by Tif Marcelo
Sweat blooms on my back. I switch my weight from one foot to the other, but I can’t get comfortable. In fact, every time I move, I feel the stuff in my belly shift. I’ve got no place to go, no place to escape. In the middle of this crowd, I might as well be in the throes of the ocean.
“You’re not looking too hot right now.” Adrian puts a hand on my shoulder, and it refocuses me.
“Promise not to judge?” I clutch my stomach.
“C’mon, I’d never.”
“I think . . . I think it was the potato salad from Pete and Paul’s Pit.”
His eyebrows lift in acknowledgment.
I nod with a grimace.
“Do you need . . .”
“A bathroom? Yeah. Um, but I think I’m okay right now. Especially if we hurry.” The crowd’s too thick to wade through, and Tara and Joel are already headed back to us. Besides, we didn’t bring the RV with us into the city, anticipating the lack of parking, and with the segment starting in a few minutes, timing could not be worse.
Tara’s scowling when she reaches us. “I think we should film closer to Pete and Paul’s so we don’t have to fight with everyone to get what we need. And we have to try to get it in one shot, since the amount of people here is doubling by the minute.”
At the mention of the vendor’s name, I almost keel over in pain. Instead, I shut my eyes briefly.
“What’s up? Are you worried about the crowd? Don’t you pay them any mind. Look straight into the camera and shut out the noise, and we’ll do the rest, okay?”
“Um, actually I think the guilty party is more in her belly than in her head,” Adrian says.
“How about we don’t talk about it?” Impatience bursts from my lips. Instantly, I’m remorseful, and I soften my voice. “Let’s get this done, okay?” I feel about a hundred pounds heavier, and I drag my feet, left, right, left, and somehow make my way toward Pete and Paul’s. But as we get closer, and as my nose picks up the smell of their hickory smoke, I remember gobbling down their samples a half hour before.
I slow to the speed of molasses.
“Hey, sure you’re okay?” Joel’s now next to me. The camera, hiked on his shoulder, acts like a shield against the sun, and I’m grateful for the brief shade. But then I remember last night, and I shrug him off, banking right toward Pete and Paul’s.
After making our sandwiches and seeing that Joel was at the hood of the RV, I had planned to wrap my arms around him, to pay him the same dirty attention he’d given me on our drive to Richmond. Joel had aroused and excited me, and I wanted to return the favor.
But as I exited the RV, I realized he was talking on the phone.
I know I shouldn’t have listened. Making my presence known would have been the right thing to do. But the rest of the campground was virtually silent, and his voice echoed back to me at the perfect volume. And the tenor of his voice? It halted me in my tracks. It was the voice of love, of care. It was easy and melodic and comforting.
Then he said the name Seth.
Seth.
A kid he said I love you to. A kid who expected him to take a video of his exact location.
This was not a random child, a friend’s kid. This Seth was important.
The fear of not knowing about Seth, that I didn’t know much of Joel’s life, took over. Was it my right to know? What were the rules in our relationship or fling—whatever we were?
I wanted to ask him about Seth last night. It was on the tip of my tongue. But when we were interrupted . . . I lost my nerve.
We are due for a talk. But not right now, not when I’m feeling the opportunity to prove myself on television slip through my fingers. Right now, my professional life—making it through this segment—takes precedence.
I can’t not do this shot.
“Your position right there is fine.” Tara snaps me out of my thoughts. “Perfect. Start whenever you’re ready.” She nods at Joel. “Camera.”
The red light comes on, and I open my mouth to introduce the segment, but a group of three, two guys and a girl, step in front of me, all smiles and phones, food in their hands. They lob questions at me from all fronts:
“Oh my God! We were looking for you guys.”
“Are you filming soon?”
“Can we watch?”
Shocked, I smile placidly, though Tara breaks through the crowd. “Hey, actually you guys, we’re about to film now. Would you mind standing off to the side?” Her demeanor is placating though firm, and as the crowd moves over, my heart begins to pound. Not once did I expect to be recognized at any time, much less after we’ve only shown one segment.
