West Coast Love

by Tif Marcelo

  Or, vintage splendor.

  Because the motorhome that’s assigned to us is about as old as me. That’s not an exaggeration. The rig is slightly tilted. Its siding is dotted with rust. The wheels are tiny, and the windows—tinier.

  “Does she even start?” I hesitate to approach it, as if one pull on the door could tip it sideways. A snort filters through the crew.

  “Yes. The engine is very loud, and the interior doesn’t have all the trappings, but it works.” Tara comes to my side, and we look at the rig together. Under her breath, she says, “Campingheaven World messed up our rental reservations, and this is all they had available. Talk about drama. This morning wasn’t fun dealing with them. But we’re stuck with it since it’s Labor Day weekend and all the rentals are out.

  “It technically sleeps two, but the second bed is just long enough for a child. I’ve decided to caravan with my personal vehicle, a Suburban. After I saw this, I had to make sure there’s a backup. We do have two- and three-person tents for everyone else. But for all intents and purposes, this is home.”

  Home.

  Home has been nebulous for the last couple of years. After I graduated from college, my dad’s house and Paraiso have been the place where I do laundry and get a good night’s sleep before I get back on the road again. I followed a need inside of me to keep going, to put one foot in front of the other. It might not have always led me to the right place, but, finally, I’m back on the road.

  If this RV doesn’t break down in the middle of it.

  “It’s not that bad, is it?” Tara sports a worried look. “I promise, the book is way better than its cover.”

  Her words wake me from my trance. She’s right. The cover doesn’t always predict what the book’s going to be like—and I know that firsthand. And, suddenly, this rig is perfect exactly as it is. My lips spread into a smile. “No worries. I’ve come prepared. Home, it is.”

  10

  JOEL

  Dear God, I’m going to be calling an RV home for the next eight days.

  I pop out of a cab at Campingheaven World and sling my old green Army duffel bag over my shoulder. While my furniture and memorabilia are stationed at my sister’s home, everything I need for daily living is in this duffel. Some people might call this lifestyle transient, but I consider it being flexible. It allows me to take jobs, and pick up and go at any time.

  Although my first choice is to live out of a hotel instead of a truck.

  The lot smells like propane and highway smog, and acres of RVs are lined up in perfect rows. The sun beats down from above, so I slip on my shades and begin to look for the RV marked with balloons.

  My phone dings in my back pocket again—my calendar notification reminding me that my meeting time with the crew was ten minutes ago. My initial plan to arrive early was squashed by a flight delay from Los Angeles. I’d taken a quick job after a cameraman on another live stream bailed, and the segment wrapped up later than expected. Add in the fact that someone took my cab right in front of me at the airport because I was distracted by my nephew on the phone, and my nerves are shot. The bright light at the end of the tunnel is the thought of barbecue at our first festival tomorrow.

  I spot the outline of a broad-shouldered man with a bun. Adrian. After I accepted this gig on the spot, I was introduced to Adrian, who’d also just accepted his job as the technical director. We’ve been keeping in touch. He’s also helping me out by loaning me the camping gear on our packing list. Talk about a Hail Mary when you need one—I would have hated to buy the stuff to use for this one time.

  He saunters over to me with his hand outstretched. “Hey, Joel.”

  “What’s up, man?”

  “Glad you made it. The whole crew’s here already.”

  “Yeah, sorry. Flight was delayed. Had to tie up some loose ends and someone took my cab . . .” I avoid his eyes and simply follow him.

  Seriously loose ends, otherwise known as a nephew that was begging for me to stay. Tears, the works.

  “Woman issues?” He eyes me knowingly. “I get it. You’re going to be living intimately with folks for quite a few days, and in close quarters. If I had a girlfriend, she wouldn’t have it either.” He nudges me with his elbow. “Anyway, if there’s one thing the network is a stickler about, it’s fraternization during a project. So even if our host is cute as all hell, we’ve got to keep our gaze neck up.”

