“Sure,” I said. I tried not to squirm as I thought about spending an evening with my parents—a whole evening of hearing how I was doing everything wrong.
At least I had the money for my rent, and the sun was still up.
On the way home from my parents’ house, I passed Zimmer Cameras. I stopped outside and looked in the window. There was a series of coloured lens filters in the window that I’d never seen before. I went inside and asked what they were. “They’re new polarizing filters. They’re intense. I saw a video of a guy using them to take a picture through a tinted limousine window.”
“Wow,” I said. “How much are they?”
“They’re twenty bucks each.” I bought one using the spare twenty my dad gave to me. I was halfway home when I realized I had no money for food. I thought about turning around and returning my new lens filter. But then I remembered there was a can of beans in the back of my pantry—I could make it last a couple of days.
CHAPTER II
It was Thursday when I finally received a seventh like on my photo. It was officially my most popular photo, though that wasn’t saying much. Seven likes certainly weren’t about to pay my rent or pay my phone bill or carry out my Christmas shopping. I needed a job. I was already getting dirty looks from my landlord whenever I left my apartment. It was like he could tell that I was unemployed… I suppose he was seeing me at all hours of the day, meandering around the building in my pyjamas.
I went for a walk around the block, hoping to find a little shop with a hiring sign in the window. Nowhere was hiring, and then I had the idea of going down to Zimmer Cameras, to ask if they were hiring. The staff there knew me and they knew that I knew cameras. But they weren’t hiring. In fact, the guy behind the counter told me that they were going to be downsizing soon because business hadn’t been great lately. “But if you need work, you should check the job board,” he said.
I’d walked by the job board countless times before, but I’d never looked at it. I hated the idea of being a ‘photographer’, as strange as that sounds. I wanted to be one of the greats—and the greats didn’t take pictures of people’s dogs for Christmas cards. The greats didn’t photograph weddings on the side, and the greats didn’t occasionally shoot corporate headshots. Then again, the greats didn’t work for minimum wage at coffee shops either, but that was now looking like my only option.
The job board wasn’t much help. There was only one job posting, and all the phone numbers had already been ripped off by other starving photographers. I was about to leave the store when the guy behind the counter said, “You could put up a post advertising your services.” I looked back at the board. There were a few business cards tacked to the board, and someone had posted a picture of themselves with their phone number written underneath. The photo was lousy—not about to get them any work. But I had some nice photos that could catch the eye of someone looking for a freelance photographer.
I went home and grabbed one of my prints. Using a marker, I wrote my name and phone number on the print, along with a note: “Looking for any work. Flexible rate.” I went back to Zimmer Cameras and I stuck the print to the board. I stood there for a moment, admiring it, and then I left, and as soon as I was home I found myself staring at my phone once again, this time waiting for it to ring.
But it didn’t ring. I went to sleep, and when I woke up, I quickly checked my phone. But there were no missed calls. I felt defeated. I found myself on my computer, looking up job listings in my area. There wasn’t much: a few openings at the local McDonalds and a position as a janitor at a nearby office building. Strangely, the janitor position required a diploma.
The image of my old childhood bedroom came into my head. That bedroom was still at my parents’ house, still with my old bed and my old dressed and that old Halo poster on the wall. It was waiting for me. Nightly dinners with my parents were waiting for me. My five-year stint as an independent person was coming to an end. I had until the end of the month, and then I would surely be evicted for not paying my rent.
And then my phone rang. I picked it up before it could finish ringing a single time. “This is John, how can I be of service to you today?” I said, trying to force a big smile into my voice.
The phone was silent for a moment, and then I heard someone clearing their throat. “Hi, um, is this John Peters, the photographer?”
“That’s me,” I said. My heart was racing with warm optimism.
“This is Principal Anderson, from Churchill High School. I’m in a bit of a pinch at the moment. Today was picture day at school. But we had a bit of an incident. Our photographer sort of burnt down our gymnasium… He left his lights on when he took off for his lunch break, and one of them caught on fire. All of his gear got destroyed, and long story short, we basically need to start all over again. Photos are supposed to go out next week—do you think that’s something you could do?”
“You want me for picture day?” I asked. My heart fizzled. For some reason, I was hoping for an exciting job—taking pictures of wild animals out in the wilderness, or photographing mountains from a helicopter. I wasn’t exactly excited to take photos of high school students.”
“Yes, that’s correct. But we would need the photos taken tomorrow, and it would have to be in your own studio, seeing as half of our school is now closed while we repair the fire damage. We’ve already informed the parents that the students will have to travel off of the property, and most of them seem to be okay with that. You do have a studio, right?”
“Um,” I said. I didn’t have a studio, but I needed the work. I tried to think of a place I could borrow—a friend’s garage or an abandoned warehouse that no one would notice me using.
“We can pay three thousand, by the way—no more. We’re already over-budget for the year. I hope you understand.” My heart sprung up into my throat. Three thousand dollars? That was more money than I’d ever made in a month, never mind in a single day!
“I’ve got a studio, yeah,” I said. “That shouldn’t be a problem.”
“And of course, we would have you handle all of the orders and the prints—the usual protocol.”
