7
JOEL
August 10
Balancing the bag of donuts and two to-go coffee cups in my hand, I slide the key card into the reader of the hotel room door so the light turns green. I enter the dim room, solely lit by a sliver of sun coming through the blackout curtains. To my left I can see the outline of a woman in my bed, her curves partially covered by the sheets.
The place is a wreck. Clothes, mine and hers, litter the floor—signs of a night that I will remember every second of over the days to come. That’s what happens when you’re sober. Every second is catalogued, the minutiae remembered. Not the waxy, fuzzy memory of beer goggles and the hazy, slow-motion movement of bodies, but the acute sound of skin against skin, the soprano of the final cry, then the gasp of the second round.
The begging for a third.
Last night was fucking spectacular. Better than.
Making all of this harder. Because this isn’t a stranger I happened to find a connection with. She isn’t someone I can simply walk away from because I don’t have ties to her. I know this woman professionally, and now intimately. The memory of her is imprinted on my brain, my DNA, my skin. Beyond attraction, beyond sex, I respect her. I care about her. I’m not sure how this goodbye is supposed to go.
The bed tips as I perch myself on the edge and set both cups on the nightstand. My fingers are drawn to Victoria’s skin, to her hair draped against the curve of her shoulders, to the line of her spine. I let them hover, savor the heat of her body, before I gently touch her.
Her voice is the mewl of a cat when she turns toward me. I finger the strands of hair that slice across her face; her eyes flutter open. A second later, when she registers who I am and where she is, a smile splays across her perfect face.
My thumb pauses over her heart-shaped lips. Lips that kissed mine, lips that screamed my name. I bend down and kiss them. She tastes like morning, of sweet innocence. Except she isn’t nearly as innocent as I thought she was before I took her to bed. “Hey, sunshine.”
“Hey.” The blacks of her eyes shift upward to the dresser and the two coffee cups, and her face melts into a smile. “You’re amazing. Thank you.” Then, her face falls. “You’re dressed all the way down to your shoes. What time is it?”
My insides wince at her tone. I expected this. Victoria isn’t the kind to do a simple encounter. And despite the temptation to promise her more, to see her again, I know, realistically, it won’t work. Whether or not I get this gig, I don’t ever stick around for anything or anyone longer than a night. “It’s a little after seven. Sorry for waking you.”
“No, it’s perfect. I have something for work this morning. My alarm was set to go off in a half hour.” She sits up, bringing the sheet to cover her breasts. Demure, despite the tiger I know she is. She accepts a coffee cup from me, settles both hands around the container. “No regrets, right?”
“You kidding? Absolutely not.” I grin, then heave a breath. This is where it gets tough, when I’m too chickenshit to say anything. My hope is for Victoria to take the lead here, because I don’t want to be the asshole.
But she keeps quiet, too.
Fine. I guess I’ll be the one to break this up now, but as I open my mouth, the head in my pants takes control of my voice box and brain, and says, “Should we exchange numbers?”
At the same time, she says, “Maybe you can text me sometime.”
What am I saying?
Obviously, the opposite of everything that makes sense, because a sheepish yes escapes from me. I dig my phone out of my back pocket. I log in to my contacts, and hand my phone to her. She types in her number, and then calls it. The muffled sound of violins and plucking strings fills the room.
“Pachelbel’s Canon in D.” She grins, reaching to her side, and unearths her phone from under the blanket. The phone case is black with embossed silver arrows and compasses. She declines the call, then takes a tentative sip from her cup. “So, what’s next? Where do you go from here?”
“I don’t know yet. I’ve got some loose ends to tie up here in Vegas this morning, too. My things—my home base, if you will—are in central California with my sister, where I try to stay between gigs. I’ll most likely go back there for a bit. Things are . . . kind of in flux right now.” I sigh away the uncertainty of yesterday’s audition and decide not to mention this morning’s callback. Why would they call me back before they finished auditioning other people? This could all be a lead up to one big disappointment: I was so damn bad, they wanted to tell me in person. “How about you?”
She shrugs, eyes falling to her cup as she fingers the lip of the cover. “Find Ellie. The one thing for work, then back to Golden.”
“Sounds good. I . . .” I look down at the bedside clock. Awkwardness has bloomed between us, and I feel like a high schooler who asked a girl on a date and doesn’t know how to say goodbye. “My thing this morning is at eight, so I’ve got to go.” I place a hand on her covered leg. “Stay, though. No rush.” As I lean in for a kiss, she straightens. A hint of a smile appears, starting with her cheeks, then moving up to her eyes. It brings with it relief, that yeah, there’re definitely no regrets. I’ll look back on this moment and remember a woman who gave me a fantastic night.
I kiss her, with a gentle suck on her lower lip. Her tongue meets mine for our final goodbye.
Padding out of the hotel room ten minutes before my appointment, snippets of my night with Victoria flash through my brain like scenes from a movie. When I’m in the elevator, my thoughts are on how she took me in her hand and worked me until I begged for release. In the conference room hallway, I remember how I bent her over the bed to take her from behind. The cacophony of the crowd waiting their turn for their appointments only serves as a reminder of Victoria’s and my coordinated breaths and moans.
I almost decide to turn around and head back to the hotel room to find Victoria and finish my thoughts with actual action, but a woman in heels steps out into the hallway and says, “Joel Silva?”