  My curiosity is piqued, though it’s promptly smashed. The Army broke down those walls already. Deployments are a true test of cabin fever under stressful conditions, and if there was a time to be tempted to breach professionalism, it would have been then. But no, as a soldier and as a cameraman, I’ve no issues with keeping to my space.

  The only woman on the job who did it for me was Victoria, and I resisted her the entire time I worked at Paraiso. Our unforgettable night was another lesson why it was a bad idea to mix business and pleasure. Instead of letting it go as I’d done with other women, I’d tried to keep in touch. At first, when she didn’t respond, it pissed me off. Now, going into my second gig since Vegas, I’m thankful for her restraint. This kind of life isn’t conducive to any type of a relationship.

  I correct Adrian to set the truth straight. “I hear you. But the issue’s with my family. Long story.”

  Adrian’s face turns thoughtful. “Well, I hope it gets better.”

  “Thanks, I appreciate it.” We pass the travel trailers and buses and vehicles sized in between. I didn’t think there were so many options. Ooohs and aaahs flitter in the air from interested buyers as they climb out of the vehicles, impressed by what’s inside. My mind wanders to what kind of living conditions I’ll have, how big of a bed I’ll get to sleep in. A couple passes by talking about a washer and dryer, and suddenly things are looking up. This might end up better than a hotel.

  As we continue to slog up the rows, the large motorhomes fall away to the shorter ones, to some like silver bullets. The end of the parking lot is in view. “Are we close?” I ask.

  “The rental lot is this way.” He points up ahead.

  We turn the corner, and the sound of laughter hits my ears. Finally. A group of people are huddled under the awning of an old RV, and when I say old, it’s an understatement. It’s geriatric and small, with a thin blue stripe that runs across a creamy yellow siding. Retro but not in a cool way.

  But I come up to the group smiling, because that’s what I do. I’m grateful for this gig, even if I’m going to be judging the one who beat me out for the spot.

  Yeah, I’m still a little salty about the rejection sandwich I received. I thought my audition was near perfect, despite the “polishing” I supposedly needed.

  Adrian reintroduces me to the director. “You remember Tara Sullivan.”

  “Nice to see you again.”

  Tara shakes my hand. She’s dressed as if she’s going hiking at Machu Picchu: khaki everything, huge hiking shoes, and shades perched on her head. She’s even got a bandana tied around her neck. “Glad you made it.”

  “Of course.”

  “This is everyone who’s part of this project, but when on the road, it will simply be you, me, and Adrian. And, of course, our host.”

  I turn to the woman next to Adrian with her hair up in a ponytail, expecting an introduction. Except she says, “Oh good golly, that’s not me. I’m Marta. I’m nobody, an assistant here for the send-off.”

  So I pretend-laugh. “If you’re not our host, where is she?”

  “In there, putting her stuff away.” Tara eyes my duffel. “Glad you’re coming in light. Our host brought some gear, and there’s not much room in there. Grateful though, because I think we’ll be eating like kings and queens on the road—she’s got it covered. The RV’s only twenty-one feet long, with two beds, though only one is long enough for adults. We’ll be utilizing our tents for sure, unless you get desperate enough to be inside, and then you may have to draw straws with our host—she seems to be marking her territory. Help yourself and take a
look, though we should get this show on the road soon.”

  I nod. Really? The woman already called dibs on the bed? And what could we possibly need when we’re eating at festivals all week? My back already hurts just thinking about sleeping on the ground, and my head starts to pound at the thought of living on the road with people who I anticipate might be type-A about it. As I climb into the rig and the sound of the people behind me fades away, I ready myself for what I’m starting to think will be a pain-in-the-ass experience.

  The inside is as old as the outside, with faded orange-brown laminate flooring and a couch upholstered in a checkered orange and brown pattern. Above the cab of the RV is a loft bed. The other bed is in the rear. To my left is a stainless steel bowl sink, a two-burner stove, two overhead cabinets, and a small fridge. The rig’s shaking from the generator. I lift my hand to the vent. At least the AC works.

  I take out my phone to snap a pic for Seth. He should get a kick out of it.