Finally, after the scene is cleared, Tara waits for my cue. I nod.
The red light comes back on.
Then I shake my head in earnest. Nope, not ready at all. My tummy is growling like a lion, and it feels like it’s trying to fold into itself. One hand flies to my stomach, and the other pretend-slices my neck. All of my effort is being spent to keep me upright. “Can we cut?”
The camera lowers, and with that, my body lets go a little, and I rest my hands on the top of my thighs. Tara approaches me. “Christ, you’re bad off.”
“I . . . I really, really need a bathroom.”
Her face freezes and understanding plays across her eyes. “You need a break.”
“I do.”
“How long do you need?”
“I don’t know.” I bite my lip and look beyond the crowd, to dozens of people in line for the Porta-Johns. “I might have to beg a store to let me in.”
Tara shuts her eyes. “I know, I get it. The timing, though . . .”
Around us, people start to whisper. Joel approaches us, camera at his side, and a few seconds later, Adrian jogs over from his station. Their faces show how dire this is and how important it is for everyone’s job that we get this shot. I am the host, dammit, and there’s no one here to replace me.
“Believe me, I would not leave right now if I didn’t have to.” I look up at Joel, my eyes misty with frustration, on the brink of tears. Joel, who has been watching me all morning, who I’ve been avoiding since last night, who also decided to help me prepare despite my change of heart by showing up this morning with handwritten information about these vendors.
Wait.
There is someone who can replace me.
He’s actually better qualified, though he might have a son. He might have a wife.
I shake my head at my foolishness. God, he might be an alien and live part-time on the moon. For the good of this segment, however, there’s no waffling about what I have to do. The network isn’t going to care about my excuses if we go to them empty-handed, and my stomach isn’t going to wait much longer for my decision. “Joel can take my place.”
Tara blinks as her thoughts play across her face. My sister, Bryn, is exactly like this. While their pupils are squarely on your eyes, you can clearly tell that their brains are sorting through information like flash cards. “We’ll slide the roles down so Adrian will do the camera, hook the sound to the on-camera mic, and I’ll have to mix.”
I nod. “I’ll hike up Telegraph and find someone to let me in. Surely someone will, right?”
She nods, spies her watch. “We’ll hold off as long as we can. Ten minutes, okay?”
“Thanks. Okay. I’m running, literally.”
I grab Joel by the elbow so we have a moment to ourselves. At the contact, my body softens toward him, and I have to catch myself. I’m already feeling so much, too much, despite our agreement that it is supposed to be simple between us. Because it’s not—not with five days left, and the job he now has to step up to do.
I straighten the best I can despite my condition, lift my chin to maintain the last bit of my pride.
Worry flashes across his face, so I hold a hand up. “I’ll be fine. Promise me you’ll break a leg, Silva.”
He exhales. “Promise.”
And I hobble like hell out of there.
20
JOEL
It is bliss. The camera on my face, the chaos and noise around me. The expressions I elicit from the small audience that gathers in my periphery. The phones trained my way.
Behind the camera, I’m supposed to melt into the background. My job is to be inconspicuous, even if me and my piece of equipment are the elephant in the room. For five years, my job was to be quiet, to pick up the nuances between people, to film at the right angle, the correct distance. My job was to provide the right perspective.
Me, in front of the camera? I give the perspective. I direct the audience.
And I fucking love it.
The words seem to come from everywhere during my fifteen-minute segment. The crowd parts as I move backward into Pete and Paul’s Pit tent. My voice is strong and confident when I interview Pete, the pitmaster himself; my posture proud when we discuss his dedication to the craft of smoking meat. The crowd waits with bated breath for my impression when I taste their specialty: pork ribs, so soft that the meat falls off the bone. Afterward, I throw myself back out into the festival crowd, walk down the street like I own it, paving the way for the camera.
