19
VICTORIA
September 4
“This isn’t happening to me right now.” I cross my legs as I’m being brushed sideways by people. My stomach rumbles while Adrian untangles my mic. Tara and Joel are ten feet away grabbing a shot of the thick pedestrian crowd.
Berkeley’s Telegraph Avenue is packed. The social epicenter of the city, its architecture has hints of old- and new-world charm. The street itself is narrow, with a tall streetlight every half block or so, and between modern businesses are historic buildings, some about a century old. Graffiti and street art mark corner buildings, and currently there are so many people it’s as if half the world is here, both tourists and locals, professionals and students alike. Though not even lunchtime, the vibe is already that of a party, with the Labor Day festival well on its way. The road’s blocked and the white tents of vendors line the streets. A different kind of music blares from every corner, magicians and painters dot the sidewalks, and there is the occasional vendor of ganja brownies.
On a normal day, I would be soaking this up. The environment is eclectic but comfortable, inclusive and exciting. It’s perfect inspiration for my blog. I could probably write three posts about today’s experience.
But not today, not this minute, when I feel like I’m about to puke or worse . . .
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.