  But as I look, I see a text notification from—oh shit—Victoria. I grin like a fool reading it, although what she says makes me curious. I text back: Camping? Me, too. Well, sort of.

  I aim the camera at the eighties throwback decor and snap a pic. I press send.

  From behind the only inner door in the rig, the toilet flushes, and a bell chimes. I throw my duffel up on the loft bed, because once you added that person in the bathroom, this space is going to be crowded as hell. I turn as the door throttles open, as if stuck.

  I brace myself to meet the host, and when she emerges from the bathroom, I’m sliced by the image of the blond-streaked hair and peach-lipped sweet face of Victoria Aquino. She’s holding her phone in her hand.

  “Oh. My. God.” Shock radiates across her face, and her gaze flies from me to her phone and back. She halts at the door, hand on the doorknob, like she’s frozen in place. Then, as if someone kick-starts her, she walks toward me. She’s in dark orange jeans and a white V-neck T-shirt, the confusion on her face contrasting with her bright clothing. When she tentatively wraps her arm around my neck and bowls me over with her sweet floral smell, I pull her body flush against mine. The moment is so right. She fits perfectly into my arms.

  But, no, this isn’t right. The synapses in my brain are firing out of order trying to place why Victoria Aquino is in this RV.

  She verbalizes my thoughts. “I never thought I’d see you again. What are you doing here?” She peels her upper body from me, hands on my shoulders. “Wait. Are you . . . ?”

  I shake my head. She can’t be . . .

  “Are you my cameraman?”

  Her cameraman?

  “You’re the host.” Except my question comes out more like a statement.

  Her lips quirk up slightly. “The one and only.”

  Her confidence rocks me as the rest of my emotions war with themselves. This was the woman who West Coast Eats picked over me. I’ve never had any of my jobs overlap, never worked closely with the same people twice.

  She and I slept together.

  I like her.

  My body is on the fence as to how to react. Kiss her? Shake her hand? Take her to bed while no one’s looking? Accuse her of taking this job?

  I can only say, “Yeah. I guess I am.”

  She lowers her voice conspiratorially, and her words come faster than I’ve ever witnessed. “Thank God. Barbecue? Don’t tell anyone, but I know absolutely nothing except that I am not a fan. And I’ve never gone on trips with people I don’t know. I’ve always done my jobs solo, and we’ll all be sleeping to . . . together . . .” Her words stutter, and her cheeks turn pink. “I mean, sleeping together the normal way. I’m talking too much right now, aren’t I?”

  I realize then that I haven’t let go of her yet, so I ease my hand’s pressure on her lower back. Her face falls slightly when I take a step away, mirroring exactly how I feel, but for an entirely different reason.

  Did she say she hated barbecue?

  She clears her throat at my silence. “I’m glad you’re here, that I know someone, have someone familiar.”

  “Who’s familiar?” Tara clomps up the stairs and calls behind her, “Come on in, everyone. The sun’s punishing outside.”

  Now with three people in the rig, it is too close for comfort, so I inch myself toward the cab of the RV, between the driver and the passenger seat. Following Tara, the rest of the crew climbs in and perches themselves on different areas in the confined space: the bed, dinette seating, laminate kitchen countertop. The air thickens with everyone’s cologne and deodorant. My temples throb.

  What the hell did I get myself into?

  “Joel and I know each other from Paradise in the Making,” Victoria says. “I’m Bryn’s little sister.”

  “You don’t say.” Tara’s eyes jump from me to Vic and back.

  I nod.

  “Then you know the truth about whether their relationship is fake.” Curiosity crosses her face.

  “It wasn’t fake.” I downplay the drama. Bryn and Mitchell might have started out as a fauxmance, but their status changed quickly into something that was very real. The controversy played out in front of the live stream—and thousands of people—and it almost ruined them, and I can tell that it’s a topic Victoria doesn’t want to touch.

