West Coast Love

by Tif Marcelo

  Tara gifts me with a satisfied smile and a thumbs-up. I swallow the last of my doubts.

  I can do this.

  My sister always tells me that I talk too much, that I have the gift of gab. That my bachelors in communications was the perfect degree because I could talk about anything and everything. I call it being an extrovert—I simply think out loud. I work out my decisions much like unpacking my suitcase after a time away from home: I dump it all out, sort the dirty from the clean, and repack what I need so it fits perfectly inside.

  Yeah, I have the tendency to give out too much information. When I’m blogging or vlogging, I often go off on a tangent, only to return to my original point. This is where I usually rely on edits of both text and video. The delete button is handy when the bottom line eludes me.

  But right now, I’m talking the hell out of this festival—anything and everything, from the weather to the crowd to how that little kid noshing on that chicken leg is so adorable. I figure out from talking to his parents that he’s come to this festival every year since he was born. I chat it up with strangers who are more than happy to be on camera to express their love for their hometown. Someone even gave me their baby to hold, and thank God, the little kid cooed for the camera at the exact moment I play-asked him if he thought this was the best barbecue festival in California. We run into the festival organizer, and I rope her in to telling us how this festival was a passion project meant to bring people to their tiny city.

  The red light becomes nothing but a glow in my periphery—that is, until Tara holds up a sign that it’s time to enter the booths. My heart speeds up. I stutter when I’m supposed to announce enthusiastically that it’s time to get some real food in my belly.

  The representative of Benny’s BBQ is already waiting for us when we enter his vendor tent. I almost don’t recognize him. His hair is slicked back, and he’s wearing a collared shirt with the Benny’s BBQ logo over his right breast. He’s holding up a plate—a real one—with just the right amount of sauce so it shines for the camera but sparse enough that you can see the charred areas of the meat. It’s picture-perfect.

  If I liked barbecue, this would make me hungry.

  I approach him like he’s got the freshest sashimi on the market. I widen my smile. “Wow, this looks delicious.”

  “Thank you.” His answer is curt and matches his stiff posture. He could be a mannequin, and I’m almost relieved that I’m not the only one who’s feeling this way, and yet, I want him to snap out of it. I can’t carry this entire conversation.

  “Can you tell us more about Benny’s BBQ?”

  “We’re a barbecue place five miles south of here.”

  Seconds pass as I wait for more. Nothing. “And how long have you been in business?”

  “I don’t know. I work nights. Benny’s unavailable at the moment, so you’ve got me. I’m Bo.”

  “Oh, okay then, Bo.” My gaze flickers from him to Tara, who shrugs, then I look to the camera, back to Bo, then down to the food.

  I know what I have to do. I have to speed this up. I inhale deeply, dramatically. “If only you all could be here right now, standing right next to this amazing dish. Can we zoom in on this?”

  Joel comes forward and the camera lens extends and twists for a closer shot. He glances at me briefly and nods in approval.

  It gives me the oomph to say my next not-so-sincere words. “Is that hashtag nomnom or what?”

  Bo snickers above me.

  Thank God, the man is actually alive. “Can you tell me what you have? Point it out for us, Bo.”

  “Um, this is a baby back rib in our Carolina sauce, burnt ends in sweet sauce, and a brisket in our smokehouse sauce.” Using robotic movements, he points to each item with all five fingers. Then, silence.

  “Prizewinning, am I right?”

  “Yes, we’ve won regional prizes for our sauces.”

  From somewhere in the background a fork and a napkin appear. Then, a bib. “Well look at that, you all are prepared for everything. I can’t wait to dig in. What should I taste first?”

  “All of it.”

  My tummy grumbles in protest, but instead of wincing, I look right into the camera. “You heard the man.” My throat constricts as I fork the burnt ends and stick some into my mouth.

  The sour taste is immediate and overwhelming. The sides of my jaw feel like they’re being pricked by needles and my salivary glands work overtime, thank goodness, because I’m going to need all the help to swallow.

