Clair Obscur

It’s 7:30 p.m. and I am standing outside a Baptist church on the edge of Westport as the sun sets behind me.

“Why does it always have to be churches?” I ask myself as I pull out my phone.

My head was still spinning as much from the binge drinking as it was from realizing the group was now down to myself, Coltrane, Tom, Rob, Henry, and Kenny.

Somehow the 50-50 odds to make it to Ascension feel worse than the 1 in 12 chance I started with.

Getting a chance to rush up the Aggro Crag would have been just as sweet if I hadn’t been first to the top, but I couldn’t say I felt the same about getting hammered in Wrigleyville.

My brain and body were as sick from the hangover as they were waiting to see what the next challenge would be.

Survive an NFL practice?

Freestyle a blues song like in that scene from Adventures in Babysitting?

A food crawl through Power and Light?

But a barbecue challenge? At least in Chicago I knew how to drink. The only thing I know about barbecue is the three letters you need to spell it.

I look at the phone and read the flier one more time. Daihm had sent it to me after I freaked out and chose to drive myself down to Kansas City earlier that morning. I hadn’t even made it to the new Airbnb yet.

“Burnt Ends” stared back at me from the top as I scrolled down past a drawing of a pork rib snapped in half.

“For anyone who is ready to start from the beginning. Embrace being raw and plan a menu for your life.”

Weird phrasing, I think, but if anyone needed the help they could give, it was me.

Walking down the steps to reach the basement of the Baptist church feels, in a way, like a homecoming.

I couldn’t count the number of auditions I used to be sent to that took place in random church basements.

Baptist.

Catholic.

Lutheran.

Episcopal.

Methodist.

Pentecostal.

One thing I learned back then was that no matter how differently each denomination prayed, it never seemed to impact the way they chose to lay linoleum tile or the brand of refrigerator they used to keep the bottled waters cold.

At least that is one thing Kansas City and Hollywood seemed to have in common.

I try to find my bearings, which is relatively easy given the room is one big carpeted square.

Fluorescent lighting runs along the ceiling, illuminating a long table covered in thin plastic.

Splashes of hot coffee from the Keurig on the end have burned and melted the covering into a Jackson Pollock painting that uses only browns and blues.

At the other end is an oval-shaped basket woven in wicker with a thin maroon cloth at the base whose edges tastefully float over the sides. The attention seems a bit unnecessary given that it's holding Little Debbie bars and not artisan breads.

Then I see the chairs. The same grey folding ones that aren’t worth bringing out for a backyard get-together. Stiff. Brutalist.

They are arranged in a circle in the center of the room.

“Hello friend. Have you decided to join us this evening?”

Just as I am about to fill out one of the nametags organized neatly on the table I look up to see a man wearing a polo that is way too tight for him, the curves of his body vacuum sealed in polycotton blend.

HELLO, my name is…

ANDREW

Andrew is six years older than me, but already has a dramatically receding hairline.

He looks like a high school guidance counselor or a Kroger deli manager. Instead he tells me he’s a nutritionist.

He asks me what my relationship with barbecue is.

I tell him that we’ve been dating off and on for a couple months now.

He doesn’t laugh. Instead, he gives me a quizzical, almost disappointed look before explaining the three rules of the group are honesty, accountability, and maturity.

H.A.M.? I ask, wondering if I’m supposed to laugh.

Andrew crosses his arms and sighs.

I rub the back of my neck and ask what kind of spices would be best to purchase locally. He tells me I need to be more open to accessing my emotions.

It is 15 minutes until the start of the meeting when I hear someone else make their way down the creaky stairs.

An older black man with a thick white beard and a glassy left eye hits the landing and shoves his hands in his overall pockets.

He gives me a look, then nods toward Andrew before walking to the table, grabbing a nametag and writing on it. He slaps the adhesive onto a soiled shirt.

HELLO, my name is...

OLLIE

Ollie, which is short for Orlando and not Oliver, is a 56-year-old local pit master raised on Kansas City barbecue since he was old enough to hold a set of tongs.

Where most kids baked Christmas cookies with their mother to bring to school functions, Ollie would make chicken wings.

