4
JOEL
My body is bone-tired, crashed forward into the motel double bed, and the old and worn mattress sags from my weight. Arms stretched out to the side like an airplane, exhaustion buzzes through me like electricity as I pry my eyelids open.
My phone alarm is blaring beyond my fingertips.
I inch myself forward and with one final move heft my arm over the phone and tap aimlessly on the screen until the alarm shuts off. Bringing the phone to my face, I spy the time with one eye open.
Six a.m.
Too early, especially after a long night.
I didn’t get into bed until after midnight. After finally coaxing Victoria the rest of the way up to her sister’s house, I took up Bryn’s offer to wash off my shoes. I’d almost said no, not wanting to impose since it was late, but with having to travel today, it only made sense to clean up. So while she scrubbed down my shoes, I threw my shirt and socks in her washer. Her boyfriend, Mitchell, lent me a T-shirt while we waited for my clothes to finish, and they fed me bibingka, a coconut rice cake dessert, before they drove me home.
I almost didn’t want to go. I’d grown fond of the Aquinos and Dunfords, but it was Victoria who I hesitated to leave. While professionalism always took precedence when I worked at Paraiso, it didn’t mean I never looked, or noticed her. She was difficult to ignore with her infectious smile and her positivity.
After last night, curiosity nagged at me. Who and what hurt her? When did this happen? I’d been at Dunford six days out of the week for two months filming the live stream. While Victoria wasn’t the subject of the stream, how did I not notice her pain?
I fell asleep wishing I could have put a smile back on her face, thinking of my lips in her hair, her body cocooned by mine.
But right now, I have to get up. I’ve got seven hours of driving ahead of me, to a nephew who’s expecting me for dinner. With traffic, it will be more like nine. Throwing myself on my feet, I trudge to the bathroom and jump into the shower.
It’s around six thirty by the time I step back into the bedroom, to a voicemail notification from an unknown number.
Only a few people know my number, limited to work and to my family. Which means this is some kind of an emergency. I log in to my voicemail box.
“Mr. Joel Silva?” a woman says. “This is Pia, assistant to producer Olivia Russell from West Coast Eats. I’m sorry we’re calling so early. We’re doing callbacks for the new show we’re producing in a few weeks, and it seems that we dropped the ball and missed you on the list. We took a look at your video audition and would like to see if you’d be available to—”
“Holy shit.” I punch the return call button instead of listening to the rest of the voicemail. Staring at the screen, I mentally count how many months have passed since I sent West Coast Eats that audition tape. At least six months. While I’d gone to school to be a cameraman, after five nonstop years of working on project after project, I had a need to be on the other side of the camera. Sure, there’s the magic of being able to capture the shot. There’s even a satisfaction in it, knowing that without your eye the scene would not have been produced exactly the same way. But to be in front of the camera, to be able to give my perspective, would be priceless. How many times had I watched a food host on TV not do a dish justice? And when it was about comfort food, street food—my passion—the desire to put my opinion out there was strong. But the timing never seemed right; making money always came first.
It was only after I’d heard through the grapevine the network was accepting video auditions that I’d shot a segment on my buddy’s food truck in Oakland while I was between gigs. It was a two-minute sample I’d practiced for days.
I never thought anything would come of it.
The phone rings twice before the other line picks up. “This is Pia.”
“Hi. I just missed your call. This is Joel Silva.”
Papers rustle in the background. “Thanks for ringing back. My bad, I’m on a personal trip here in Florida and was crashing down on some work, and wasn’t keeping track of the time. I realize now that it’s 6 a.m. your time. I’m so sorry. I know it’s not exactly business hours.”
“It’s all right. I was up.”
“Great. Um . . . here’s your call sheet. Yes. So, I apologize we didn’t get ahold of you sooner. We had a couple of cancellations in our callbacks and since it’s right around the corner, we’d love for you to come in and audition if you’re interested.”
My heart pounds. The timing is perfect; I don’t have anything lined up. “Absolutely. When and where?”
“We have an audition slot open today; someone just cancelled. Tonight at seven. At the MGM Grand in Vegas.”
“Tonight?” I scan my room, take note of my things. The logistics line themselves up in my head. Pack up. Flight from Sacramento. Hotel.
“We understand if the timing is inconvenient. There’s another slot tomorrow at nine thirty.”
“No,” I protest. I’m not going to let this opportunity pass me by, and the earlier, the better. “Slot me in for tonight.”
We discuss the details of the audition and hang up. I jump into my clothes and jam a baseball cap over my head with renewed vigor, then head outside and jog across the street to plop down on a bench. Internet access is shit in and around the motel, and I’ve got a flight to book and, possibly, a buddy to contact so I can crash at his place.
