"Right."
"Okay," he said. "Let's do it."
I set up the camera in his living room. Pickle sat on the couch—knees bouncing, fingers drumming against his thigh. The red recording light blinked on.
"Whenever you're ready," I said.
He took a breath and struggled to put on an interview face.
We started with the easy stuff. Hockey. The team. What it meant to be the "energy guy" on a roster full of personalities bigger than the arena.
Pickle answered with his usual intensity—charming and occasionally self-deprecating. He told stories about Jake's karaoke disasters and Hog knitting emotional support animals.
Five minutes in, I realized I'd stopped checking the frame.
His hands moved when he spoke—expressive, uncontrolled, nearly knocking over the water glass he'd finally found. He laughed at his own jokes before they landed. He looked at the camera like he was looking at me.
I asked about belonging. About what Thunder Bay meant to him.
Pickle's smile flickered.
"It's the first place that felt like mine," he said. His voice was softer. "Not borrowed. Not temporary." He paused. "I keep waiting for someone to figure out I don't actually belong here. That I'm just—"
He stopped.
"Just what?"
He looked at the camera. Then past it at me.
"What do you see?" he asked. "When you're filming me."
My finger hovered over the focus ring.
"Someone people underestimate," I said. "Someone they see one thing in and assume that's everything."
Pickle froze. His knee stopped bouncing.
"And what do you see?" he asked. "Everything, or one thing?"
"More every time I look."
Pickle's Adam's apple rose and fell as he swallowed.
"That's—" He laughed, but it came out shaky. "That's not what people usually say."
"What do people usually say?"
"That I'm a lot. That I'm exhausting. That I'm fun but—" He stopped. "There's always a but. Fun but chaotic. Talented but inconsistent. Good to have around but not—" He cut himself off. Shook his head. "Sorry. That got weird. I made it weird. Can we—"
"Let's turn it off." I pressed the button. The red light died, and the soft whir went silent.
Pickle exhaled like he'd been holding his breath since I walked in.
"Sorry. I don't know why I—"
"Don't apologize."
"I dumped a whole thing on you. That was a lot. I'm a lot. I know I'm a lot—"
