West Coast Love

by Tif Marcelo

  “So, what happens now?”

  I snicker. “For someone who could barely stay awake ten minutes ago, you sure have a ton of questions.”

  “I smell deflection.”

  I can’t help it—I let a smile creep onto my face. The whole night consisted of pure pleasure in textures and sounds and touch, with very little speech except for the dirty things Joel whispered in my ear. Bait to keep me going, to keep my energy up. Despite his lack of frivolous conversation, he knew exactly what to say to turn me on. “I’ll enjoy the memory. That whole thing about him being more experienced? You are most definitely right.” A giggle bursts from my lips, though it fades when I reveal what’s below my awe from last night. The thing that is so unlike me: “Is it weird to say that I’m okay with not needing to see him again? Last night was amazing, but—”

  “There’s nothing weird about it, my friend. You’re two consenting adults. He was there for you, as you were there for him. End of story.” Ellie scrunches her nose. “But I do believe it’s because you still think about that fucker.”

  “Who?” I jest, but my mind is already there. With Luke. In Phoenix, with all my hopes pinned on one man and one romantic happily ever after.

  My heart drops in my chest.

  Ellie snaps her fingers in front of my face, and when I raise my gaze, I find her looking at me knowingly.

  I press my lips together. “Yeah, I guess I still do think of him. He emailed me, actually.”

  She frowns. “I thought you had him blocked.”

  “I did. But he changed his email, so . . .”

  “Then I’m even more glad you and Joel did the horizontal Hokey Pokey. He showed you how a man’s supposed to worship you, Vic.”

  “Yeah, but it also reminded me how deep I fell with Luke. I don’t want that to happen to me again. Not with my eyes closed, anyway.”

  Ellie opens her mouth to speak, but the conference room door flies open and a woman walks out. “Victoria Aquino?”

  I raise a hand. “Here.” Ellie offers me a fist. I bump it with mine.

  Ellie then does something unthinkable. She reaches in to hug me, and it’s tight and solid, grounding me. “Whatever happens in there, know that you’re a badass for coming all the way out here.”

  “Thanks, Ellie.”

  I follow the assistant to the open door, my heart jumping in my chest. I focus on placing my feet one in front of the other as I approach the long table manned by three people. Tented signs label each person: Olivia Russell, producer and editor. Tara Sullivan, director. Francis Lopez, chef. To the side is a row of five people with clipboards in their hands.

  Sweat blooms under my arms, and I’m so, so glad I decided to wear black. Good golly, this is like America’s Got Talent.

  Olivia stands with an arm outstretched. Her smile is welcoming. “Hello, Victoria. Welcome. I hope you enjoyed your night here in Sin City.”

  “Thank you for having me.” Heat rises to my cheeks. For a brief moment I flash back to my live stream experience. Did they have cameras trained on me last night?

  That’s ridiculous. Focus, Vic.

  She sits. “This is going to be quick and short. Soon, our assistant will be bringing out a plate of food, cooked especially for you by Chef Lopez.” She casts a glance to the man sitting two seats from her. “Then, you’ll have three minutes to think of what to say about the dish. Any questions?”

  “Yes, um . . . what’s the show’s perspective? What angle should I come from?”

  A smile spreads across Tara’s lips, and Chef Lopez marks something on his clipboard.

  Olivia’s eyes flash. “Why do you ask that?”

  “I mean, it’s all about perspective, right? Describing a dish from a diner is utterly different from describing one from an upscale restaurant, even if it’s the exact same dish. It’s the same with photography—perspective brings out specific qualities of the same subject. To be honest, any vista can be prettier or uglier depending on how it’s looked at . . .” My voice trails off as I realize I’ve gone on one of my chatter-rants.

  Olivia clears her throat. “Let’s say it’s a worst cooks competition.”

  The squeak of wheels brings my attention to a rear door, where the assistant has appeared with a cart, and on top of it is a covered silver platter. It’s rolled up in front of me, then unveiled.

  Spaghetti and meatballs.

