowing. Latin, Swahili, what have you.” Three fingers. “Having knowledge of hidden things…like a stranger’s name or what’s locked in a safe you’ve got no reason to know about.” He retracts his fingers, reaches down the neck of his robes, and pulls out the golden cross. “Aversion to the sacred is a given, of course. I’ve seen flesh smoke at the touch of the cross.” He rubs his thumb tenderly along the charm. “I’m not an official exorcist, just a layman doing the best I can with the tools I got. By my reckoning, I’ve sent three true demons from this mortal plane, and I’ve helped some two dozen folks who thought they were possessed banish an inner demon of a more metaphorical nature.” He smiles and there’s something in his eyes—some will think he doesn’t believe himself, that he’s playing a part; others will think he’s truly delusional; a special few will see their own reality in the one he’s projecting.
“It’s my calling,” he says.
In the field, Exorcist huffs, rubs some sweat from his brow with his sleeve, and stands. He looks ordinary enough here, but he’s been cast as the wild card, the one whose antics will be used for filler as necessary, and to test the patience of the other contestants. He knows this, has embraced this. He is counting on viewers appreciating the brand of crazy he does best. His uniqueness will be revealed to the others in about an hour, and each and every one of the other contestants will have a thought—not an identical thought, but close enough—a thought along the lines of: I have to be in the woods with this nutjob for how long?
A few minutes after Exorcist’s big finish, Banker comes in, the last of the contestants to receive a close-up. He has dull brown eyes and hair, and a nose like the host’s but bigger. His black-and-white bandana is a wide headband, and askew. Banker has been cast as filler; his job alone means most viewers will root against him, thinking he doesn’t need the money, doesn’t deserve it, that his presence on the show is proof of the endless greed systemic to his profession. He’s a swindler, a parasite, as scrupleless as a carpetbagger.
Banker can be crammed into this stereotype, but it doesn’t fit him. He grew up the eldest son of middle-class Jews. Many of his childhood peers spent their adolescence in a haze of pot and apathy, but Banker worked hard; he studied; he earned his admission to the Ivy League. The company he’s worked for since finishing his MBA thrived through the recession, was not a cause. They match a large portion of Banker’s charitable giving, of every employee’s charitable giving, and not just for the tax break. Banker is tired of defending his career. He’s here on sabbatical, to challenge himself and learn new skills, to escape the anti-elitist ire of those who say they want their kids to get into the best schools and choose rewarding careers but then resent any adult who is the grown outcome of a child who accomplished precisely that.
Twenty-eight real-time minutes after Banker finishes, Waitress finds her way back to the field. The host is napping under an umbrella. Most of the contestants are chatting, bored and hot in the sun. They acknowledge Waitress’s arrival tepidly. “I was expecting this to be more exciting,” says Asian Chick. “Same here,” agrees Biology. Tracker’s eyes are closed, but he’s listening. About five minutes later, Cheerleader Boy sulks into the field with his pink box. No one greets him. Even Waitress feels like she’s been waiting forever.
The on-site producer rouses the host, who straightens his shirt, runs a hand through his hair, and then stands sternly before the contestants, who are quietly arranged in a line reflecting the order in which they finished. “Night is approaching,” says the host. A true statement, always, but it strikes Tracker as odd; he has a strong sense of time. He can feel that it’s only three o’clock.