Jesse looks up and around. “They must’ve left somewhere.” He explains, “Some guys who look my age were being crude towards the families.” He doesn’t specify towards who.
“It happens a lot.” I squeeze his shoulder. “It’s good to empathize, but don’t let it distract you.”
His shaggy hair shifts with the shake of his head. “This is their charity event. Shouldn’t their bodyguards send them packing?”
“We’re production,” I remind him. “We don’t do security’s job for them, and they don’t do ours.” We have to respect that boundary or else we’ll both start trying to walk all over each other. “And anyway, if security tried to remove every person that made a transgression against the families, there’d be like five people here, Jess.”
He sighs. “That blows.”
I lift my camera. “We film the shit that blows. With the small hope that it makes a difference when people see it. Empathy, Utoy. Don’t lose it. Use it.”
Jesse smiles. “Always, Kuya. You’re so petmalu.” It means amazing in Tagalog slang. He nudges my arm lovingly. “Lodi.”
I can’t believe I know that lodi is idol. It’s also slang, and it’s idol spelled backwards. Stuff he picked up from our cousins on social media.
I smile brighter and mess his hair. “You’re grabbing B-roll today.”
“Sweet, I’ll use the telephoto lens.”
I also hand him an ultra-wide lens. “Use your walkie-talkie if you need me.”
“Got it.” He’s in charge of B-roll, basically extra footage (landscape, wide shots, etc.) that’s used in the show.
“Who are you not allowed to film?” I ask him while we both fit on our lenses and adjust our camera settings.
“Winona Meadows.” His eyes flash briefly over to the Meadows girls. Sulli and Winona stretch under an oak tree together. “Also, Beckett Cobalt and Vada Abbey.”
“Yep.” Those are the only three that are more private and haven’t signed waivers to be on We Are Calloway or in the background of Born into Fame, the working title of the docuseries.
We stand up. I hand him the backpack with his extra lens. “Boom kit is also in there if you need it, but you shouldn’t have to mess with sound too much.” I plan to leave the heavier camera bag at cabins with medical.
Jesse slips on the backpack and clutches his Canon, ready to go.
“Now go get me some B-roll.” I make the hang loose gesture. “Shaka brah, brah.” I smile.
He smiles back on his way to the lake. “Talk later, Kuya!”
A minute later, I drop off the camera bag and regroup beside Charlie. I’m gripping two handlebars on either side of a Canon. The gimbal helps steady the camera and avoid shaky shots. Sometimes I’ll use a Steadicam, which is harnessed to my chest, but both are hard to operate and ache my muscles after a full day shooting.
I can already tell my forearms are going to kill me.
Beauty is pain, and I’m searching for that beautiful up-close frame. The one where I push closer, that feels personal, like the viewer is almost uncomfortable at the intimacy. Feeling like they’re a voyeur to Charlie’s life.
I am.
I am one, and it’s something that I know has to be translated well or else it’s all for nothing.
Right now, I capture footage of Charlie waiting for a woman behind the registration table. She reaches out and hands him a bib number.
I feel Oscar nearby.
He’s off to the side. To my left and a little further back. He’s surveying the crowds, but as I risk a glance, our eyes catch for the briefest second before we return to our jobs.
My breath hitches.
Focus, dude.
That’s how it’s been for the past three days.
All work.
We haven’t done anything since the night I slept over—not for lack of interest—just lack of time. It’s July 31st. We Are Calloway production starts tomorrow, and when Oscar is off-duty, he’s been in security meetings for the Fun Run. We’re both swamped outside of Charlie’s show.
And still, Oscar has occupied almost 80% of my mind.
I just keep replaying everything over and over and anticipate it happening again. We’ve texted a little, but not enough to distract us from our professions. My nighttime dreams of him and me do that enough.
I angle my camera more on Charlie. Focusing. “Are you excited for the race?” I ask him.
“Overjoyed,” he says dryly.
“Excuse me, excuse me.” A business-casual man in a pair of gold-rimmed aviators shoves his way to the front of the line, next to Charlie. Oscar sidesteps to let him through, and a second passes