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Pete takes another pull from the bottle and comes away with the realization that Bob Benson probably knows—maybe even cares—about him more than anyone else in the office. It’s kind of ridiculous to think that someone he’s known barely a year has put more effort into Pete’s life than seemingly into his own. The men and women he’s worked with for ages—Don, Roger, Ken, Harry, Joan, Peggy--seem to care for him not a bit. The woman he had a child with won’t even look him in the eye anymore. He’s loath to admit it, but it hurts.
Pete takes another swig and looks dejectedly around his office. He’s finding he’s been asking himself “What else is there?” with more and more frequency. Sometimes he thinks Lane had the right idea by ending his life quickly and quietly. He absentmindedly rubs his cheek in remembrance. It wasn’t the first time he’d been threatened in the office, but Don had been stupid or maybe gracious enough to step in before Roger did something equally stupid. At least Lane’s punch had been real, personal. Someone had put thought into their action that regarded him. It was more than anyone else could say.
…Until Bob Benson of course. Bob with his cups of coffee and stunning grins. So eager to please. He wanted to be someone, which was quite clear. And although his background has been hidden in shadow, he climbed the ladder quickly, snatching Chevy right out of the palms of his hands. How did he do it? It reminded him strongly of Don. Wasn’t Don the same way? All easy smiles, strong hands, can-do attitude turned up to one hundred at every turn.
How did the Don Drapers and Bob Bensons of the world get that extra pinch of aptitude and glamour? It irked him. It always has. For as long as he’s been aware of his father’s disapproval, he’s felt weighed down by his resounding lack. And he’s just drunk enough now to admit that it terrifies him. That he will always amount to nothing. That he will always be no one.
And then our knees touched…, his brain supplies.
What was that? What had that been? That sudden flair of acceptance that burst through his gut.
Pete remembers looking up at Bob’s handsome face, so open and approving. It was weird.
Different.
But not too closely…I’m off limits, he had reprimanded, perhaps a bit too harshly, he thinks now.
Bob’s in Detroit now. The city is two hours ahead of his office in California, but maybe Bob will still be there. Maybe he’ll answer the phone, and they’ll talk. Pete takes another drink before dialing Bob’s office.
“Hello? Bob Benson speaking.”
Pete gulps. What the fuck is he even doing? Why, why, why did he think this was a good idea?
“Hello?” Bob says again.
“Hey.”
“Pete,” he can practically hear the smile in his soft voice. “How are you doing?”
Pete chuckles humorlessly, bitterly into the phone. “Not great, Bob.”
Bob pauses a moment before replying. “Is everything alright?”
Pete looks at his practically empty bottle of scotch. “No, not really.”
He can picture Bob’s face looking worried, trying to think of something reassuring and helpful to say. He could really use a dose of Bob’s dark wit and sarcastic humor.
“What can I do?”
“I don’t know. I don’t even know why I called. It’s late here, and it’s even later where you are. I shouldn’t have called.”
“Pete, wait. Don’t hang up. You sound unwell, and you’re worrying me. Please tell me why you really called tonight?”
Pete notices that his cheeks are wet before he realizes that he’s started crying.
“I miss you,” Pete blurts out before he can stop himself.
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“What can I do, Pete?”
“This is so ridiculous,” he sobs. “What’s wrong with me?”
“Shhh, shhh. There’s nothing wrong with you. There’s nothing wrong with you at all.”
“Oh, poppycock! Everyone treats me like I’m something stuck on the bottom of their shoe. I’ve proven myself intelligent and useful, but it’s never enough is it? There will always be a top, and there will always be a bottom. And I’m coming to realize that there just will never be anyone below me. I’m trash, and everyone makes it clear as crystal to me where I stand. I’m a partner!”
There’s no sound on the phone but Pete’s agonized sobs. Bob listens with a troubled, sympathetic ear to Pete’s sorrows. He wishes he was there with him, but he knows, in reality, that sober Pete would strong discourage any sort of advance, no matter how benign.
Bob swallows through a lump in his throat before answering. “You’re not trash to me, Pete. You never were and you never will be.”
Pete sniffles. “If I’m being completely frank, I suppose that’s why I called you.”
“I’m sorry, Pete. For everything. I shouldn’t have—”
“No, don’t apologize again. If—If I had—If we had…What would life be?”
The question comes as quite a shock. Never in his wildest imaginings did Pete ever reciprocate. He had always assumed that he was acting in vain. Acting with selfish wishes and selfish intentions.
“I don’t know. I suppose we would buy a home together. Maybe in the Village. People would ask fewer questions there, for one…”
“Would you be faithful to me, Bob?”
“Yes, of course,” he answers with vehemence. “Being with anyone else wouldn’t be right.”
Pete laughs a slightly drunken laugh. “That’s good. I wouldn’t want anyone else to even look at you. Let alone touch you.”
Bob’s cheeks go red at thoughts of their make-believe. “I never thought I’d hear you say that to me, of all people.”
“You’re good to me, Bob Benson.”
It’s as if all the alcohol he has consumed has conspired to make him confess everything. He feels a warmth in his gut when he realizes that he doesn’t mind.
“One can only try, Pete,” he manages to say without becoming tongued tied at those beautiful words.
“You are though. You’re who I need right now, with me.”
Bob clenches his eyes shut because his senses feel overloaded. It hurts to hear those words spoken hundreds of miles away from intoxicated (and intoxicating) lips. He unconsciously tightens his hand around the telephone, unaware that he is holding in his breath. Bob reminds himself that this is all pretend and that Pete won’t even remember this come tomorrow morning.
“I wish I could be with you,” Bob manages to say.
“I want to kiss you,” Pete blurts.
There’s electricity coiling in his gut and a stabbing pain in his chest, and Bob’s not entirely sure how he’s still sitting in his office chair instead of curled up in a ball under his desk.
“Collect calls are expensive, Pete,” Bob reminds him with a hitch in his voice.
Pete may be slightly to moderately drunk, he guesses, but he hears the tremor in Bob’s voice. It tears into his chest when he catches on.
“I shouldn’t have called.”
Pete sounds more sober than he has since he’s picked up the phone. A few tears leak out from Bob’s close eyes.
“No. You really shouldn’t have.”
There’s silence on the line before Pete can muster up a proper sentence.
“Good night, Bob Benson.”
Bob smiles sadly to hear his name said so reverently from Pete Campbell’s drunken lips.
“Good night, Pete.”
Neither of them manage to hang up right away, but eventually Pete musters up the courage to put his phone back in the holder first.
Bob listens to the dial tone for a few seconds before putting his own phone down. And he finally opens his eyes.