  The camera waits for my reaction. Bo is scouring my face for an immediate review. Right. I’m supposed to talk about this. But I’m lacking words, the pressure to get this right hindering the description that’s supposed to flow. I was hired for this—to create descriptions of the food so enticing that the audience will drive out for dinner. I stutter out the first thing I can think of. “You know, even though my taste leans to the kind of sour that makes people wince, this Carolina sauce is just delicious. And these burnt ends, take a look at this, everyone.” I wait for the camera to zoom into the meat. “That’s hours in the smoker, hours of love.”

  Though I know I have a smile on my face, every cell inside me is cringing. I’m using Joel’s words and ideas from earlier. I stuff my face with the brisket to keep me going, and I almost choke on the sweetness. Instead, I let out a moan. “Now, this brown sugar sauce is reminiscent of cinnamon-apple cake, something my lola—that’s grandmother in Tagalog—would have made. And these ribs? Let me pick one up here so you can see how the meat is falling off the bone.” I bite into it. “This spicy hot-chili-based sauce is perfect, with different layers of flavor, with the depth of something like chocolate.”

  Joel pops his head up from behind the camera at the familiarity of my words, and my gaze drops to the food. The mixture of the three sauces singes my taste buds so my tongue feels floppy. I somehow extract more information about Benny’s BBQ from Bo, and I almost faint with relief when Tara holds up a sign that says to wrap it up. I don’t wait too much longer. I shake Bo’s hand and give the final closing of the show.

  I double over, hands on my knees after the red light turns off. Tara heads to Adrian to discuss edits. Waiting until Joel hefts the camera off his shoulder, I think of how to apologize.

  I had to use some of his words.

  He said he wanted to help me, coach me, and there’s nothing wrong with being inspired by him.

  Right?

  I approach Joel as the tent floods with customers.

  He shakes his head, not looking at me. “Don’t.”

  “C’mon. I’m sorry. I froze. What would you have me do?”

  His voice is a whisper. “And you were worried about me being a professional? What you did? Not cool.”

  He gathers the camera and stomps away from me. “Joel!” I call after him.

  He doesn’t give me a backward look.

  16

  JOEL

  We settle into the Home of the Redwoods campground for the night. A few miles from Desert Willow, this campground is truly made for families, with pools and trampolines and playground equipment nearby. Children whiz through sites on bicycles despite the setting sun. Their squeals remind me of Seth and that I should call him tonight.

  But only after I’ve calmed down.

  I’m cleaning up what’s left of dinner—a campfire pizza Victoria made from supplies we grabbed at a store in town—piling up paper plates and napkins, crushing soda cans for recycling. I clean off the picnic table, scratching off sticky pieces of leftover food, though it’s probably not ours, all in an attempt to chill me the fuck out.

  I’m still seething. How dare she? How dare Victoria take my words and repeat them as if they were her own? Sure, she couched them in between some of her thoughts, but the bulk of the impression of the food? Mine. For all intents and purposes, what she did was plagiarism. No, I never coined the phrases; I didn’t tell her that she couldn’t use my words. There’s nothing proprietary about what I said.

 
But they were my words, and she has opened up the wound, the feeling that this job should have been mine to begin with.

  The salt in the wound? I had tapped into this fragile bond Victoria and I had. There was a certain trust there. I assumed I was in safe waters with her. Those moments before the interview were simply ours. I took the time and gave her a few hints. But this situation is exactly like everything else in this industry—pure competition.

  “Joel, you gonna join us or not?” Tara shouts from behind me. She’s sitting in a camp chair around a fire ring, along with the rest of the crew. “I’ve got a s’more with your name on it.”

  “Be right there.” I stuff the garbage into the can and trudge down to the fire and sink into a chair. Feeling everyone’s gaze, I pretend to busy myself by making a s’more.

  Smoke billows from the campfire contained within a ring of large rocks. It rises to the sky, peeking through the redwoods. It’s gorgeous here, with enough space between RV spots that we don’t hear the other campers’ conversations. Our tents are beyond a line of trees—peaks of orange and yellow among the brown and green of the forest.

  “You’re awfully quiet tonight,” Tara says to me as Victoria and Adrian chat. A giggle flitters from their side of the fire, and through the shadows Victoria’s smile gleams. “More quiet than usual.”