It’s the assistant from yesterday who rolled out the cart of food, and her presence is essentially the ice-bucket challenge. My leftover erection properly diminishes, with both brain and body frozen. This opportunity can mean a brand-new course in this convoluted career path I’ve taken.
I raise my hand to identify myself and follow the assistant into the same room I auditioned in, but this time there are only two people in the room, neither of whom were there the day before.
“Welcome back, Mr. Silva, my name is Olivia Russell.” Her glasses are perched on her nose, and she’s sifting through paper. She stops at one that I assume is mine. “Thanks for your patience.”
“It’s quite all right.” My voice cracks. My legs are spread apart, hands clasped together in front. I remind myself to unlock my knees. This is the big boss, the producer for this gig. The last thing I want to do is pass out, but I’m as nervous as a brand-new soldier at basic training. I’ve got nothing lined up after today, and besides wanting a new opportunity, I need a job.
She peers above her glasses. “You had an impressive callback audition. I was one of the observers. Clearly, you have some raw talent in front of the camera.”
“Thank you.”
More crickets as the person sitting next to Olivia, a woman with a pixie haircut, leans in and whispers something in her ear.
“Your resume says you also have quite a bit of technical experience behind the scenes.”
“Yes, ma’am. Camera, lighting, sound.” My insides lighten. They’ve at least looked through my credentials.
“You’re open to travel? And if so, are you available the first week of September?”
“Yes. Absolutely.” My heart rate picks up speed, although I regulate my breathing. No need to get riled up.
“We have something we think would be great for you, but we hope you will keep an open mind.”
“Then you’ve got the right man, because I’m willing to do whatever you need me to do.” Without my permission, my mind travels to the area of my brain where my dreams reside—that I will become the next Anthony Bourdain. A much younger version, of course, and not quite the drinker, but definitely with the edge, the sarcasm.
I don’t veer into this space often, because it seems too fantastical, too out there for me to achieve. But the exposure to different food and cultures, the travel, the freedom of expression . . . I might not be a talker, but I can philosophize about food.
Did I do it? Did I show that in my audition?
“We’re very glad to hear that. We’d like to offer you . . .”
All of my weight shifts to my toes. The pause is about as dramatic as it looks on TV. My gaze is frozen on Olivia’s lips, focused on what’s about to come out of them. I’m like a guy waiting for my name during the final rose ceremony on the Bachelorette or one of the two up for eviction on Big Brother.
“A job covering the BBQ festivals from Desert Willow to San Diego in early September.”
My words blow out with the exhilaration that rushes through me, and a smile pushes its way onto my lips. “I’m your man. BBQ is my expertise. I’ve been smoking meat since I could walk.”
Memories flood my mind’s eye. Of me keeping watch by the smoker in the backyard next to my father. My parents were older when they adopted Jocelyn and me, in their late forties, and instead of throwing the football around, my dad kept me at his side while he cooked. He was an example of patience, of dedication to his craft. With a cigarette dangling from his lips and the bill of his cap pushed down almost over his eyes, he taught me how to choose the wood, stoke the fire, season the meat, and have trust in time. In the low and slow of it.
This gig is perfect. I can take snippets from my life and infuse them into my commentary.
“Actually, Joel, we were hoping that you’d do the camera work for it.”
Stunned by words that seem to be the opposite of the vision in my head, I lean in, ear turned toward them. “Excuse me?”
“You were amazing in your audition, though you need a bit of polish. We regret to say that we can’t offer you the job of being our host.” She looks to her counterpart, and they nod eagerly. “But we don’t want to let go of you yet, and that’s why we called you back. We’d love for you to still be part of the project. Your work with the Paradise in the Making live stream was impressive, and we need someone who can be autonomous. This project spans eight days on the road with a four-person crew, and we’re looking for well-rounded folks who know enough about all the aspects of a project, both in front of and behind the camera. We’re confident you’re one of these people.”
It’s like she has handed me a rejection sandwich—the meat of the no surrounded by the bread of all kinds of fluffy compliments and second-place prizes.
Fuck no. I didn’t sign up for this.
As if reading my mind, Olivia waves me forward, and she slides over the contract across the table. My hands shake as I pick up the packet. The front page features the highlights, which includes the compensation rate for the eight-day job. My jaw drops at the offer—it’s generous.
This is not what I signed up for, and yet, it’s a job. For now, I ask the easiest question. “Eight days?”
“In an RV. We’re trying something new. A work-together, live-together scenario. Like a band on tour, if you will. The dates of the festivals line up nicely so you’ll have one to cover almost every day.”
I nod, but it’s not in agreement. It’s more of an acknowledgment that yeah, I hear these words, but what the hell? Was I just offered a job I didn’t apply for?
“Are you in? We’d like to know your interest up front. Unfortunately, we can’t disclose the host since we’re still doing the callbacks the rest of the morning. But as soon as we saw you and took a look at your resume, we knew you would be perfect for this job. Admittedly, it’s a ton of work. You’ll work and live it. After the day’s shoot, which has to be near perfect, it will be edited and shown through our website and our subscription channel that same afternoon.”
Olivia’s straight to the point. Her deadpan expression tells me she’s not going to wait long for an answer. The job she’s offering might not allow for me to be the host, but it will put money on the table and finally place me on the food journalism circuit that I’m dying to be a part of. For eight days, I’ll be eating the best food on the planet.
My trajectory has never been a straight line up. This might be an unexpected turn, but at least it’s movement in the right direction. I would be a dumbass to say no.
“I’m in. Where do I sign?”