20
JOEL
This is Vegas a hundredfold.
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.