Depth of Field

by Chantel Guertin

  “What?”

  “Then she plants one on my cheek too.”

  “Wait, you already knew her?”

  “No, that’s the thing,” David said. “Neither of us had ever seen her before. Holly was so calm, acted like she’d just stepped out of the line to catch up with a friend or something, just waltzed ahead of, like, a hundred people in line. I bet your mom is still doing crazy stuff like that.”

  Mom, smooth? Skipping a line? Kissing two random guys to cut the line at a club? The only line Mom stands in now is at the grocery store. “Uh, not exactly.”

  “No? Well, I guess she’s been dealing with a lot lately. With your dad and everything.”

  We sat quietly then—an obligatory moment of silence for this lost Holly go-lightly side of my mom—and then David picked the story back up.

  “I guess we sort of expected her to say thanks and ditch us, but she didn’t. She asked which one of us was going to buy her a drink. So I go. Grab three beers for us. And …”

  He paused then, almost as though he’d forgotten what happened next. Or didn’t want to say what happened next. Or maybe it was that he was right back in that moment, living it again. Eventually, he continued.

  “… the rest is history,” he finally finished simply.

  “Wait, what? What happened?”

  “Your mom didn’t tell you any of this?” he asked cautiously.

  “She said they met at a bar and started dating right away. That’s all she ever told me.”

  He’d nodded. “Yeah, well that was basically it. It was clear your dad was totally into her and she was into him, and that was it. Your dad asked her for her number and they were together from then on. Two peas in a pod.” He adds, an edge to his voice. Is it resentment? Or maybe jealously? But no. Dad always said David didn’t want a girlfriend. Didn’t want to settle down.

  David stopped the story there, said he wanted a smoke—not just to hold the pack—so we left the bar and wandered a bit in silence, until he shook off whatever fog he was in and brought us here to the theater. But there was something off, something nagging at me. Mom and Dad always said they met when Dad was in his final year at Tisch; they’d dated less than a year before having me. Which doesn’t mesh with David’s story of meeting Mom at the start of second year. But before I could dispute it, ask David to retell the details, David was back to sharing old college tales of him and Dad—college pranks involving refrigerators, notable dares involving flagpoles.

  Now, in the theater, instead of refocusing the shot the way David suggests, I bring the conversation back to the internship. To what seems like a significant point in their friendship. “So you didn’t take the internship. Did that fight change things between you two?”

  David puts his bag of popcorn on the ground in front of him. “I guess, yeah. I guess it did. I thought it was selfish of him to tell me not to do it. I thought he was jealous that I’d gotten the internship and he hadn’t.” He wipes his hands on his jeans, then crosses his arms over his chest.

  “He probably knew what he was talking about. But it was a pivotal moment in our friendship, in our lives, that’s for sure. And it happened right here.”

  “Do you wish you’d just ignored him? Gone to London instead?”

  “I do. You think 16 years later I’d still be in the same studio, shooting hairspray campaigns to make my rent?” He runs a hand through his hair.

  I didn’t realize he did shoot hairspray campaigns to pay his rent. Just like I didn’t know he did test shoots for models just starting out. I thought … I guess I thought he made his living doing the kind of photography I saw when Dad and I went to his exhibit at the Train Station. Art.

  “I see now that your dad wasn’t jealous about the internship—he was looking out for me. I had this long-term girlfriend, pretty serious actually, and Evan was trying to encourage me to commit to her. He was trying to get me to stay. Do the right thing. Course at the time, I couldn’t see it.”

  My surprise is evident in my voice. “What happened to the girl?” Did this girl break him? Is she the reason he’s never had a long-term girlfriend since? Never married? No kids?

  “We broke up. I didn’t go to London, and I resented her for it, I guess. So I’ll never know how it would’ve played out … just proves we take our own fate in our hands in the end, right?” David stands, checks his watch. “Just about sunset. We should get to Times Square.”

  I stand and follow him as he heads up the aisle. That’s it? That’s the end of the story? So we can go to Times Square?

  “Uh, does this have anything to do with my dad? Did my dad even like Times Square?”

  “Like? The guy loved the place. Loved all the people, all the lights. I never understood it. Most touristy spot in the city, most avoided place by true New Yorkers, and Evan loved it. You can take the boy out of Knoxville, but you can’t take the Knoxville out of the boy, I guess.”

  And so, 20 minutes later, we get off the subway at 48th and 7th. Lights everywhere. The pixelboards reach high into the sky. I’ve seen them on TV, when Ryan Seacrest counts down to New Year’s, or in movies—but I always thought it’d be more impressive onscreen than in real life. But it’s not. It’s even more surreal in real life. I snap a bunch of shots, focusing in on the hundreds of tourists who are taking their own photos of the bright lights, of the sky-high buildings, of themselves.

  Eventually I lower my camera and head over to David, who’s sitting on a bench, waiting. He’s reading a crumpled copy of the Village Voice. “You hungry? It wasn’t just the lights your dad loved about Times Square.” He folds the paper, tucks it under his arm. Then he leads me down a side street, and we stop in front of a yellow sign with red writing that says Phil E. Cheesesteaks.