“Hard to fail a kid when he’s makin’ better food than they serve in the cafeteria,” he says with a smile, mentioning the sauce-stained thank you letters his mom would get handed to her at parent-teacher conferences in the spring.

I take my seat in the circle, pot of coffee and two styrofoam cups in hand.

“Anyone can frost a cookie,” he says. “But it takes someone special to make a decent rub.”

I pour him a cup and ask if he’d be willing to share his recipe with me.

He takes the coffee and tells me to fuck off.

Which is when I turn to see a young woman with black hair, a red spaghetti strap dress, and a waist-high skirt.

She crosses one leg over the other in the same way I remember baby giraffes walking at the Minneapolis zoo. Probably because of the stiletto heels she’s perched on.

With a purse slung over her shoulder, she slides a well-manicured hand over the top of her chest, revealing a nametag underneath.

HELLO, my name is...

JADE

I offer to grab Jade a cup of coffee but she pulls a cigarette out from her pocket instead and ignores me.

I ask her how long she’s been cooking barbecue.

She blows a ring of smoke upwards. My eyes follow the haze to a sickly patch of yellow staining the drop ceiling tile above her chair.

Jade finally tells me she doesn’t cook at all. She’s a barbecinfluencer.

That’s not a real word I tell her.

You’re not a real word she tells me back.

Then she explains that she started out as a local food blogger but got far more reactions for her food photos than her reviews. Her biggest engagements came when she would post herself eating barbecue out in public.

It isn’t long before local and regional pits start trying to get her endorsement.

I look back up at the yellowed ceiling.

“How much do you make?” I ask.

“More than you’d think,” she replies.

I tell her about needing to prepare for a BBQ cooking competition.

I ask if there is a method of cooking she prefers to eat.

She holds her cigarette and gives it some thought.

Low and slow, she says. Like how the tortoise beats the hare.

But folks don’t barbecue turtles and rabbits so I’d probably stick to pork, beef, and sausage, she adds.

Soon more people begin to filter in, just under the wire.

BRETT. 35. Competed in a barbecue challenge on a national cooking competition show and came in second.

GENE. 80. Claims to be the descendant of Henry Perry, the grandfather of Kansas City barbecue, and is here just to, quote, keep an eye on the next generation.

TRACY. 26. Inherited a smoker from her recently deceased father and hasn’t been able to use it yet.

The circle of chairs begins to fill as the sound of church bells toll from outside.

It’s 8 p.m. and time to start the meeting.

Andrew takes his place at the tip of the circle.

“Remember that what we say here tonight stays here,” he says. “No need to be afraid to be authentic. Open. Vulnerable."

I think about raising my hand asking for clarification, but decide against it.

“We are here tonight because we have made the decision to become better. Yes?”

“Yes,” the room responds. Everyone except Jade and I, that is.

“We are here tonight because we have taken the first step to become better. Yes?”

“Yes,” the room responds. I join in this time. Still nothing from Jade.

“We are here tonight because we serve the food. The food does not serve us. Yes?”

The room chants “YES” in unison.

“Let us cook!” Andrew says.

“LET US COOK!” we respond.

Andrew asks who would like to go first. Tracy is the first to raise her hand.

“I offered to host a summer party for my friends and mentioned the smoker,” she says, squirming in her seat.

In the back of my head I think about what it felt like trying to recite my lines in front of some disinterested casting director.

“I hoped that it would force me to use my dad’s smoker, but every time I opened the thing all I could see was his face, and…”

She shudders.

“I tell myself it’s still too soon, but it’s already been nine months. Now I’m not just scared to use the thing; I feel guilty that by not using it I am pushing him away when the only thing I want to do is be able to hold him close one last time.”

I am not sure I hear her right, but Andrew nods as Tracy wipes at her eyes.

“Anyone have something for Tracy?”

Gene raises his hand.

“Truth is, miss, that smoker you got is either your curse or your treasure. Whichever it ends up being it’ll be the same another nine months from now… or nine years from now. But you gotta mind it either way. What you don’ wanna do is ignore it.”

An image of my mom sitting alone in our old house pops into focus for a split second… but I shake my head clear. I have to stay focused.

“Thank you, Tracy. We hear you and we see you. And thank you, Gene. Does anyone else have something for Tracy?”

