by Tif Marcelo
“Wow.” I laugh. “That’s forward.”
“It’s an obvers . . . sober . . .”
“Observation”
“Right. That.”
“Why should I say something just for the hell of it?”
“To share. I mean, people should be honest about where they come from, what they do, who they are. You know almost everything about my family. It would be nice if you reciprocated.”
I’m not sure where this is coming from, but I answer, simply, “This was a job. I was paid to keep quiet and point my camera at you all.”
She heaves a pregnant sigh, arms following as if she’s given up. Her shoulders hunch low, and she stops in her tracks. “You’re probably smart not to get involved. Getting involved is awful and stupid.”
My insides still at the whiplash shift in her emotions, at the rise of the tone in her voice. I lift the flashlight.
Victoria’s face has twisted into a painful expression. Her eyebrows are knit together, eyes glazed over with the start of tears.
“Oh . . . um . . .” Clueless as to how we got to this point, not sure how to proceed, but needing to make her feel better, I take her into my arms. It’s something I would have done for Seth, for my sister, but when our bodies come together, the feeling that floods me isn’t at all innocent or paternal. Victoria fits perfectly into me with the top of her head right below my chin, my arms around her shoulders. But I tamp down this distraction and focus on somehow squeezing away the sadness to bring back her usual smile. “It’s okay.”
She sniffs against my chest, stiffening. “Of course I’m okay. I really wanted that tattoo. I’m ready to start over.”
My insides knot at her words and her attempt at denial. Starting over is my specialty. I do it with every job, with every new place, and with the people I meet in them. I do it because I have to.
Then, it dawns on me: she’s been hurt.
Slowly, I move the strands of hair that fell from her bun away from her eyelashes, and her face comes into full view. Her eyes show a familiar pain. The fear that this will be her reality, forever, is written on her frown and the vertical crease in between her eyebrows. A part of me wants to kiss it away, then I remember in one fell swoop that Victoria isn’t the kind of woman who should be involved with me. Instead, I impart my best sage advice. “You are starting over, right now, right this second.”
She shakes her head, maniacally. “No.”
I laugh gently. “Yes.”
“I mean . . . um . . . no, because I’m about to—” Her body doubles over, the telltale sign of shit hitting the fan, and before I can take a full step backward, she throws up all over my shoes.
3
VICTORIA
August 9
I wake up with hair in front of my face, a dry mouth, and a thick and lazy tongue. Peeling back heavy eyelids, I evaluate my current state. I’m on top of my sheets. My shoes are off, socks and jeans still on. Yet I’ve only got a bra on.
What the heck?
How did I get back home?
What’s that taste in my mouth?
I lick my chapped lips and rub my puffy eyes.
Then, the memories cycle.
“No,” I moan as my arm flies across my face.
The night started with me taking a walk along one of Dunford’s trails after I’d packed up for my trip to Vegas for my West Coast Eats callback. I’d wanted space and clarity, and being outdoors always brought me perspective: my problems might seem overwhelming and huge, but in the scope of the entire universe, I wasn’t even as big as a speck of sand.
I ended up at the orchard, surrounded by the sweet fragrance of ripening apples. Looking up at the sky, I wished for a sign, something to tell me that doing this callback was the right thing to do. Sure, I was thrilled about the opportunity. The callback had been a big middle finger to my catfish crisis. But I’d sent in that audition tape almost a year ago, before my blog took off, before I fell hard in love with writing.
When the North Star winked back at me, I thought of the compass tattoo. I thought that with a compass imprinted on my body, I would never be lost again.
With four cups of coffee behind me during the day and a couple of ensaymada—Filipino sweet rolls slathered in butter that my sister keeps in her freezer for emergencies—in my belly, I thought tequila shots were the perfect way to prep for the tattoo. O’Grady’s was my only real option for escape and for a liquid amnesic. Actually, Dunford Vineyard was the closest, but wine seemed too refined for what I wanted to accomplish. Why put in the effort when all I wanted was to get buzzed?