  “That show was well-done. I’m honored to have some real veterans here, with you and your camera work and Vic’s ease in front of the camera. Good to know you’re familiar with each other. The better the bond among our team members, the better show we’ll be able to produce.” Tara claps her hand so everyone in the RV quiets. “Welcome, team! You all are a bunch of fine people. Some of you I’ve worked with before, some I haven’t, but we’ll be family soon enough. We’re starting right away, obviously, since our first festival is tomorrow. We’re going to be doing a lot of driving, some days more than others, and most of you will be communicating with us via email and text. To recap, the barbecue festivals this year are happening at around the same time, and the timing is perfect so we can cover them in a general north to south direction. The goal of the show, named West Coast BBQ, is to do a short segment at the beginning of each festival and have it edited and produced the same day we shoot. This will result in almost-live coverage, giving viewers in the local area time to come to the festival. California isn’t known for barbecue, and what West Coast BBQ wants to do is change that. So our segments will be informative, fun, and interactive.

  “It’s ambitious,” Tara continues. “It means filming perfectly and getting to production quickly. It also means arriving at our destinations early and being knowledgeable about our vendors and solidifying our script. Here’s the route. Everyone, grab a map.” She passes out a hard-copy flyer to everyone in the rig. “I know, I know . . . We have GPS, and some of you received this via email, but I thought this would be a good illustration of the ground we’re covering. I’ve labeled by number the places we’re visiting.” She pauses.

  My eyes follow the dots drawn on the map of California from one star to the next, our path crossing the lines that show mountain ranges and green areas of national forests.

  “Right? From here we’re driving north about three hundred miles to Desert Willow, then about eight hundred miles down to San Diego. Five festivals en route, in eight days. In some places, we’ll have early access; there will be a couple of days where we’ll have some time to take a chill pill.”

  “Does that mean there’s an opportunity to get together with friends?” Victoria beams. “I know for a fact my family would love for you all to come over to their restaurant in San Francisco. They can feed us some traditional Filipino food that might be a great break from the barbecue.”

  “This trip is sounding better and better,” Adrian quips.

  “We can definitely try to slip in some family time. And speaking of family, here’s how we’re going to stay in touch on the road. These are better than phones when we’re driving through dead reception areas.” She passes me a handheld radio. Then Tara lays out more of the ru
les, which all boil down to one: professionalism is everything. I listen and take in the faces of the people who I’ll be intimately involved with over the next eight days.

  And then there’s Vic, who I want to bed and throw out of the rig all at once. It can’t be. It can’t be she who won this position, and not me.

  Before now, my biggest worry about this project was having to travel in an RV. Now I don’t know how I am going to work within proximity of the one person I want to fuck and am pissed off with all at once.

  11

  VICTORIA

  The journey from Sacramento northwest to Desert Willow was supposed to take about seven hours. Our group of four had split off into two pairs, with Adrian and Tara in the Suburban, and Joel and I in the RV. I volunteered us to ride together, thinking it would be good to talk, to catch up, and maybe, to push aside the awkwardness between us.

  Because, oh my stars, I wasn’t sure what to do with this surge of emotion, knowing that the man who raised the sexual bar for me was not going to stay in my past. And then finding out we’d be working together? My body and mind are on opposites sides of a boxing ring. I meant what I’d said in Vegas the day after our night together: Joel was a good guy. He wasn’t a jerk, and I liked him. But I also physically wanted this man. I yearned to re-create our night, but as a coworker and professional, it wasn’t logically sound. Or smart.

  Joel and I had to get on the same page before we arrived at our first destination.

  Yet, almost two hours into the trip, we’re still far from engaging in a serious conversation. Joel volunteered to drive, and as the copilot, I’m in charge of making sure the rest of the rig is safe. But our aging RV shakes with every turn. Every pothole and tiny rock on the ground jostles the vehicle. It is a box on wheels with flimsy locks and knobs. Cupboard doors fly open and drawers roll out at every small disturbance, and stuff slides across the floor. Joel’s duffel topples down from the overhead loft and lands on my neck while I try to fix the kitchenette table that refuses to stay up.