Ollie raises his hand.

“Ms. Tracy, sometimes we think given’ somethin’ up means giving up on a part of ourselves. But… if we hold on to everything then we’re just stuck in what was rather than what could be.”

I look around the room at everyone nodding.

I’m expecting a group of Gordon Ramseys. Instead I’m getting Kristen Kish.

That’s when Brett raises his hand.

“Yes. Brett.”

The young man is only two years older than I am but looks far older. Gray and white hairs pepper his otherwise black hair, which he runs a nervous hand through as his leg bobs up and down from the pressure he puts on the ball of his foot. I realize he is wearing a chef’s coat.

“I uh… yesterday was the anniversary. Of… well… you know.”

Andrew lets the words sit before responding.

“Come on, Brett. We’ve been working on this. You can say the words.”

Brett is looking at me, eyes wide. Suddenly I feel judged. Not seen. Judged.

I nod to Brett, trying to reassure him as Andrew continues.

“Remember. Honesty is accountability and accountability is...”

“Maturity!”

My lips move and my voice says the words without thinking.

Jade shoots me a look that could peel paint; but Brett’s shoulders relax and his leg stops moving.

“Yesterday was the anniversary of the episode I lost. No. Not just lost… embarrassed myself. In front of millions of people.”

Brett clenches his hands into fists and then releases them.

“I’m from Kansas City… and I lost a barbecue challenge?”

Brett’s voice becomes high pitched and I see flashes of my Alias Title loss to Steve Lemieux, being shoved in a grocery cart through two sliding glass doors and being unable to force my body to do a damned thing about it.

“I had a restaurant. A family to support and as soon as the episode aired my business dried up. I had to close up… and I turned to drinking. I got angry - at the show. At the world. And then my wife and kid.”

I try to focus on the yellow ceiling tile to my upper left and not Brett when the tears begin to form in his eyes.

“Still. I keep thinking that if I could win that challenge? If I could prove I know how to cook? Show the world and get my redemption? Maybe they’d come back and we could be a family again.”

Brett is jostling his leg again.

“But the producers won’t return my calls. None of the contestants I was with will respond to my texts or DMs… I… don’t know what to do anymore.”

The two people closest to Brett are Jade and Gene. Both go to place a hand on Brett’s shoulder as he lowers his head and begins to cry. Jade reaches into her pocket and offers him a cigarette and says something about maybe starting a podcast called “Barbeculosers” which gets a choked laugh as a response.

Andrew surveys the group.

“See, people. Honesty. Accountability. Maturity. Opening yourself up to others is not a weakness; it is a strength. What we are doing here is not something to be ashamed or embarrassed of; it is a reclamation of who you are.”

Brett nods. The group nods.

Andrew turns to me.

“What brings you here tonight, friend? Care to introduce yourself?”

That is when I realize, far too late, what the flier Daihm sent was actually advertising.

A pit forms in my stomach, and not the barbecue kind.

Do I admit that a friend sent me here thinking it would help me win a barbecue-themed wrestling match?

After what everyone else has already shared? I’d be the biggest asshole in the world to do that.

So what do I tell them?

That the closest thing I’ve had to barbecue is a McRib?

That if I can’t learn how to cook barbecue by the end of the week, I’ll walk away from Survivor with nothing?

Or maybe that for some reason somewhere out there is a painting from the 1800s of a man holding a creepy looking book and he looks just like me.

That my hometown is held under some literal spell by my gaslighting ex-girlfriend?

Or maybe I say that I am terrified I am the only person who can stop her.

“I was caught using Carolina sauce and tried to pass it off as sauce from KC.”

Even the rest of the group seems as shocked as I am when Jade speaks, crossing her arms and chewing on her cigarette.

“Once people realized they threatened to ‘rub me’ out or called me a slut who only knew how to ‘be naked’ rather than ‘cook nekkid.’”

She blows smoke up toward the stain on the ceiling.

“I lost my sponsorship deals. My comments section became so toxic I had to call the cops – and I fucking hate the cops… real shit deal if you ask me.”

Jade unzips her purse and reaches in, pulling out a tape recorder.

