“That sounds great.”
“After that I need someone who can work three days a week full-time with flexibility to work more when shoot days come up, which will be happening more in the summer. You’ll start by fetching shit, sweeping and that sort of thing, but I’ll be training you to work with the grip and edit photos. How does this all sound?”
Find out what grip is.
“Yeah, that all sounds great.”
“Good, I’ll see you Tuesday then.”
“Could I ask one question?”
“Yeah.”
“How much does it pay?”
“Eight bucks an hour with room for growth.”
Eight bucks is going to be tight only three days a week.
“Great. That sounds great. I’ll see you Tuesday.” Then I left.
I drove out to mom’s and told her how I got the job and flirted with a transgender model. She laughed and we ate dinner.
On Monday I came home from having a coffee at the bookstore to find a letter in my mailbox. The postmark was from Oxford, UK. I tore it open and began to read.
Dear Alex,
How are things? I’ve gotten settled into my apartment here, which is called a flat, and things are going well. Oxford is amazing. Classes are keeping me busy, but it still hasn’t quite sunk in yet exactly where I am. J.R.R. Tolkien taught just down the street, and I walk past the spot every day where they think Lewis Carol thought up Alice in Wonderland. The Dean’s daughter’s name was Alice and she had a fat orange cat. How funny is that?
The library here is called the Bodleian. It houses a copy of every book printed in the UK since, like 1650 or something. It isn’t like libraries back home. It takes up about fifteen buildings around campus, including a huge central building with a green dome called Radcliff Camera. It feels so posh because only students are allowed access, so I can’t help but grin when I walk past the crowds of tourists taking pictures and know that some of the best scholars in history came and studied in this very building.
There are several small and medium sized museums around town, all of which are free, and one of them near the library had original hand-written copies of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein on display.
It’s like I’m in a different world. The buildings are so old and so rich with history, I’m having a hard time taking it all in.
I’ve met a couple of people here and have plans to go out tomorrow night with my roommate. The students don’t usually eat at restaurants here like they do in the states. If we go out it’s usually to a pub, which is more like a little inn than a bar really. There’s one just outside my building called The Bear. Friday nights are standing room only, but they make a great burger and the walls and ceilings are covered with the ends of student’s neck ties that have been clipped off and hung on the walls over the years. There must be 3,000 of them. The oldest one I’ve found so far was from 1932!
The pub that C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien ate at every Tuesday while writing their books is here also, which is fun to visit, but its food is rubbish. That’s one of my new words: rubbish.
I really wish you were here. You would love this place. It’s like knowledge and learning sprang right up out of the ground and created a fortress for itself here within these walls.
I miss you so much and I miss Mexican and I miss mom and dad and Susan, but I’ve been so busy the last couple of weeks that I haven’t really had time to stop and miss home that much. Don’t worry though. I’m not staying. There’s just no way I could pull myself away from you for four years.
How is the apartment? Have you had any luck finding any work? Have you given any more thought to applying for a few grants for school?
Next week I’m probably going to catch the train into London. Hannah says that you can show up the night of a show and buy tickets really cheap. I might try to find a Mexican restaurant while I’m there also.
I miss you so much. I love you so much. I hope things are going so well for you that you don’t have time to miss me. Before you know it, summer will be over and we will be together again. I will write again soon.
Love,
Jo
I read the letter twice then laid it next to a framed photo of her sitting on my kitchen table. I was happy for her, but I did miss her. I missed her terribly. A large part of me also wished that I was the one filling my passport with stamps, not the one staying home.
The next day I donned a clean pair of jeans and a white colored shirt, grabbed my camera, just in case, and made my way to Mike’s studio. He wanted me to arrive at 8:30. I was fifteen minutes early.
Both times I had seen him he had been unshaven, wearing torn jeans and vintage tee shirts. This morning he was clean-shaven with his hair pulled back into a surprisingly well-kept ponytail, and all of his clothes looked washed and ready.
“Okay. The shoot we are casting for today is a new handbag line for Susan Russel Taylor, who happens to be a good client of mine. Janet Stephens is the art director, and she’ll be here in the next twenty minutes or so. Our first model is scheduled to arrive at 9:30. I need you to check models off this list as they arrive,” he said handing me a clipboard with a list of about thirty names and times they were arriving throughout the day. “Once they are checked in, have them line up along the back wall. They’re scheduled fifteen minutes apart, but a lot of them show up late and some show up early, so things will probably get crowded.
“Coffee is next to the maker, bottles of water for everyone are in the cooler by the door and the restroom is at the back. Any questions?”
“No. I don’t think so.”
“Cool.”
Then he walked over and turned on two studio-camera lights and I started the coffee machine.
Janet Stephens arrived right on time with an assistant carrying a tray of lattes from Starbucks, including one for me, which surprised me. I turned off the coffee machine, and twenty minutes later the first model arrived.
For the next three hours I checked names off of the list as models made their way into the studio while Michael and Janet sat at a desk interviewing and reviewing the portfolio of each one.