  I can’t help but laugh. “My dad was full-on addicted to cheesesteaks. I never understood it.”

  “Why do you think we’re here, Greene?” David asks, pulling open the door. “This was his favorite spot. And they are the best cheesesteaks in the city. Best I’ve ever had, frankly. And I’m from Philadelphia, so that’s saying something.” I snap a bunch of photos as I enter the no-frills sandwich shop, trying to picture Dad here. Then I make my way to the counter, and we place our order with the large guy in a white cook’s jacket. I get mine with extra mustard, just like Dad liked it.

  CHAPTER 10

  It’s not the usual view of white walls when the elevator doors open onto the eighth floor of the Tisch building on Friday night. Instead, the photography floor’s been transformed. On the wall, there’s a huge flashing pixelboard, like a massive Lite-Brite, that says SENSORY OVERLOAD in a rainbow of colors. Behind that are hundreds of white balloons, floor to ceiling and wall to wall. Ramona whoops and rushes forward through the balloons. I follow her, laughing. The sign was no joke. Music pumps from hidden speakers, and cold air blasts down on us from an overhead fan that’s been hitched to the ceiling with bungee cords and electrical tape. Every inch of wall is covered in photographs. But not just regular photos. These are three-dimensional tactile photos—the first one has a girl on a bed, only the bed is made of a tiny spongy mattress. A photo of 12 x 12 bottlecap tops, all different colors, has one actual bottle cap in the center. A pair of white shoelaces have been threaded through a photograph of blue and white high-top Converse on a patch of green grass.

  “Check this one out,” Ben yells in my ear, coming out of nowhere and pulling me over to a huge mural—a movie theater, complete with actual lit-up tiny runway lights down the aisles. It reminds me of earlier today, in the theater with David.

  “What’d you do for your project?” I ask, spotting a pile of coats and adding mine.

  “Project?” Ben says noncommittally. Ben’s wearing navy skinny cords and a polo shirt that’s hugging his biceps.

  I give him a look. “The one we were supposed to be working on all week—the one that was due today at 6?”

  “Oh right.” He moves down to look at the next installation.

  “So?”
<
br />   “I didn’t do it.”

  “You didn’t?” I can’t hide the surprise.

  “Come on, Pippa. They expect 10% to flunk out. I’m helping them meet their expectations.” He smiles at me.

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” I swat him lightly on his upper arm. “If you just try … I’ve already had two bad assignments. Out of two. If this were baseball, I’d be batting, what? Zero? I would definitely be on the bench. But you gotta keep trying. What if they kick you out before the camp’s up? You’ll have to go home without seeing your dad.”

  He shrugs. “I can’t do a huge project with a theme. I’m not cut out for this.”

  He starts to walk down the hall, but I grab his arm and pull him onto a nearby bench.

  “You have the perfect story to tell—finding your dad, the super-famous movie producer, who just happens to be in New York at the same time as you.”

  He shakes his head. “There’s no story if he won’t call me back.”

  “OK, no offense but for someone who was practically running an underground electronics theft ring, you kinda suck at this. Ever heard of Twitter?” I pull out my phone, and I get a wave of homesickness—or, more accurately, Dylansickness. I know there’s no reason to have any texts or missed calls from him, but still, it doesn’t make it any easier to see nothing there but the picture of Dylan and me, the selfie we took our last night together, lying in the gazebo, blankets and pillows all around us.

  I open my Twitter app and punch in #Countdown in the search bar, then hold my phone out for Ben to see. “I told you I’d help you, didn’t I? What about tomorrow? We could find him.”

  “The assignment was due today, remember?”

  “So we’ll tell Gabrielle that you needed till Monday. That the Countdown movie wasn’t filming, or something, and that you need one final shot from the movie set to complete the assignment. Surely you can think of something believable.” I smile.

  “I didn’t think you were serious about helping me.”

  “It’ll be ‘The Amazing Race of Marv Robert­son.’”

  He locks eyes with me—those blue eyes. “Really?”

  “Besides,” I say, looking away, trying to brush off what almost felt like a moment, “isn’t Christian Bale in the new Countdown? Not exactly a hardship if I get to meet him.”

  Ramona runs over, wearing a pair of hipster glasses and waving another pair. “Put these on. There’s a photobooth in the corner. We have to get our pic taken together. For prosperity.” She grabs my hand and pulls me into the crowd.

  CHAPTER 11

  I pull the covers off Ramona’s head on Saturday morning. She makes a sound like arghinipakman. Or maybe it’s ragabukiman. “Nooooooo” is her first sentient word. Then: “Whyyyyyyyyy?”

  “I feel the same way. But we have to help Ben with his photo project,” I say.

  “First, you do not feel the same way, or you would not be upright. And second, why do I have to? This was not my idea.”

  To be fair, she’s right. It wasn’t her idea and why does she have to help?

  “Because you’re my roommate?” I say meekly.

