12
JOEL
I’m silent for the next two hours, pretending to keep my eyes on the butt of the vehicle in front of the RV. After passing the city of Redding, the terrain switched from the packed two lanes of Highway 5 to the curvy, narrow, and mountainous State Route 299. I should be worried about the danger of being in a twenty-one-foot rig so close to the edge of a cliff, but all my thoughts are on the woman driving next to me. Unaffected by her current job maneuvering a large vehicle on a tiny-ass road, she’s casually looking for a clear channel on the radio. As her fingers fiddle with the knob, the compass and arrow charms on her bangle jingle.
I flash back to her body next to mine, warm in slumber, her arm slung across my chest, and how it felt like the most natural thing in the world.
It’s official: I’m an asshole.
Back in Vegas, I made my decision that what happened between us, as unforgettable as it was, would be a one-time deal. I turned the page to a new chapter when my texts went unanswered, content that what we’d left behind was a damn good memory. We were there for one another. Nothing more, nothing less.
But having her here changes everything.
I can’t help but be pissed. I’m clearly more qualified than her, and if anything, more passionate about the food.
And while the angel on my shoulder reminds me that auditions are subjective, I soon have to use my talent to make her look good in front of the camera, to bring out the best qualities in her performance.
How do I get over this? How will I be able to look through that viewfinder knowing that it should be me on the other end of the camera? The woman was reading, essentially, a Barbecue for Dummies book, for God’s sake. She won’t know what she’s tasting, what she’s even looking for when a slew of sauces and various cuts of meats are offered to her. When she realized I was traveling with her, her palpable relief was a sure message that she thinks I’m here to support her, to help her through.
Well, guess what? I won’t. I studied my ass off to get where I am today. I learned; I watched. I took my turn getting the ego kicked out of me. Every once in a while I still get slapped upside the head—such is this business.
The worst part is: I can’t get too close to Victoria because I don’t know if I can control my imagination and my urges. I still think of what we did behind closed doors, above the sheets, under the bright chandelier lights.
The RV jolts as Victoria slams on the brakes. “Crap, sorry. The entrance is right here.” She flips on the blinker, and follows the signs to the Shasta-Trinity National Forest campground, marked by an etched rock perched upon tree logs.
The radio clicks on and Tara’s voice squeaks through. “Home sweet home, at least for the night. I’ll jump out and register us. Hold tight.”
I click to respond. “Roger. Out.”
Victoria idles the engine next to the registration sign, and Tara hops down from the Suburban behind us, striding over to the reception hut. Meanwhile, the cab is thick with awkwardness. Victoria’s examining her nails and avoids all eye contact with me. As the seconds pass, I get a pull in my stomach to say something. I need to apologize for being curt to her or these eight days are going to be torturous.
Enough already, Silva, be a pro.
But before I can open my mouth, Victoria beats me to it. “I know why you’re mad.” Her words are clipped. “Tara told me at the rest stop.” She must hear me take a breath to interrupt, because she shows me the palm. “But how you’re treating me now? It’s messed up. I get it, you wanted this job. But it’s mine, Joel, and I’m going to do my damnedest to make sure Olivia and her crew did not pick the wrong person. So now I’m asking you—are you going to be a sore loser? Or are you going to do your damnedest, too?”
She’s looking at me fiercely now, like she’s in the middle of a negotiation, expecting an answer. And frankly, I’m not sure what to say. I’m not finished being angry that I was outdone by a rookie who has limited knowledge of the food she is supposed to cover. Disappointment still weighs across my shoulders that I wasn’t good enough. And, now, I’m supposed to be able to hide her ignorance of barbecue from the public? Victoria is an open book. The camera will pick up her lack of barbecue knowledge. Why would the network choose her over me, a sure thing?
A whomp against my window takes our attention: Tara. When I roll the glass down, she hands me a tag. “Hang this on your rearview mirror. You guys will be parked in spot thirty-eight, and the Suburban will be in fifty, a couple of rows down. I guess they like to separate the tents from the larger vehicles. Go ahead and set up, and after we get the tents up, we’ll come to you so we can get the fire going.”
“See you in a bit.” Victoria says. We watch Tara jog back to the Suburban and get in.
I skim through the thin brochure and map of the campground. With tall oak and pine trees hiding the sun, it feels like dusk, and Victoria turns on the headlights for safety. We wind through a half mile of road before the RV area comes into view. The Suburban veers to the right, to the tent area.
“To the left,” I instruct, and we come to a space marked with our number.
Except it’s not the kind of space that we can pull through. “Crap. With where our connectors are, we have to back into it.” Victoria says. “But without a backup camera . . .”
“I’ll do it.” Her accusation that I’m sore loser is sitting like a clump of cheese in the bottom of my belly. I’m far from it—the network made a mistake by not choosing me, and I’ll show her by parking this rig.
Yeah, I know it’s immature. But whatever.