This morning in Golden is right out of a postcard. The sky is a clear dark blue. Birds chirp and flit among the hanging flowers on the streetlights. A layer of thin fog covers the ground. The corner diner is pumping the delicious smells of bacon and eggs and fried potatoes into the air, and a group of runners circles the town square.
From my phone, I book a 2 p.m. flight to Vegas that should get me there by four. I call for an airport shuttle to arrive in a couple of hours, paying a little extra for the last-minute booking. Then, I head to Facebook through my regular browser, since I deleted all those soul-sucking apps years ago. With four years in the Army and nine years meeting nomadic folks in film school and as a working cameraman, I’ve racked up quite a few contacts.
But I almost throw my phone on the ground because I can’t get my password right. I undertake the lengthy, frustrating process of having my password sent to my email, then log in again, just as my alarm rings through.
It’s reminding me I should get on the road.
To Alford.
Shit.
There aren’t any more Jolly Ranchers in Seth’s jar. He’s expecting me home. Sure, he’s not my kid, but I’m as close to him as my father was to me. He treats my words as truth.
I dial my sister. I rub my temples as the phone rings on the other end.
A crackly little boy’s voice answers. “Hi, Uncle Joel. Are you driving now?”
I inhale as guilt travels through me. “Hey, bud, I’m sorry, but there’s been a change in plans.”
“What change?”
“I’m going to be a little late.”
“How late?”
“I’ll be there on Saturday instead.” I gnaw on my cheek while waiting for a response. I hate disappointing him. “Hey, you there?”
“Yeah. But why aren’t you coming home today?”
“Do you remember your Cub Scout Pinewood Derby last year? When you won the finals?”
“Yeah.”
“You didn’t think your wooden car was going to make it past the first round. In fact, you and your mom planned to leave after that first race and catch a movie.”
His voice perked up. “But I sanded the car down sleek and put the weights in the right place, and my car flew down the track.”
“Right. And you had to skip the movie. You stayed for the finals, to see if your car would win. This is sort of like my finals, bud.”
“Oh.” A pause. “You’re trying to win something.”
“Sort of. But it’s more than winning. I’m hoping this opportunity might turn into something good for me.”
Another long pause. “But you’ll be here on Saturday?”
I smile, relieved. “Yep.”
“Okay. Here’s Momma. She wants the phone.” The phone muffles and a woman’s voice—my sister, Jocelyn—speaks. “Hey, what are you doing calling so early? My feet are still under the covers, which means I haven’t had my coffee. This better be good news.”
I stand from the bench, looking both ways at the empty street before crossing. “That audition video I sent in a while ago to West Coast Eats? They called me back.”
“No way!” Joy radiates through her voice.
I smile into the phone. My sister’s got wanderlust herself, but she’s put it aside for my nephew since she’s a single mom. I do what I can to bring my travels back to her through pictures, souvenirs, the works, but Seth deals with separation anxiety. His dad is completely out of the picture, and I do what I can to make up for it. “But—”
“You won’t be back tonight.”
“My appointment is at 7 p.m. tonight. In Vegas.”
“Wow.”
“I explained the situation to Seth the best I could, told him that I won’t be there till Saturday. But if you think it’ll be too tough for him, I can cancel.”
“Are you kidding me? No, you will not.” Her voice softens. “I keep telling you, you don’t need to ask our permission. We are fine. You’ll get here when you get here. What if this is the start of your dream? I’ve thought for a while now that you should be on the road doing your own show.”
I shake my head. She’s always on my ass about giving up stability for entrepreneurship, for dreams rather than logistics. Then again, despite being eighteen months younger, she is a bigger risk taker. “I’m never going to opt for unreliable pay. What’s going to happen to you guys if I do?”
She sighs. “Is this really how you want us to start our day?”
“No, you’re right.” I say quickly as I pace up the street to think, mitigating the lecture that I know is on the tip of Jocelyn’s tongue. We’re never contentious except for when we talk about money and responsibility. I think it’s only natural I help her because she and Seth are the only family I have, and she’s stubborn and doesn’t want it.
“We’ll talk about it when you get here on Saturday.” Her tone changes from serious to light. “But with the Vegas audition, don’t think too much. You’ve got this.”
“Thanks. I’ll keep you posted.”
“You’d better. And remember, you deserve this. You’ve worked hard. When you get this job, don’t think twice, just take it.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I joke, but inside, I’m beaming under her confidence. She’s right: I’ve come a long way. I might have taken my licks, been tackled down, and had to start over. It might have taken years, but here I am, potentially beginning a new career. I glance at Golden Tattoo two doors down, with a neon Closed sign glowing in the window. I think of Victoria and her own wish to start over, and I wonder if she’ll remember anything about our conversation last night.
I push her out of my mind. That was last night. Tonight is a whole new ball game.
“Vegas, here I come.”