  I love any and all Italian food. My future cousin-in-law, Camille, is a food truck chef of Italian heritage, and she’s cooked me the best food on the planet—next to Filipino food, that is.

  What luck. This should be easy.

  Olivia wakes me from my thoughts. “Your three minutes start now.”

  I wiggle my nose at the smell, more sour than garlic. The noodles are stuck together, some flat, meaning it’s probably overcooked. The sauce is so runny that it’s pooled at the bottom of the dish. Taking the fork, I slice down one of the meatballs, and it flops in half, stiff. Overcooked. Twirling the spaghetti over a spoon, the rest of the sauce drips off, revealing pale noodles that I bet are going to be tasteless.

  I already know the food is going to suck, but I smile. The words are already being written in my head. I even have the perfect picture to use had this been a blog post, and all the fear over this audition dissipates. This is old hat.

  “I’m ready,” I say.

  “That was quick.” It’s Tara who speaks this time. She stands and moves behind the camera, next to the cameraman. “Pretend I’m your director. Follow my cues, okay?”

  I swallow, hard. Then put the fork and spoon down. “Okay.”

  Watching Tara as she speaks to the cameraman, I run through the highlights in my head: introduction, purpose, tasting, conclusion, goodbye—the basics of blogging and vlogging. And when I see Tara raise her hand to me, I put on my YouTube smile and let the words spew forth.

  Second Destination:

  Desert Willow

  ARCHIE GATES: The way it works is, you do the thing you’re scared shitless of, and you get the courage after you do it, not before you do it.

  —Three Kings

  August 11

  From: Olivia Russell

  To: Joel Silva

  Subject: Welcome to the team!

  * * *

  Joel,

  Greetings and welcome to the West Coast Eats team! This email is going to contain all the permissions and details for your adventure: West Coast BBQ. Attached are the scope of the project, the itinerary and the map outlining the route, your packing list, the equipment provided to you as the cameraman, your direct deposit form, and your W-9. While space is limited in the RV, feel free to supplement the packing list to ensure your own comfort, as there may be the possibility that you will tent camp. Tents will be provided by the network as a backup. Finally, bring your adventurous spirit!

  As the first network to curate same-day segments on our website and subscription channel, it’s our hope that we can get viewers to attend the BBQ festivals we are highlighting along the coast of California.

  We can’t wait to see you on September 1 and for you to meet the rest of your teammates for your amazing eight-day journey.

  Sincerely,

  Olivia Russell

  Producer and Editor

  West Coast Eats

  9

  VICTORIA

  September 1

  “Did you know that the reddish smoke ring on a barbecued piece of meat is actually the result of a carbon monoxide–based reaction?” My mouth gapes open. “I’m going to be eating poison for the next eight days.”

  “Honey, I don’t think it’s any worse than the jelly beans you horde.” Ellie glances wickedly at me, hands still on the steering wheel. She flips on her blinker and changes to the right lane. The traffic on Highway 50 westbound toward Sacramento is unusually thick, probably from an accident, and Ellie has been weaving us in and out of traffic for the better part of an hour. “You do know that the outer sh
ell is made out of shellac, which is made out of beetles.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “Nope.” She laughs. “Look, humans have been eating a version of barbecue since the beginning of time. You should count yourself lucky; you’ll be in the presence of some talented cooks.”

  I scrunch my nose up and slam my book shut. I went on an Amazon spree and bought a stash of books about barbecue, and I plan to spend my time studying up between festivals. “Of all the jobs, though.”

  “I would be in heaven. What’s wrong with barbecue anyway?”

  “There’s nothing wrong with it. I simply don’t like it. It’s so, I dunno, so . . . meaty. You know I love veggies. And the sauces—they’re all from the same base.”

  She cuts her eyes at me. “Sure they are, but they don’t all taste the same.”

  “Fine. But it seems like it. What can I say? It’s pure preference. Barbecue ranks lowest on the list of foods I want to explore, especially in one fell swoop. And ugh, I’m going to be eating the stuff for days.” The Campingheaven World sign catches my attention. “Take the next exit. I mean, if it weren’t for the fact that we’re going on the road in an RV—”

  “Ha! See, that’s where my reservations would have been. Living in a home on wheels is way more unsettling to me than eating smoked meat.”