  “It’s been a long day.”

  “Hm. Sure it doesn’t have anything to do with your sore feelings?”

  I avoid her eyes. “I don’t have any such thing.”

  She tucks her head deeper into her hood and leans back in her chair. “Okay. Well, then I guess you’ll be happy that the network loved the first cut we sent today. And the feedback from the audience so far is unanimously positive. Victoria did a great job.”

  “Good for her.”

  “Good for us, too. Remember: it’s a team effort.”

  The marshmallow sizzles, and I pull it out of the flames as it catches fire, charring the exterior. I blow on it.

  “Here you go.” Tara hands me a graham cracker, then a square of Hershey’s chocolate.

  The marshmallow and chocolate melt, turning my fingers sticky as I make the s’more. “Thanks. And I know it’s a team effort.”

  “Awesome. Then I can count on you to get over yourself when she does something you can’t stand because you think you can do better.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Okay, whatever. Ignore me—I’m a middle-aged lady who can’t see what’s so obvious and in my face.” Over the fire, Tara raises her voice. “Hey, let’s do a final game before we tucker out.”

  Adrian groans, and I sigh into my s’more.

  “Let’s do a Truth and a Lie,” Tara says.

  “Oh, God. This should be interesting.” Victoria sits up in her chair.

  That catches my attention. This woman is an open book and incapable of lying. An easy win for me. “But isn’t it Two Truths and a Lie?” I ask.

  “Takes too long. I’ve got a cot with my name on it.” Tara points across the fire. “Adrian. You first.”

  Adrian rubs his chin, ponders a moment. “I once walked into a police station while drunk and asked to use their bathroom. And . . . I’ve jumped out of a moving car, and it wasn’t part of a scene.”

  Seconds pass. “Seeing that you just told me you did some stunt work a few years ago, I’m going to guess that the second is the truth.” Victoria grins. “Because who’d do something so stupid as to walk into a police station while drunk?”

  Adrian sneeze-says, “Me.”

  We all laugh, and I ease into my chair. “You were a stunt double?”

  “One day I’ll have to show you all my battle wounds. Impresses the ladies.”

  Tara rolls her eyes. “Oh dear. The ego is inflating, I see.” She winks at Adrian and pulls the hood off her head. “My turn. I once scored front-row seats to see Sting. And . . . I’ve rappelled off a mountain, face-first.”

  “Shit. I would be very impressed if either one of those is true,” Adrian says. “But I’m gonna say the lie is Sting.”

  Tara nods.

  “So you’ve rappelled face-first?” Victoria shakes her head. “That is freaking scary. Then again, I’m scared of heights.”

  “After you take the first step, and trust your hold on the rope, it’s not as scary as it is an adrenaline rush. Your turn, Victoria.”

  She presses her lips together, gazes into the flame. Deep in thought, her voice comes out threadbare. “Oh, I’ve got nothing interesting.”

  “Aw, c’mon!” Adrian teases. “Give us something . . . don’t hold back, on the lie as well as the truth. We’re your crew; there’s no judgment here.”

  She focuses on the fire, then nods. “I went to see this guy I was dating and found out he was totally and completely fake.” As if waking up, she grins and clears her throat. “And . . . I traveled two thousand miles for work this year, all in my car.”

  Adrian snickers. “I’m gonna say that the first is a lie, because being catfished? That’s a fucking mess to come back from.”

  “Yeah . . . yeah . . . you’re absolutely right.” Victoria sits back, looking down into her lap. “The first is a lie. I logged in two thousand miles all right.”

  I know Victoria’s tells: fingers wringing together, cheek caved in because she’s biting it. Eyes still focused on the fire despite the others’ questions about her travel blog—her baby and business. And two thousand miles? It’s only September, and she spent most of her summer at Paraiso.

  No. She’s lying. The first is the truth. Which means . . .

  Victoria was catfished?

  The memory of walking her home, of her being torn up, floods me. In Vegas—how she was so sure about having a no-strings relationship. How she didn’t text me back right away.