I took four shots with a couple of the locals, then made my way two doors down to Golden Tattoo, where I commenced to make a fool out of myself. Then, Joel, the Quiet One, saved me from making a bigger scene, because by the time I got to the tattoo studio, the alcohol had begun to settle into my system and . . .
“No.” I moan again.
I puked on Joel’s shoes. Oh, God, and I think I cried.
I cover my face with a pillow.
“Ah, you were a couple of seconds away from getting water in your face.” The mattress dips at my feet where my sister sits. The volume of her voice, on a scale of one to ten, is a twelve, and it’s probably on purpose. “You should get on the road soon so you can get to Vegas by dinnertime.”
“My audition isn’t even until tomorrow.”
“I have no idea what you’re saying.” She pulls the pillow off my face, combs my hair out of my eyes. Eyes narrowed and with pursed lips, she licks her finger and rubs something off my cheek, making me feel even more ridiculous.
I roll my eyes. “My audition isn’t until nine tomorrow. I can lay here for another ten minutes.”
“I’m not letting my chef go with you for nothing. I want you to get to Vegas, get settled, and get your mind on straight. Have some fun; be twenty-four.”
I blink up at Bryn. My sister is the definition of forward motion. We’re both entrepreneurs, both driven, but she . . . she doesn’t rest. She also doesn’t think I should waste another iota of time thinking of my past, of Luke Graham, and when she found out that Vegas was the callback destination, she was intent on me getting him “out of my system.”
But when his name materializes in my head, my insides roil.
“Ate,” I whisper. Big sister. I feel myself fall back into the depths of betrayal and the doubts I’ve generally kept silent try to push their way out of my body. I clamp my eyes shut, sift over all the reasons why heading to Vegas doesn’t sound like the peachiest idea. There’s the fact that I don’t know what this callback is about; that while I can vlog with the best of them, I don’t know if I can act, which is essentially what being a host is. And with the way I’m feeling right now, can I even fake a smile? “I can’t get on the road hungover. I’ll throw up again. And like you said, you’re letting Ellie go with me and she’s needed here. I don’t want to interrupt the opening.”
Chef Ellie Reyes is Paraiso’s full-time culinary instructor and someone who we’ve become fast friends with. She’s coming with me because she wants to meet up with a tiny-house builder based in Vegas, but I bet she’s been tasked to keep tabs on me.
“Vic.”
“Maybe I’m supposed to be like you and dad. Invest in things that stay. In things that matter. In things that exist.”
In people that exist.
Her fingers pad across my face, tuck my hair behind my ears. The gesture is reminiscent of what my mother used to do when I had my bad days. We lost our mom five years ago, but I consider myself lucky that despite this, I have Bryn. I can still be like this—a little broken—and have her not judge me, as pushy as she is. “What you do matters. You’re pithy and clever. You can talk forever about anything. You can write. You can see the beauty in things; it shows in your photography. Not everyone has these talents, and no one can take them away. Not even Luke.”
I open my eyes to similar golden-brown eyes, pinched at the corners, looking back at me, the same heart-sh
aped face, the same sharp V of a chin. Although our hairstyle is now markedly different, with my blond highlights and long tresses and her A-line haircut with red balayage, we’ve got the same medium-beige skin color, the perfect mix of our dad’s fair skin and our mother’s olive complexion. I rise up to my elbows, and Bryn makes up the distance and hugs me tight, pressing me against her. It’s as if her conviction is passed over in this act, so I can inhale deeply and sit up. I remember that whether or not this audition is the best step, it’s simply that: movement somewhere. And sometimes, that is enough.
“Do you think my outfit is travel-worthy?” I look down at my half-naked self, and as the events of last night flash through my mind again, a giggle bubbles through my lips. “Please tell me it was you who took my shirt off.”