“I thought coming here week after week may give me something interesting to use… but sadly either everyone already knows your stories…”

She turns to Brett who lowers his head.

“...or they are so boring they’d do shit numbers.”

She turns to Tracy.

“But you…”

She turns and looks at me, a curious smile on her face.

“You look like you have a story to tell.”

🍖🍖🍖

It’s about an hour later when Jade and I are standing by ourselves along the side of the rundown church with only a flickering street lamp for company. The last ones to leave.

She shakes her pack of cigarettes. It’s empty.

“Was any of what you said true?”

It’s a question I ask her, but she doesn’t turn to look at me.

“Was any of what you said true?” she retorts back, finally sparing me a glance before exchanging the empty cigarette pack for her tape recorder. She brandishes it at me like a loaded gun and I’m not convinced it’s not.

“I know who you are, you know…”

I push myself off the brick wall, not sure I hear her right. She smirks, but not the way someone does when they’ve laid a trap, but the way someone looks when they’ve found an old box of family photos hidden away in an attic corner.

“But the memories are all fuzzy,” she says. “Static. I have a pretty good photographic memory - which is what makes me so good at taking food photos, it turns out.”

Jade turns to face me.

“Except, with you? Even looking at you now, all I can see is just an echo of a person.”

I’ve been here before. A woman with long black hair, a chip on her shoulder, and just enough self-inflated confidence to be dangerous. I look down at the recorder and then back up at Jade.

She’s smiling, but my brain is screaming. I refuse to let my feet move. My mouth does instead.

“You’re an echo of a person.”

I mean it to be funny. A deflection. But there’s a bite to my words… pent up anger and resentment and frustration over how much has been taken from me. How much I have yet to gain and what it would mean to lose.

I watch Jade quietly place the recorder back into her purse, her hand shaking as she does. She runs a hand through her hair and turns away, but the lamplight catches wetness on her cheek.

I’ve been here before. I know where this goes. I know how it ends. Until I don’t.

“Now I remember…”

Jade’s voice is shaky as she pulls out the empty cigarette pack, reaches in, and then puts it back in her purse.

“It’s your face. I’ve seen it before.”

My mind races. I’m back trapped in Max Kael’s mansion.

I’m in a corner in a motel room with Sonja holding a phone up to my face.

I’m in a gas station parking lot seeing the shadows above me move and twist like a lava lamp.

I’m holding Snark Darkly’s book.

“I was doing a school project… on the Battle of New Madrid. A Civil War battle that took place 400 miles to the southeast on the Mississippi River. Back then I remember seeing a photo that was taken of the aftermath…”

Jade turns back to look at me, her eyes are no longer confident. Or even the eyes of someone trying to maintain control. She is scared. And because she is scared… I’m scared.

“There were so many bodies. So many dead. But there was a man who standing in the foreground.”

She squints, trying hard to think.

“Except, he wasn’t joining the other soldiers surveying the battlefield. He was holding a book in his hand and extending it out above the river like a priest offering some sort of burial rite.”

It couldn’t be.

Jade steps forward, her eyes searching my face beneath the lamplight.

“And he had your face.”

My stomach turns. Jade is right. I couldn’t bring myself to tell anyone in the group the truth. I did what I used to do best. I performed.

I never mentioned Detroit.

I never mentioned my mom.

I never mentioned the painting with my face on it.

I calm my brain down and close my eyes.

Why the hell is it always churches?

Then I remember what I told Ivan when we last spoke and decide to take my own advice and go H.A.M.

“You said you were looking for something interesting for your followers?” I ask.

She nods.

“Let’s find somewhere to chat. Bring your recorder.”

Jade wipes her eyes and tells me she knows a few good barbecue restaurants in town and I let out a dry laugh.

She takes a few steps, then turns back. She pulls the nametag from her dress.

I realize mine never got filled out. It is still sitting blank on the table.

“My name isn’t Jade, by the way. It’s Vera. Vera Finch.”

She pauses.

“...and I’m not a food blogger. Or a barbacue influencer."

"Barbecinfluencer, you mean?"

I almost laugh as she shrugs and extends a hand outward.

"I’m just looking for a good story.”

I return her handshake.

“Hi Vera. I’m Nathan Lake," I say. "I may just have one to tell."