When I finish, I’m out of breath.
After Adrian lowers the camera, I’m bombarded by people wanting to take selfies. One person mistakes me for another food journalist.
I’m here for all of it. Me, someone who doesn’t usually engage with strangers. Me, who usually prefers to be in the crowd. When Tara emerges from her station sporting a wide smile, the truth almost knocks me off my feet.
Holy shit, I was just doing what I was meant to do.
And that despite the network deciding that it would be Victoria in front of the camera—it ended up being me.
My and Vic’s conversation about the intersection of fate and choice cycles through my brain. I’ve been given a second chance, and where did that fall? Was it truly the result of a series of choices? Or was something else at play that orchestrated the whole scene coming together?
And if so, are some people fated to have pain, to take the long way around to find their way?
With little time to contemplate after the final set of selfies are taken, the crew and I weave our way to a side street, each of us carrying a piece of equipment. Tara excuses herself to take a phone call, and Adrian leans back against a building and digs a cigarette from his backpack. “Do you mind?”
“No, I’m good.” I’m out of breath, like I’ve sprinted a lap around the track. I’m still enjoying the rush of talking nonstop, my face red from the sun that’s burning through the last of the hazy afternoon. Smoke trails from Adrian’s mouth as he speaks. “Now how the hell did you not get this job?”
“I don’t know. Auditions are subjective. Olivia thought I wasn’t polished enough.”
He takes a long drag of his cigarette. “Well, the camera loved you, and so did those fans out there. How much you wanna bet there will be more in Gilroy in a couple of days?”
“You think?”
His voice is strangled. “Yep. You nailed it. You’ll have groupies soon enough.”
Gilroy.
At Gilroy, I won’t be the one hosting.
My excitement drops to my feet.
Tara bum-rushes me with a hug. “You were amazing. What the hell, Joel? That’s what you’ve been keeping from us? Who knew you were so much fun?” She looks to Adrian, as if waiting for an answer.
He knowingly gestures to me. “See? I told you so.”
“Got lucky today, I guess.” My body slinks into itself like a turtle shell, and I keep my warring feelings to myself. All this was every bit what I wanted, but I don’t want it like this, taking it out from under Victoria’s nose.
“Whatever, dude. I just spoke to Olivia on the phone. I gave her a heads-up about today’s segment—she is going to freak. Are you kidding me right now?” The woman can’t keep still. She’s skipping in place. “In fact, let’s grab our dinner and head back. I can’t wait to send this in.”
“We’ve still got to wait for Victoria . . .” The telltale sound of guilt is in the crack in my voice, and just then I see her weave through the crowd. Only a half hour has passed since she left, but in that time, the vibe in the group has changed.
I have changed.
I let the knowledge flow. I geeked out on the stuff that made the barbecue special. I had the opportunity and I stepped up, and it was witnessed by dozens of people. Soon, the network will see it, and so will the rest of the country.
Victoria meets my eyes. She waves, then heads to us. Her hair is windblown, the tops of her cheeks pink. She catapults into our circle, out of breath and already mid-sentence. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry. No one would let me use their bathroom. It felt like I went a mile down, and finally a bakery took pity on me. I feel a million times better. How did it go? Did I miss it?” Her eyes drop to the equipment at our feet and her expression falls.
Tara’s fingers are flying on her phone. “Joel was a phenom.” She launches into praise that makes me want to grin like a motherfucker but hide in a hole at the same time, because of Victoria. A veil of worry shows on her face. Sure, she’s nodding and appears happy and relieved, but knowing how she prepared for today’s segment keeps me humbled and poker-faced.
“That’s . . . that’s great. I’m happy for you,” Victoria says, almost convincingly.
“Yeah, well, this definitely changes the game.” Tara’s grinning mischievously, voice trailing. “Oh, yeah, baby.”
My eyebrows scrunch down, wondering what’s behind that message.