  Anger runs up my spine, because I know exactly how she feels after being fooled.

  Victoria interrupts my thoughts. “Okay, who’s next?”

  “Mr. Camera Guy.” Adrian bares a sly smile.

  I will my body to relax and try to break the heavy vibe. “Pass.”

  “Sorry. This isn’t Scrabble.” Tara cackles.

  I rub my beard and ponder. “I didn’t get a driver’s license until I was nineteen. And . . . this scar right here? It’s from the graze of shrapnel.”

  Everyone leans closer to me as I expected they would, and I stifle a laugh. Tara even stands and bends to examine the scar across my face.

  “I’m scared to even ask.” Concern plays across her face. “Is . . . is the second the truth? Did you get hit with shrapnel?”

  “Nope. I have a sister who loves to drive, and when I was in the Army, I lived on post and didn’t need to.”

  “Your sister drove you around? Didn’t you find that embarrassing?”

  “I always seek to work smarter, not harder, you know?”

  The vibe lightens, and laughter filters through our group. Victoria eyes me. “So, how did you get that scar on your face?”

  “Ah, that’s not part of the game.” I stand. “And that is the cue for bedtime.”

  Adrian and Victoria protest by booing. I shake my head. Shit, I shouldn’t have said anything. I’ve had this scar for a decade, and I forget people want to know details. Tonight, however, isn’t my night for stories. It’s Victoria’s I want to know.

  Thank God Tara hefts herself to her feet, saving me. “Good idea. We have an early start tomorrow. Anyone want to come to the restrooms with me? The line looks pretty long from here.”

  Despite the RV having its own bathroom, we try not to use it, but from the bodies congregating outside of the restroom cabin, the rest of the campground had the same idea. People pass us with their towels and bags of toiletries.

  Adrian raises his hand. “I’ve had a piece of meat stuck in between my teeth all afternoon. Time to floss.”

  “Oh man, TMI.” Vic grabs the sticks from the campfire.

  “Hey. What did you expect living with people?” Adrian fo
lds up his chair. “For better and for worse, my friend.”

  Victoria and I bag up the rest of our garbage and I walk it to the Dumpster. When I arrive back at our plot, Vic is by the fire, smothering it with dirt. The glow on her face dims, but not before she looks up to see me.

  “Joel.” She strides toward me, a hand up. “I’m sorry, okay?”

  This time, I don’t turn away, a question leaping off my tongue before I can stop it. “Were you really catfished?”

  “I—” This close, the only thing discernible in the dark is the outline of her nose and lips, but I swear I can see the hesitation in her eyes. “I don’t know what possessed me to talk about that. I convinced myself earlier that I couldn’t let the past touch me anymore, but the truth kind of . . . plopped out.” Her head shakes. “Yes, it’s true, and it was shitty. But it is what it is, and I want to move on.”

  A waterfall of questions overloads my brain. Does her sister know? Were there signs? How could Victoria not have been suspicious?

  They’re the kind of questions I’ve asked myself.

  “Joel”—she grabs my elbow, as if to keep the both of us focused—“I’m sorry about the segment today. I don’t know what else I can say. I panicked because I had—I have—no great opinion about barbecue. It’s not an excuse, and I own it. It won’t happen again.”

  I should stay pissed. What she did was completely unacceptable. But with her hand sliding down my arm, I remember that this woman isn’t conniving. She was the one positive person at Paraiso. She supported her sister at the worst time of her life, even as, I now realize, she herself was experiencing heartbreak. Victoria’s behavior today was errant but rare.

  My head nods as if it is its own master. I catch her hand in mine and squeeze it. She steps in and leans into my chest for a hug. I wrap my arms loosely around her, looking down at her as she continues to speak.

  “I’m trying to approach this job with an open mind. The next festival is six hours from here and I’ll be ready. Now that I know what to expect, how the segment’s going to flow, I can prepare. Surely, I can’t be the only host to cover food they don’t love, right? Thank you for not staying mad.” She gets on her tiptoes, catching me by surprise, and a kiss that I assume was supposed to land on my cheek winds up squarely on my lips.