The language of documentary. Safe. Clinical.
I reached for my phone.
It was time to do interviews the right way.
First up was Jake at The Common Thread, before the coffee shop opened, due to the owners' grace, sprawled across a vinyl booth like he owned it. He talked about Vegas, the reality show, and finding someone who wanted him quiet sometimes.
His voice cracked once, on the word home. When it was over, he shook my hand and said, "You're good at this. Making people say things they didn't plan to." He paused. "Just—be careful with that."
I knew he meant Pickle.
I spoke with Evan in the arena's empty community room. He folded his hands like it was a job interview, giving me measured answers until I asked about Jake, and then his entire demeanor changed.
"He makes me brave," Evan said quietly. "He makes me want to be less scared of the mess."
Two interviews. Both successful.
I could do this with Pickle. Camera on, distance maintained, and feelings contained.
I believed that for the rest of the day.
Pickle's apartment was on the third floor of a building with a green awning. I stood outside his door at 7 p.m., camera bag on my shoulder, telling myself it was just another interview.
The door swung open as I hit the top step.
"I saw you from the window," Pickle said. "You were standing there for like thirty seconds. I thought maybe you were having a crisis."
"Thorough equipment check."
"For thirty seconds?"
"Very thorough."
He grinned and stepped back to let me in.
His apartment was a chaotic mess made habitable. He'd draped hockey gear on a drying rack. Snack wrappers colonized the coffee table, and he had a laundry pile by a door I presumed to be his bedroom.
"Sorry about the mess. I cleaned, but then I un-cleaned. Do you want something to drink? I have water. There might be a beer somewhere, but it's probably haunted."
"Water's fine."
"Cool. Great." He opened a cabinet, closed it, and then opened another. "The glasses are—somewhere. I moved them. For cleaning purposes."
"Pickle."
"Yeah?"
"Breathe."
He stopped and turned. "I'm breathing. I've been doing it for twenty-three years." Then, he exhaled hard. "Okay, I'm nervous. You're here. With a camera. In my disaster apartment. And the last time I saw you, I was climbing into your lap in a rental car, which was—"
"Also a disaster."
His mouth twitched. "Yeah. That."
I crossed to where he stood. "We can stop this interview anytime," I said. "We don't have to use anything."
"Right. No, it's just an interview. For the documentary."