I thought these were all exceptionally beautiful women, but I could hear Michael and Janet mention how this one’s look worked or that one’s look didn’t. Then we stopped for lunch.
Janet said something to her assistant, who made a call and fifteen minutes later there was a knock at the studio door. I opened it expecting the next model, but greeted a sandwich deliveryman instead. We all ate while Michael and Janet looked over tear sheets that the models had left with them.
After lunch, nearly five more hours of interviews ensued then Janet and her assistant left.
“So, what did you think?” Michael asked me as he cleaned up the stack of beautiful faces.
“It was interesting. They were all gorgeous.”
“But, do you think any of them could sell a purse?”
“I don’t know. What does someone have to look like to sell a purse?”
He smiled. “That’s a good question. Come take a look at these.”
I walked over to the table and watched him pick five photos out of the stack.
“What’s the first thing that comes to mind when you see each of these faces…other than they’re gorgeous?”
I leaned over and looked carefully at each one.
“Imagine for a minute that you just got a $30,000 bonus, and you’re out walking around Cherry Creek wanting to buy yourself something new–something expensive. You turn and see this woman standing behind a counter holding a Rolex,” he said pointing to the first photograph. “Would you walk in and talk to her about it? What about this one?” and he pointed to the second photo. “Or this one? How about this one?”
Then I stopped him and pointed to girl number four.
“I’d buy a Rolex from her.”
“Not a bad choice,” he said nodding. “But, selling handbags is different. When men look at a photo of a woman selling something, they are dr
awn to it because they want her. When women look at a photo of a woman selling something, they are drawn to it because they want to BE her. Now, which do you think could sell a handbag?”
I looked again.
“Number three.”
“Ah ha, good choice. That’s the one Janet and I agreed on also.”
“So what happens next?”
“I’ll do a call-back of the five that are our favorite, and we’ll do a test shoot of each of them with one of the purses to see how they turn out. Are you available Friday and Saturday?”
“Yeah.”
“Cool. I have a shoot in Boulder the next two days. I’ll see you Friday.”
I drove back to my apartment thinking about everything I had learned.
Being around all those pretty girls made me miss Jo that much more.
Twenty-Two
It was a warm Fourth of July evening. My mother and I had plans to grill some hot dogs at my apartment and walk down 16th Street Mall to see the fireworks. I could already smell gunpowder in the air from the bottle rockets some kids were setting off in the alley by my bedroom window.
It was an hour or so before sunset so I fired up my three-gallon grill out on the tiny, strip balcony that was one of the only conveniences that came with my apartment.
The hot dogs sizzled and fattened as I walked into the kitchen, retrieved a cold can of Pepsi from the fridge and handed it to her.
“How are things at the studio?” She asked as she cracked the seal on the sweating can and took a drink. She was sitting out on the porch with me, watching people hang some flags for the night’s festivities.
“Really good actually. When Mike hired me, he said I would probably be around three days a week until things picked up, but I’ve been in the studio almost every day for the past month, so I guess things have picked up. He also gave me a .75-cent raise yesterday, so that’s not bad.”
I lifted the grill lid and rotated the dogs.
“No, not if you’ve only been there…how long has it been?”
“A little over a month.”
“And you’re enjoying it?”
I nodded.
“I could do this kind of work all day long. I mean the editing is a bit tedious, but I really love going out on shoots with him. He doesn’t usually take much gear with him, just his camera and maybe a reflector. It’s a really minimalistic approach, but it produces some great images. I feel like I didn’t know anything about photography before I started working for him.”
“That’s good. It’s good to enjoy what you do. How’s Jo?”
“She’s really good too. She loves it out there. I think she’d stay if they’d let her.”
“Would they let her?”
“Probably, but I don’t think she has any way to pay for it, and it’s a little too late to try to apply for a scholarship through the university,” I said taking the dripping dogs off the spitting grill and laying them on a plate. Then I walked inside to the pile of Jo’s letters, took the top one off the stack and retrieved my camera. I walked back to the door and smiled at mom. She saw my camera and knew my intentions so she rolled her eyes then tossed her long hair back and smiled. I took her picture.
“You should read the letter she sent me yesterday,” I said handing her the letter and sitting down at the table, hungry and ready to eat.
“Are you sure that’s okay? I don’t want to invade your privacy.”
I laughed. “It’s fine.”
Then she opened the letter while I piled two hot dogs with chopped onions, ketchup and a streak of mustard.
Dear Alex,
Twenty-four days until I get to see you again. I can’t wait. I have to admit. I am really starting to miss Mexican food, root beer floats and ranch dressing. You will have to take me out to La Caretta the night I get home and then we can stop by A&W’s for root beer floats. Okay, I miss you the most. There, I said it. J Do you miss me? When you write next you should tell me what you miss the most about me. I think what I miss the most about you are your hugs, your soft kisses, the way you laugh and the way you make me laugh. Thanks for being who you are.