  “Glamping is fun!” At Ellie’s confused expression, I sigh. “You know, glamorous camping.”

  “I don’t think there’s such a thing.”

  “Oh, if you only knew the lifestyle, the hashtags, the obsession.” I smile extra wide for Ellie’s benefit. “Besides, it’s like the pot calling the kettle black. It’s you who wants to live in a five-hundred-square-foot house permanently.”

  “If it happens.” Ellie rolls her eyes. “My architect panned out, but the land I want to buy? It seems to not exist. God knows I need some space from the retreat. When I worked at a restaurant, I could walk away from it at the end of the day. Now that I’m living and working in the same place, there’s no rest. I want to open my front door and not see a single person. Sure, my house will be small, but I’ll at least have a solid foundation. Not to mention a city sewer connection.” She sticks out a tongue.

  “It isn’t that bad. Emptying the tanks only takes a few minutes. I just make sure I wear gloves.”

  “Ew. TMI.”

  I spent the last couple of weeks prepping for this trip, buying supplies, and planning out our camp menu with Ellie by my side. She’s gotten the ins and outs of RV maintenance from me, but she doesn’t get the appeal of RV living.

  I, on the other hand, am raring to go. When I first found out that I’d gotten the host gig, it felt like getting handed a double-edged sword. My wanderlust had started to return in the last couple of weeks, making this trip serendipitous, but I want to focus on my blog, which I have yet to update.

  So I buried myself in the positive: planning for the road. I’d communicated with Olivia Russell to double-check what I should and shouldn’t bring, and I might have gone overboard with the gear, which was now stuffed in Ellie’s car trunk.

  But who could blame me? It made for a good distraction from my current situation: I still hadn’t gotten a blog post up online, and I didn’t know how to reply to Joel’s texts. Scrolling through them now, I read them for the millionth time since our night together three weeks ago:

  August 12: Hope things are good.

  August 29: Prepping for a new gig. You on the road, too?

  What we had was a glorious one-time affair. It was fun and freeing, and in the tough, lonely nights since then, I took comfort in the memory of the two of us. My heart had begun to heal. Would I ruin everything by seeking something more? I might not have gotten a tattoo, but my night with Joel symbolized the start of a new beginning.

  Oh, what the hell. I needed to quit doubting myself. Besides, it wasn’t my style to ghost. My fingers fly on the screen. Getting on the road today, too. Camping for work! Safe travels! Where are you off to?

  I wait a moment for the reply bubbles to appear, but I put my phone away as the car rumbles through the exit and a sea of RVs come into view. A sudden wave of nausea rolls over me.

  Oh, God—I’m going to be a food show host.

  In front of a camera.

  With it trained on my face.

  “Just remember that the type of wood and coals matter.” Ellie snaps me back to the present and glides the car into the parking lot next to a showroom. “And if these cooks put too much sauce on their meat, be wary. The flavor should be in the meat itself.”

  The idea of smelling, tasting, and being covered in barbecue sauce makes the sides of my jaw hurt. “I’m going to be sick of cows and pigs hopped up on antibiotics and steroids and ketchup by the end of the week.”

  I pop out of Ellie’s Prius with the sound of her laughter trailing behind me. Meeting her at the back of her car, I continue my rant. “Five festivals of plate upon plate of carbon monoxide rings.” I shiver.

  She helps me pull out two duffel bags and my backpack. I stuff my book in my backpack with the other three. Grunting, she says, “What the hell did you put in here?”

  “I’m a grown woman now. I know what it takes to glamp, and I’m going to make it all very comfortable.” I heft the first duffel bag over my shoulder and pick up the second with one hand, my backpack with the other. “I have a cast-iron pan in there, some canned goods. Groceries.”

