Page 98 of Sizzle Reel

She responds immediately.

Where are you now?

I glance at Valeria as she snuggles with Eustace, her phone still blowing up beside her.

With Valeria.

The three dots appear right away. A pebble of dread settles inside me. I didn’t spend that long on that apology text, thinking we would talk, and now I’m worried I haven’t done enough.

Then the dots disappear.

The dread grows.

I give Eustace some scratches, and by the time I’m done the dots are back again.

Then, within a few seconds, they’re gone.

I can’t help it. I text again.

Are you okay?

Finally, a text comes through.

I’m gonna need some time.

I sigh and tuck my phone back into my bag to resist throwing it across the room. When it comes down to it, I think Wyatt will forgive me. We’ve both done hurtful things, but at the end of the day we trust each other to always have the other’s best interests at heart. But Romy, god, that hurts. For the past six years, my life has revolved around our friendship. When we met, my whole headspace changed. Everything from that point on involved her. We’d graduate together. We’d likely stay in L.A. together. We’d help each other navigate adult jobs and adult relationships. Be in each other’s weddings and hang out with each other’s kids and/or animals.

I can’t imagine a world where she doesn’t forgive me, where she isn’t in my life anymore.

I’m panicking, and I don’t know what to do, who to turn to. I have to give Romy space. I know that. I can’t go to Julia until our next session. And even if Valeria and I are buddies now and she won’t ditch me, I’m still far from her first priority at the moment. And then it comes to me. I have one other coping mechanism.

Filming.

The pathway to the Devil’s Gate, a part man-made, part naturally occurring, dilapidated iron gate and rock in the shape of Satan under the 210 freeway, starts at a rather innocuous cul-de-sac at the end of La Canada Verdugo Road in Pasadena. The freeway crosses one of L.A.’s old dams, now abandoned, a desolate shell of infrastructure that can be seen in its functional prime only in movies made in Jack Nicholson’s youth. Seemingly half the cities in America claim to have some maw-looking tunnel or hole that supposedly leads to Hell, and this is L.A.’s. At night, even a seasoned Jew like myself might shiver at Romy’s descriptions of demons pulling trespassers through the tunnel as the Satan rock watches. But it’s daytime now, and the view of Devil’s Gate is far from spooky. Right now it’s just one of the coolest places Romy ever showed me.

I squint down at the dried-up river and stone arches below me. Given how many off-color comments Valeria’s made about Pasadena in the brief time I’ve known her, I can’t help but wonder if she would find this hidden gem interesting or if she’d dismiss it as another unimpressive part of the area. But the thought doesn’t last long.

After all, this is Romy’s and my spot.

I pass by a bit of graffiti and head through the narrow tunnel that leads under the 210, then I emerge onto the unkempt wooded path that eventually winds around to the Devil’s Gate itself.

I more or less manage not to stumble the entire way down the path. Bushes and dead tree limbs scratch my ankles and knock into my face with each step I take. There are No Trespassing signs, but the real deterrent is just how inconvenient it is to get down here. Romy’s absolutely convinced that this place is haunted. There’s enough to make me uneasy between the criminal activity and the drug use, so I’ve never been as into the ghost stories. But now that I’m scrounging around the area by myself, I sense a certain heaviness to the air. It feels like I’m not truly alone. I can only hope that if there are ghosts, they’ll leave me and my memories be.

It only takes being smacked with about fifty branches to reach the actual Gate to Hell and Satan Rock. The structure is perhaps less impressive than myth would suggest. The gate is just that—a literal twelve-or-so-foot-tall metal gate leading into the tunnel. There’s a fair amount of graffiti on the rocks around the structure, and that continues into the mouth of the tunnel, becoming a combination of cryptic warnings and more artistic painting.

I look at the rock formation that supposedly resembles Satan. I can see it maybe half the time, but I do see it today.

I turn to the tunnel. Take a few steps inside. And even though the whole place screams murder cave, right now I just feel peace. I feel as though nature has cleared the area out just for me. It’s serene here.

This was one of the first places Romy took me to, back when we were freshmen. I told her I was scared, going to the old L.A. Zoo, and she told me that Devil’s Gate was a step up in creepiness and it involved less hiking. Of course, she lied about the hiking. But she wasn’t wrong about the fear factor. The first time we came was during the day, and heading through the Devil’s Gate was a welcome relief from the blaring sun of a late-October L.A. heatwave. Romy told me the entire myth surrounding this place as we ventured inside, admiring bits and pieces of the urban art.

I step into the tunnel, flicking the flashlight on my phone on. I should be filming right now, but I just want to see it with my naked eye first.

It’s the natural location for a horror short, but all I can envision is a romance.

The first time we came here, Romy and I had stood on either side of the tunnel, leaning up against the wall to avoid sitting on the floor. The cave is narrow, though, so our legs spread into each other’s space, although we still kept a few feet of distance between us. But now, I can see the shot I’d want to showcase so clearly: the two people physically separated as they each lean against opposite walls, but as the camera looks into the tunnel, their shadows become one.

Romy had never explicitly come out to me and Wyatt. She just casually dropped that she liked girls and it was cool. But when the two of us were in that tunnel together, she came out to me as nonbinary. She’d floundered over her words, tears brimming in her eyes, desperation hanging off her every syllable. And just like that first day in class, my reaction came naturally. I listened, I comforted her, I assured her that not only was this something I’d never reject but that it was a piece of her I’d fight for every step of the way. She trusted this tunnel not to judge. She’d shared a vulnerable piece of herself, and after she did, I’d admitted that I didn’t think the majority of the population was straight. That sometimes I thought about kissing people other than boys.

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