Her eyes light up in mischief. “Yes, but oh, were you a sight, little sis.” Bryn stands and reaches for two mugs on the dresser. She passes me my mug. It’s a set we had personalized together. Hers has the word ate in a rounded Arial, and mine has bunso—or last child—in calligraphy. The scent of Kape Barako, coffee made from beans from the Philippines, instantly wakes me. “What were you doing trying to get a tattoo by yourself, anyway?”
“I don’t know.” I roll my eyes.
“I’m glad Jake had enough sense to send you away. Who knows what you would have come home with?” She holds her hands up before I can protest her maternal nagging. “I get it. All the more reason why Vegas is going to be good for you. Who knows? You might find your true north out there.” She grins, taking a sip. “But if you ever see Joel again, you’d better give him a solid thank-you. The guy was a saint. You’d already thrown up on him, and he still had you up by the shoulders when he got you to the front door. He had to clean up before we took him home.”
“Ugh.” I wince. “I owe him a thanks and an apology. Top it off, I think I was rude to him last night.”
“You should try to find him on Facebook or something. I’m planning on doing it myself, actually. As much as I started to get a little cabin fever from all the cameras, I think I might actually miss the crew. It’s so much quieter now that they’re gone.” She spins her wrist and glances at her Fitbit. “It’s telling me to move. Also, it’s time for you to go.” She lugs my cherry red hard-shell suitcase onto the mattress. I climb down and open it to take a final inventory of my things. It’s packed with almost everything I own. With how much I travel, there’s no room for mess, and I’ve learned to live with little. Besides a few outfits and a little black dress—with respective shoes to match, of course—that I keep at my sister’s and my dad’s places, my “must-pack” list consists of a stash of brightly colored pants, bohemian shirts, flats, and a worn and frayed Levi’s jean jacket, tightly rolled and tucked together.
There’s only one thing missing.
I pull my journal from under my pillow. I haven’t written in it in days, but with this new step, surely my mojo will return. Vegas will be good for me. This audition will jump-start this low point. And I don’t know, maybe I’ll find my way to the real path I’m supposed to take.
I heave a breath, pull out a shirt and a pair of pants, then glance at my sister.
“I’ll be ready to go in ten minutes.”
4
JOEL
My body is bone-tired, crashed forward into the motel double bed, and the old and worn mattress sags from my weight. Arms stretched out to the side like an airplane, exhaustion buzzes through me like electricity as I pry my eyelids open.
My phone alarm is blaring beyond my fingertips.
I inch myself forward and with one final move heft my arm over the phone and tap aimlessly on the screen until the alarm shuts off. Bringing the phone to my face, I spy the time with one eye open.
Six a.m.
Too early, especially after a long night.
I didn’t get into bed until after midnight. After finally coaxing Victoria the rest of the way up to her sister’s house, I took up Bryn’s offer to wash off my shoes. I’d almost said no, not wanting to impose since it was late, but with having to travel today, it only made sense to clean up. So while she scrubbed down my shoes, I threw my shirt and socks in her washer. Her boyfriend, Mitchell, lent me a T-shirt while we waited for my clothes to finish, and they fed me bibingka, a coconut rice cake dessert, before they drove me home.
I almost didn’t want to go. I’d grown fond of the Aquinos and Dunfords, but it was Victoria who I hesitated to leave. While professionalism always took precedence when I worked at Paraiso, it didn’t mean I never looked, or noticed her. She was difficult to ignore with her infectious smile and her positivity.
After last night, curiosity nagged at me. Who and what hurt her? When did this happen? I’d been at Dunford six days out of the week for two months filming the live stream. While Victoria wasn’t the subject of the stream, how did I not notice her pain?
I fell asleep wishing I could have put a smile back on her face, thinking of my lips in her hair, her body cocooned by mine.
But right now, I have to get up. I’ve got seven hours of driving ahead of me, to a nephew who’s expecting me for dinner. With traffic, it will be more like nine. Throwing myself on my feet, I trudge to the bathroom and jump into the shower.
* * *
It’s around six thirty by the time I step back into the bedroom, to a voicemail notification from an unknown number.