“Yeah, that all sounds fine,” I said. I had no idea how the hell I was going to pull the gig off, but I couldn’t say no to three grand.
“Okay, great. Just e-mail me your address. We’ll have students arriving at your studio at 9:00 AM tomorrow. Don’t worry about scheduling—we’ll handle that. Just make sure you have everything set up by 9:00 AM, and make sure you send every student home with an order form, for prints. We’ll have the filled out order forms sent back to you by Monday. And then hopefully we can get the prints no later than Friday.” Principal Anderson laughed. “Oh my, this is such a relief. I was really worried that we weren’t going to find someone, but it sounds like the students are in good hands with you.”
“Just out of curiosity, how many students are we talking about here?”
“About seven-hundred,” he said. “But they will be quick. No more than a minute per student. Do you have a pen? I’ll give you my e-mail address. You’re really saving our asses here, Mr. Peters. You’re a real life saver.”
“It’s my pleasure. I’ve got a pen ready. Oh—can you pay cash, by any chance? Cash would be best for me?”
“We’ll pay you with a cheque,” Principal Anderson said.
“Of course. A cheque is fine. A cheque is great. Now what’s that e-mail address, so I can send you my studio details. Oh, and will there be a teacher present, or just the students?”
“Just the students—they will come one at a time. You may end up with a bit of a line out your door, but that’s okay, right?”
“No problem,” I said. I picked up a pen and noticed my hand was trembling. I was signing myself up for a job that I was not qualified for—but I needed the money.
CHAPTER III
I quickly called every photographer I knew and asked if they had a studio I could borrow for the day. But none of them had any leads, except for my
friend, Lewis, but his suggestion was of no help. The rental rate for the studio he had in mind was eight hundred bucks per day, and I wasn’t about to lose almost a third of my payout to a studio rental… Plus they needed the money up front—I asked.
I considered giving Principal Anderson the address of an abandoned warehouse. I knew a few—I’d photographed inside of some especially grungy ones before. But if there was going to be a line of students out the door, it wouldn’t work—I would surely attract the attention of the police, and I would end up being charged with trespassing.
So I gave Principal Anderson my own address and buzzer number. Then I spent the rest of that night clearing out my living room. I dragged my couch and my television and my coffee table and all of my artwork into my bedroom. Then I set up my white backdrop and a few lights. I didn’t have one of those cheesy blue cloudy backdrops that school photographers tend to use, so the students would have to live with white.
I set the camera up next to my apartment buzzer, so that I could reach over and buzz students up while I took photos. I was already dreading saying, ‘Come on up to the seventh floor, the door is open,’ seven hundred times.
I did a few test shots using my camera’s timer and myself. The shots looked half decent—good enough for a small wallet photo that would end up on grandma’s refrigerator. I tweaked a few lights and then I turned everything off and got my batteries charging. It was going to be a long day—seven hundred students. Even if I could shoot a student every minute, I was still looking at a nearly twelve-hour day.
I didn’t get much sleep that night. I was strangely nervous, and strangely excited. It was my first photography gig, even though I’d always thought that I never wanted to work a photography gig. It was a lot of money and a lot of pressure.
I’d only been sleeping an hour when my alarm went off. The sun was already up and there was only an hour before hoards of students started showing up at my door. I fired all of my equipment up and I waited nervously, sipping coffee, praying none of the students went back to school and said, ‘That studio was just inside the creep’s apartment.’ My heart started pounding the more I thought about it. What if they thought I was some sort of paedophile, luring kids into my apartment to take their photos? What if one of my neighbours calls up my landlord? What if he shuts me down?
My buzzer rang and I jumped. It was only 8:40 AM—they were early. “Hello?” I said. My voice was strangely shaky.
“I’m here for picture day,” a young voice said.
“Okay, come on up,” I said. My voice was even shakier. The voice was very young—so young I couldn’t tell if it was a boy or a girl. And they were alone? A young child was coming up to my apartment alone? Where were this child’s parents? Why were they allowing this? Oh, probably because they thought their child was going to a proper studio with a proper photographer. My gut turned and my legs began to tremble.
The student couldn’t have been older than fourteen. He had scruffy hair and a pale face, and big beady eyes. He stood in my doorway and looked around. He hesitated before walking in. “Is this picture day?” he asked.
“Sure is,” I said, forcing a smile. My gut turned again. “Just take a seat on the stood and we’ll get started.” The young boy cautiously walked towards the stood (which I’d found the night before in the alleyway). He took a seat on it. I heard the old wooden legs creak, and I was worried it was about to snap. My body was tense. The boy looked at me with terrified eyes, as if he was being kidnapped. I walked over to the camera and I said, “Smile.” I snapped a shot.
The child didn’t smile, but I was too overwhelmed to notice. “Okay, you’re done. Good job. Have a nice day.” I rushed the young boy out. My stomach was filled with regret. I shouldn’t have taken this job. I was out of my element. I took artsy photos—pictures of landscapes, buildings, sometimes models, and sometimes boudoir—but never kids.