Classes are moving along. I have a big assignment do on appeasement in WWII, which I am not thoroughly looking forward to. But, I think it will be alright. The teaching style here is different than what I expected. They don’t really tell us what is right or wrong. Instead they pose questions and push the class into discussing and debating different sides. Maybe this is what classes will be like at Regis? I guess we’ll see.
Last week a couple of us rented a car and went into Bath for the day, which was amazing! Romans built bathhouses here over hot springs, and wealthy citizens and members of the social elite would travel from all over the country to bathe in these huge rooms. There’s also a museum that shows you what life would have been like here during the time of Rome by projecting images of city life onto the walls so it feels like you are walking around in a crowd of Romans. They found at the bottom of the baths dozens of pieces of jewelry and jewels used in signet rings that fell off of people who use to bathe here.
Hannah, Kevin and I ate at a restaurant afterwards that is owned by a famous British chef, Jamie Oliver, and the food was so good it made me miss Mexican a little less…for about five minutes.
How is your mom doing? I hope her store is doing well. We should definitely get together with her often, now that you’re moved out. Make sure to tell her that I send my love.
I need to go. I only have fifteen minutes to get to mid-Eastern politics. Sigh.
Write to me soon. I miss you. I love you,
-Jo
I watched my mother smile and laugh while she read the letter.
“Oh, we should all do something together when she gets home. You’ll have to tell her that I said hello and that I’m glad she’s having a good time.”
“I will.”
“Alex, before we go out tonight there’s something we need to talk about.”
“Okay,” I said pushing my empty plate forward and bracing myself.
“You probably know that Peter is back in town.”
“I had heard that somewhere.”
“We’ve been seeing a lot of each other the past few months, and…”
She paused.
“And…” I said leaning forward.
“And…he asked me to marry him.”
“WHAT?”
“And…I said yes.”
I leaned forward and put my head between my hands as a million and a half things ran through my head while I tried absorbing what she had just told me.
“He asked me a couple of months ago, but I told him that I wouldn’t marry him while you were still living at home.”
“So you lied to me.”
“Alex, please. Don’t do this. If you want to tell me you’re upset, fine. If you want to tell me you hate the idea, fine, but don’t tell me that I lied to you. I’ve never lied to you. Not once. I did not want you to feel pressured to either leave home or not leave home because of this.”
I stood up from the table and started pacing around the kitchen.
“Okay, I’m pissed. I think this is a terrible idea.”
“Okay.”
“I mean marry…THIS guy? Really?”
“Alex, I’m forty-five-years-old. I don’t want to be alone.”
“You’ve got me.”
“Thanks kid, and I’ll always be your mother, but you are moving further away. And you should be. You and Jo will probably be getting married in the next few years. You both have careers to look forward to and children and building a life together. You shouldn’t have to think about your spinsteress mother.”
“But Peter? REALLY? He stole your business mother. He stole food right out of our mouths. Those were your words. You remember that?”
I tried staying calm even though I kept imagining how much better I would feel picking up the glass jar on my kitchen counter and smashing against the wall.
“Yes, I remember. But, he was t
rying to take care of his children. He didn’t have a choice.”
“Are you kidding? He didn’t have to leave with all your stuff.”
“Alex, look. I understand why you feel frustrated.”
“Do you? Do you really know what it’s like to sit by and listen to your mother cry herself to sleep? Do you know what it’s like to want to go after the ass hole that tore your mother to pieces, but you can’t because you’re too little? Do you know what it’s like to see him come waltzing back into her life like nothing has happened and drop his muddy boots on the floor of our life like he’s belonged there the entire time?”
“I’m sorry Alex, but this isn’t ABOUT you okay.”
“Yes it’s about me, because YOU are about me.”
“Alex.”
“You want me to just sit buy and watch this lying piece of shit walk right back into our life?”
“ALEX ENOUGH! Okay? Enough. I can’t handle this right now. I understand you’re upset, but I’m marrying him and that’s it.”
“Look, maybe fireworks aren’t the best idea tonight. I’m going to just catch a taxi and I’ll talk to you later,” she said picking up her coat and purse.
I squeezed the handle on the refrigerator door not wanting our night to end like this.
“I can at least give you a ride,” and I reached out to her, but she held her had up to stop me.
“No. It’s fine. I’m a big girl. I can find my own way home.”
Then she walked out and slammed the door behind her.
Less than a week later she called and told me that she and Peter went that week to a justice of the peace and got married. She said that they wanted to keep it simple so they just went. I was so angry I threw my cell phone out the window and smashed it against the brick wall across the street.
Twenty-Three
August was finally here and I was driving down I-70 in my Cougar with the windows rolled down, excited to see Jo. She was right, the summer blew past us like a traveler on a highway. The smell of the vanilla air freshener I had hung on the mirror was thick and new, and I still had the taste of salt bacon on my lips from breakfast.
If I Lose Her Page 14