Only a few people know my number, limited to work and to my family. Which means this is some kind of an emergency. I log in to my voicemail box.
“Mr. Joel Silva?” a woman says. “This is Pia, assistant to producer Olivia Russell from West Coast Eats. I’m sorry we’re calling so early. We’re doing callbacks for the new show we’re producing in a few weeks, and it seems that we dropped the ball and missed you on the list. We took a look at your video audition and would like to see if you’d be available to—”
“Holy shit.” I punch the return call button instead of listening to the rest of the voicemail. Staring at the screen, I mentally count how many months have passed since I sent West Coast Eats that audition tape. At least six months. While I’d gone to school to be a cameraman, after five nonstop years of working on project after project, I had a need to be on the other side of the camera. Sure, there’s the magic of being able to capture the shot. There’s even a satisfaction in it, knowing that without your eye the scene would not have been produced exactly the same way. But to be in front of the camera, to be able to give my perspective, would be priceless. How many times had I watched a food host on TV not do a dish justice? And when it was about comfort food, street food—my passion—the desire to put my opinion out there was strong. But the timing never seemed right; making money always came first.
It was only after I’d heard through the grapevine the network was accepting video auditions that I’d shot a segment on my buddy’s food truck in Oakland while I was between gigs. It was a two-minute sample I’d practiced for days.
I never thought anything would come of it.
The phone rings twice before the other line picks up. “This is Pia.”
“Hi. I just missed your call. This is Joel Silva.”
Papers rustle in the background. “Thanks for ringing back. My bad, I’m on a personal trip here in Florida and was crashing down on some work, and wasn’t keeping track of the time. I realize now that it’s 6 a.m. your time. I’m so sorry. I know it’s not exactly business hours.”
“It’s all right. I was up.”
“Great. Um . . . here’s your call sheet. Yes. So, I apologize we didn’t get ahold of you sooner. We had a couple of cancellations in our callbacks and since it’s right around the corner, we’d love for you to come in and audition if you’re interested.”
My heart pounds. The timing is perfect; I don’t have anything lined up. “Absolutely. When and where?”
“We have an audition slot open today; someone just cancelled. Tonight at seven. At the MGM Grand in Vegas.”
“Tonight?” I scan my room,
take note of my things. The logistics line themselves up in my head. Pack up. Flight from Sacramento. Hotel.
“We understand if the timing is inconvenient. There’s another slot tomorrow at nine thirty.”
“No,” I protest. I’m not going to let this opportunity pass me by, and the earlier, the better. “Slot me in for tonight.”
We discuss the details of the audition and hang up. I jump into my clothes and jam a baseball cap over my head with renewed vigor, then head outside and jog across the street to plop down on a bench. Internet access is shit in and around the motel, and I’ve got a flight to book and, possibly, a buddy to contact so I can crash at his place.
This morning in Golden is right out of a postcard. The sky is a clear dark blue. Birds chirp and flit among the hanging flowers on the streetlights. A layer of thin fog covers the ground. The corner diner is pumping the delicious smells of bacon and eggs and fried potatoes into the air, and a group of runners circles the town square.
From my phone, I book a 2 p.m. flight to Vegas that should get me there by four. I call for an airport shuttle to arrive in a couple of hours, paying a little extra for the last-minute booking. Then, I head to Facebook through my regular browser, since I deleted all those soul-sucking apps years ago. With four years in the Army and nine years meeting nomadic folks in film school and as a working cameraman, I’ve racked up quite a few contacts.
But I almost throw my phone on the ground because I can’t get my password right. I undertake the lengthy, frustrating process of having my password sent to my email, then log in again, just as my alarm rings through.
It’s reminding me I should get on the road.
To Alford.
Shit.
There aren’t any more Jolly Ranchers in Seth’s jar. He’s expecting me home. Sure, he’s not my kid, but I’m as close to him as my father was to me. He treats my words as truth.
I dial my sister. I rub my temples as the phone rings on the other end.