It was ten minutes of gruelling silence before the buzzer rang again. I told the child to come upstairs. Thankfully, this child came with a friend. I didn’t feel so creepy this time. I snapped their photos and sent them on their way. The buzzer rang again while they were on their way out, so I buzzed the next few kids up. And then I remembered I was supposed to be sending the kids home with forms—and I didn’t even have any forms. I quickly scrambled, grabbing a stack of recycled paper from my office nook. I quickly wrote a price sheet out: $10.00 per print, $15.00 for a sheet of wallet-sized photos, $10.00 for skin correction. I had no idea what photographers charged. Then I put the stack of recycled paper under the little sign, which I taped to the wall with masking tape.
As soon as the next couple of students walked into my apartment, I pointed to the sign. “Grab a piece of paper and write down the rates,” I said. “And tell your parents to write how many prints they want on the bottom of the page.” None of the students questioned my laziness. They just did as they were told, as if I was one of their teachers. I used a notebook to keep track of the students’ names and what order they came in, so I would know who was who when the orders started coming in. I still had no idea how I was going to handle the orders, but I could figure that out later. Now, I just needed to get through the photographing process.
Strangely, no one questioned my sketchy setup at all—until the afternoon rolled around and the twelfth graders started showing up for their senior-year photos.
CHAPTER IV
I felt like less of a creep once I was finished with the eleventh graders. More than half of the twelfth graders were eighteen, so they were technically adults. I was only seven years older than them, so it seemed less weird when one of the girls was wearing a top that showed off a bit too much cleavage (one of the tenth graders showed up with her tits almost billowing out of a small tube dress, which was extremely uncomfortable to photograph).
Almost all of the twelfth graders looked around my apartment and scoffed. “Is this for real?” I heard one student say. A few of them stuck around after I took their photos, hanging out in my kitchenette, leaning against my cupboards. Another student lit up a cigarette in the hallway. I was terrified my landlord would smell it and come shut my whole operation down. Luckily, my landlord didn’t come around that day.
“Are you a real photographer?” one of the female students asked.
“Yes—I just don’t have a studio available at the moment, and your school was in a bind,” I said.
“Is that a bed sheet?” she asked, pointing at my white backdrop.
“No, it’s a proper backdrop. It’s just white—they shoot models on white backdrops.”
“Do you shoot models?” she asked.
“Sometimes,” I said.
“Are you single?” she asked. The question made my stomach turn. I was fairly certain this particular student was not eighteen. It wouldn’t have been so uncomfortable had she not been the only one who asked me about my relationship status. A few girls came in and asked if I was single, and then they asked if I would consider dating a high-school student. One girl asked for my Instagram, and then she looked it up in front of me. She was disappointed to see that I didn’t have pictures of models. “Can I be your first?” she asked. “Can you shoot me like a model once you’re done with the school pictures?”
“I’m just focussing on this right now,” I said. The last thing I needed was for Principal Anderson to find out that I took a few girls aside for a private photo shoot. I didn’t even want him to know that his students were asking—I just wanted students to come in, get their picture taken, and then leave.
One of the male students got into my fridge, and I didn’t notice until I heard him cracking one of my few remaining beers. “Hey—put that down!” I shouted from my post behind the camera.
“Chill, bro,” he said. “You’re cool, right?”
Now my heart was pounding. I certainly wouldn’t get paid if Principal Anderson found out the students were drinking in my flat. I had to abandon my place behind the camera to snatch the beer out of his hand.
> I was relieved when the buzzer finally stopped going off, and students finally stopped funnelling into my apartment. I took a deep breath and then I walked over to the corner of the room. I sat down on the floor with that beer in my hand—there was no sense in letting it go to waste.
I’d survived picture day. I had almost two thousand pictures of high school students on my camera, waiting to be processed—which would probably take me fifty hours, at least (certainly my entire weekend). But I’d done it. I was officially a professional photographer, which brought a smile to my face, even though it wasn’t the type of photographer I wanted to be. I took a long sip from my beer, and then my buzzer rang again. I looked at my watch. It was 5:20 PM—there should have been no more students.
I put the beer down on the counter and I answered the buzzer. “Who is it?” I asked.
“I’m here for picture day,” a female voice said. “Sorry I’m late.”
“Oh, okay—uh, come on up,” I said. I quickly turned my lights back on and I fired up my camera. I retrieved my notebook with the students’ names on it and I got ready behind the camera—ready to get this girl in and out as quickly as possible.
There was a knock at my door. I’d forgotten that I’d closed it. “Come on in!” I called out. My heart skipped a beat. I was strangely nervous all over again, as if I hadn’t already done this a few hundred times. The door opened. I looked back with a smile, and then my smile disappeared as soon as I saw my final subject for the day.
She was a short, stunning blonde with big eyes and full lips. Her hair extended down past her black belly shirt, and her legs were neatly clad with tight pleather plants. Her ass was stunning, though she didn’t have much of a chest. She pushed her hair back. “Where do you want me?” she asked. Her voice was gentle and soft. I almost had to strain to hear her speaking because she spoke so quietly.
GIRLIFIED: 15 BOOKS MEGA BUNDLE Page 51