  “These people won’t know what hit them.” She shuts her trunk, then still with a hand on her car, looks at me intently. “You’re going to do great. But three rules, okay? One: If it’s too weird on the road with these people, or if you need a backup, send an SOS and either Bryn or I will come get you. Two: Keep in touch. Send us pictures of your ketchup-laden, carbon monoxide–covered, antibiotic-filled meat.”

  “Yes, Mom.”

  “Not done. Three: Kick ass.”

  I nod. Right. Whether or not this is my road, and despite the fact that I have a blog that’s calling to me, I’ve earned this job. I’ve got to give it my all, throw myself into it. Be the professional that I am.

  After a final hug, I trudge through the parking lot to find the red balloons that are supposed to mark the RV. My future temporary home.

  The vehicles I pass range in size from six-foot, tear-shaped pull trailers and pop-up campers with canvas-like tops and sides, to full-size buses that are meant for year-round living. Salesmen in blue shirts dot the parking lot, doing their best to convince would-be buyers that throwing down their cash for an RV—which is sometimes as expensive as a mortgage—is absolutely the smartest thing they can do in their lives.

  I avoid them, because I hate the spiel. I’ve spent my share of time in a Campingheaven World, touring every type of trailer and motorhome, witnessing my parents negotiate with salesmen and wait them out until the deal was perfect. From the time I was five until I was nineteen, they’d owned an RV, trading them in, upgrading, and then finally downsizing when I went off to college. When my mother passed, my dad retired the venture.

  My heart squeezes at the memory of what our family used to be like on the road, forced to hang, forced to speak, forced to live in a cramped rig. Mobile living, even while glamping, still took effort. You couldn’t let the dishes pile up, couldn’t leave the campfire burning. You couldn’t be a slob. Those were the vacations when we played Scrabble, Dominoes, Uno, and Pictionary; when we competed in badminton and Pickle, and flew kites.

  It was forced, but by the time we headed back home, we didn’t want to return to reality.

  Perhaps by going back to the basics, returning to something I used to love, I could figure out who I am now, too.

  Shadows flitter above me, and when I look up, I see the red balloons beyond the next row. While weaving through the rigs, laughter reaches my ears. I emerge between two shiny, silver, vintage Airstream trailers, and see a group up ahead.

  “Hey.” I approach the only person I recognize from my audition.

  “Hey, you,” Ta
ra Sullivan answers back. With alabaster skin and short, dark, thinning hair, she’s dressed like she’s ready to take on the Pacific Crest Trail, in hiking gear and with a brimmed hat hanging around her neck. She helps me with my bags, grunting in effort, and leads me to the group. “Olivia said you were bringing gear, but I didn’t realize you were moving in permanently.”

  I grin. “The best part of glamping is the food.” Better than that barbecue.

  “I have a feeling you’re going to spoil us.” She winks, then presents the group to me like a prize. “This is the full crew assigned to the West Coast BBQ project. Most will be at our home base in Los Angeles, editing our segment, writing about it, and then marketing it.” She waves someone forward. “This is Adrian Romero, who’s part of our road crew. A jack-of-all-trades, he’s here as our technical director and is in charge of mixing audio and video, but he can also work camera and sound. He’s an avid camper as well.”

  Adrian steps to the front of the group. He seems rugged, in jeans and hiking shoes and a waffle-knit long-sleeve tee. He has olive skin, and his curly black hair is tied loosely into a bun. His face is clean-shaven, and his right arm is adorned with several bead and string bracelets. He shakes my hand with a firm grip. “Nice to meet you. I’m sure we’ll all get used to each other soon enough. Tara is known for her camp-counselor games.”

  My body relaxes at the warm welcome and his contagious smile. “Please, tell me there are no skits. I can’t act.”

  Tara hoots. “Girl, you might have signed up for the wrong gig.”

  I laugh along with her, though the foreboding message isn’t lost on me. Having to report on barbecue is going to require me to do my own share of acting, all right.

  “The only person we’re waiting for is our cameraman, but if you wanted to unpack, go ahead.” Tara turns to the rig, and the group parts to reveal its splendor.