“Fine.” Victoria climbs out of the cab and heads to the nose of the vehicle and begins her hand signals, gesturing toward her. The snap of her forearm is like the ground crew in a flight line. I go forward, and at the change of her signal, I back up. Then, she hikes a thumb to her right. I assume that’s the direction she wants for me to turn the wheel, but as the rig canters right, she shakes her head.
She signals for me to come out of the space again, and we start over. My heart speeds up as the rig inches back with me turning left and right to her seemingly random arm signals. Finally she flashes both palms with a scowl on her face. I slam my foot on the brake.
Sweat pooled under my armpits, I push on the emergency brake with my foot and hop down from the rig, finding I am nowhere near the hookups. “Fuck!”
Meanwhile, Victoria is still at the hood of the RV and has a hand on her hip like I’m parking a golf cart and should have been done days ago.
“Fine. Switch.” She dares.
I snicker. “You’re saying you want a shot at this? This is not as easy as you think. Not like that matchbox Mini Cooper your sister drives.”
Her eyes roll upward, impatient. “Do you want to park this correctly or not?”
“Have at it.”
I open the door for her and she climbs into the cab. She puts on her seat belt. “Point toward the side you want my butt to go. Got it?”
“So you don’t want me to do your fancy-schmancy hand movements?”
“They were basic hand signals. Left, right, forward, backward. Apparently, you are signal illiterate.” She rolls up the window to let me know her side of the conversation is over.
Growling under my breath, I head to the nose of the vehicle and direct her to me and then straight backward. I half-ass point to the left to get her closer to the hookups.
And wouldn’t you know, she backs the damn rig in.
She jumps out, satisfaction written on her face, and walks the perimeter of the rig, inspecting the sides of the vehicle. “Do you see a level anywhere?”
“A what?” I ask.
“A gauge that tells us if we need to level the ground a little. Otherwise, I’m going to be sleeping lopsided, and it isn’t great for tires, or for the refrigerator. With a motorhome this old, you’d think a previous owner might have adhered one to the outside somewhere.”
I’m clueless, but I try to mask it. “Let’s wait until Tara gets here.”
“Or, you can help me find it. There’s got to be a toolbox here somewhere.” She pries open the outside storage compartment, and pulls out angled blocks and a red metal toolbox. She digs into the box, retrieving what looks like a thermometer. “Aha. Let’s get into the rig.”
I follow her and we step in, turning on the rig lights. She sets the level on the linoleum floor. “Ideally, this should be mounted, but there’s no time for that. Notice how the bubble is tipped to the left a little?”
I squat next to her and our knees graze, breaking the tension. With our eyes locked, I see her now as the woman who slipped on the floor at the club and landed on top of me. A woman stripped of pretenses, with an amazing spirit. A woman who, despite the challenges in front of her, is charging forward.
I nod.
She clears her throat through the thick silence. “Um, and notice that if we turn the level perpendicular, the bubble’s tipped downward? That means the left side is a little high, so we need to put a block under the right front tire.”
“Okay?” I wake myself from my trance, tearing my eyes from her and focusing on what she’s actually saying. I look down at the level. “Yeah. Makes sense.”
“Great, so let’s do it.” She gives me a patient smile, and then, as if realizing what she said, a curtain falls over her face, and she bounces back with, “I mean, let’s level the RV.”
Without a word, she heads out of the rig, not holding the door open, and it slams shut before I step down. It sucks the momentum out of me, resets my attitude.
Shit.
When I finally recover and climb out, I find her sticking a pie-shaped block under the right front tire, with the angled part facing where the wheel connects with the road.
“Let me know when the wheel is fully on the block. But step back, okay?” Without waiting for my answer, she steps around to the driver’s side of the truck. She fires the RV up again, and with one rev, backs the wheel up onto the block. I show my palm to let her know when to stop, then she cuts the engine. The outline of her body disappears for a few moments, then the RV door pops open. “It’s level,” she announces.
“That’s pretty damn impressive,” a voice comes from behind the RV. Tara emerges from a trailhead.
“One of the first things I was taught to do with our RV as soon as I got my driver’s license. I’m a fast learner.” Her eyes cut to me. “I’ll let you handle hooking up the electricity, water, sewer, and cable. Or would you prefer to start the fire for dinner?”
Tara doesn’t wait for my answer. “Sounds like you’ve got this handled, which is good, because I have emails to go through. Man”—she nods—“if everything goes as smoothly as you parking this big old thing, then we’re golden.”
“I always pull my own weight.” Victoria brushes past me. “I’m gonna go find some kindling for the fire.”
Tara points at her back, disappearing into the trailhead. “She knows what she’s doing.”
“Yep.” And she showed me. Now, how the hell do I hook up the rest of this RV? I may know barbecue, but when it comes to camping like this, I’m green at the gills.
It looks like I’m going to have to do some apologizing sooner rather than later.