Tara looks up, as if realizing we were listening. “It’s nothing, well, nothing for now. We should get back to Richmond and package the footage to send in. Olivia wants to see it ASAP. You all ready?”
Victoria protests, eyes round. “But wait, I thought you guys were going to come back with me to San Francisco. My family’s making food—they insisted on celebrating my sister’s boyfriend’s birthday and our show. I already said to expect us.”
“Sorry, hon, but work comes first. I need Adrian with me, but you two can go.”
Adrian shrugs. “Sorry, guys. Bring leftovers?”
Tara shoves the phone back in her pocket. “You don’t mind Ubering into the city, Vic?”
Victoria shakes her head. “Nope.”
“I’m coming with you, Vic,” I say a little too quickly, too eagerly.
“Um, yeah, that’s what I meant by you two,” Tara interjects.
But it’s not Tara who I’m seeking an answer from. In the span of twelve hours, I accidentally gained ground in my career but lost some footing with Victoria. Something has shifted between us and she’s shutting me out, and right now I want her to acknowledge that she’s good with me tagging along. We need time alone to talk about this situation, to talk about us.
Yet, when Victoria nods, I’m not sure whether to be relieved or worried.
21
VICTORIA
By the time we load the Suburban and bid Tara and Adrian goodbye, I’m ready to go back to the city of my heart, to my family’s home base: San Francisco. While standing on the corner of Telegraph and Ashby, where the crowd has thinned considerably and the sun is taking a hiatus behind some clouds, I’m impatient and hot, disappointed and antsy.
To be surrounded by the ones who know me best becomes my only focus.
I only wish Joel weren’t coming with me. With him nearby, I can’t think. My attraction to him clouds my logic. Looking at his handsome face fuzzes my insecurity and anger, and I want a couple of hours to be alone in my head.
“How are you feeling?” Joel asks, not for the first time since we’ve been on our own. He’s asked me the same question in different ways to get a conversation going. “Will you be able to eat?”
I shrug. “I’m better. But no, I won’t be eating too much.”
“That’s probably a good idea.”
“Yep.”
I pretend to scroll through my Twitter account on my phone. The truth is
that besides the rigmarole of recovering from, possibly, food poisoning, I’m sick that Joel did so well. Yes, I asked him to step in, but he was only supposed to be a substitute. He wasn’t supposed to outshine me. He wasn’t supposed to confirm that the network chose wrong.
Then again, he probably saved all our jobs. Because of him, Tara has something to send to the network.
My ruminations keep me occupied as we wait for our ride. Our already sparse conversation dwindles into nothing because it’s usually me trying to spark up a discussion. In the Uber, we both simply look out our windows and watch the scenery roll by. We cross the Bay Bridge, drive down narrow roads. We pass neighborhoods with distinct cultures and personalities divided simply by a street. The crowd thins and the air thickens with the heady scent of the salty ocean air of the Sunset District, and finally, we are on the Great Highway. By the time we approach True North, my hand is already on the door handle so I can jump out of the car.
Right now, I need something stable, something true. This restaurant and my family are it.
I pop the car door open when the vehicle stops, but Joel grabs me by the hand and interlaces his fingers in mine. “Can we sit here for a second?” he asks the driver.
The driver’s eyes, reflected in the rearview mirror, cut from him to me and back. He shrugs. “Yeah. Okay.” He slips on his earbuds and turns up his phone so that the treble and base, as well as the words, can be heard from the backseat.
“Duran Duran.” Joel grins.
I shake my head, not understanding.
“ ‘Ordinary World’?” He lets go of my hand, and sighs. “You don’t know it?”
“Nope.” I start to swing my other leg out of the car, when his voice halts me.
“Get back in here.”
“We’ve got folks waiting for us.”
“Okay, but get back in. We need to talk.”
His voice is firm and direct, and it makes me turn to look at him. “You can’t talk to me like that.”
“Like what? Disrespectfully? Sort of how you’ve ignored me this entire trip out? Do you think that’s any better?”