  On a scale of one to ten my hangover is probably about a two, which feels like an achievement. Especially given how much everyone else was drinking. Head shake. Ouch—OK, a bit of a headache. We’re not talking a rolling boil. More like a gentle simmer. Standing up produces nothing like the nausea that had me wanting to bear-hug the toilet just a couple of days before. Pasty mouth? Nope. Gritty eyes? Nada. OK. So just a headache. Which is probably mostly due to the fact that I got about four hours sleep—max. So I can deal with you, headache. Let’s hang out for a while. It’s fine.

  “Remind me again?” Ramona rubs her eyes, smearing last night’s makeup.

  “What?”

  “Why I’m helping you help Ben? This isn’t about being your roommate.” She rolls out of bed, squints, then looks at me, eyes wide. “You love him.”

  “Um, what?” I say. “You are clearly still drunk.”

  “He stole your photos and seems to be doing everything he can to sabotage his time at Tisch.” Ramona whips off her T-shirt and boxer shorts, then looks around the room. She grabs a G-string, bra and tights from the top drawer of her dresser. “There’s no other plausible reason you want to help him.”

  “So he’s a bit messed up and does stupid things, but he has a good heart,” I say defensively.

  “Plus, he’s very cute.” She raises her eyebrows at me, then throws a green cable-knit sweater dress over her head.

  “Is he?” I say innocently. “I hadn’t noticed. Anyway, point is I don’t want him to get the wrong idea. Which is where you come in. Group hang. It’ll be more fun with you there.”

  “Well, there’s no denying that.” Ramona grins, grabbing her fur vest off the back of her desk chair. “Fine, convinced!”

  Ten minutes later we’re carrying our camera stuff down the hall to the elevator. Out on Ben’s floor, I’m about to knock on his door when it flies open and there he is—looking really … ready. I push away the thought that his hair, which is still wet and messy, looks anything other than messy and wet. Because this is Ben Baxter, who, up until two days ago or something, I despised more than anyone ever. I’m guessing it’s my headache. And the sleep deprivation that’s making me soft toward him. Clearly.

  No one can bear the thought of the prison-food stench in the caf so we walk over to Brad’s, where, over hot drinks, Ben tells us about the brainwave he had last night for his project.

  “Wildlife photography!” he says. “Like a nature documentary. Except we’re not shooting poisonous tree frogs or the red-tailed anteater. No—we’re shooting something in his natural habitat—the Hollywood movie producer.”

  I feel secretly proud of Ben that he’s embracing this whole situation and really trying. Like maybe my little pep talk yesterday worked. And also that he’s not fully bailing on this project, which I was a bit worried about. Not because I care, but because Ramona would kill me if I dragged her out of bed for no reason. Obvi.

  “So what’s our plan for finding him?” Ramona says, resting her head on her arms, which are crossed on the table in front of her.

  THE PLAN FOR FINDING BEN’S DAD

  Right. A plan. I guess we didn’t go much further than Twitter on my phone last night. Hmm.

  Ben looks at me. We both look at Ramona.

  “You two are hopeless.” She pulls out her phone, and I can see her typing Marv & Harv Productions.

  “How did I not know that my dad’s company has an Instagram account?” Ben groans.

  “A very active Instagram account that posts pictures from their movie sets,” Ramona mutters. Ben and I both lean over Ramona to see her phone and I avoid noticing the smell of his—what? Aftershave? Deodorant? Conditioner? It’s like juniper berries mixed with soap. Or something.

  The pics give us glimpses of filming locations in the background. There’s Christian Bale looking into a camera with director Jack Penn, and a couple of the other cast members playing some video game in a remote trailer. But the ones that interest us are the ones with Marv. He seems to be everywhere around these shoots.

  “What Countdown are they doing, now?” Ramona asks.

  Ben counts off on his fingers. “This one’s the fifth.”

  Ramona whistles. “That’s a lot of dough.”

  “Yeah, well,” Ben says. “I’d rather have a dad I see more than … never.”

  “Is that the Williamsburg bridge in the background?” Ramona peers closer and we lean in, too. “OK, so that puts them in Brooklyn. But north or south of the bridge?” She thinks, then nods. “It’s got to be north. There’s no green space south—too industrial.”

  “I’m so glad you’re from New York,” I say, jumping to my feet. I’m the first to the street and as usual the cabs pass me by until Ramona basically steps in front of one, points and shouts, “YOU.” The cabbie is obedient. Piling into the back, Ramona commands the driver, “Williamsburg. North
5th and Berry.” I climb in after her, then Ben pulls the door shut behind him. There’s that hump in the middle, and my legs are on either side of it; my right leg is slightly resting up against Ben’s, in that way that’s kind of inevitable when you’re the one sitting in the middle, and my leg feels tingly beneath my jeans.

  Williamsburg feels like a different place from the one they show you in the movies and on TV shows. I thought we were going to see beards, glasses and jeans rolled at the ankles on every guy passing on the street in Hipsterland. And we do, but the streets themselves feel grittier, more rundown than I imagined. We get out in front of Blue Bottle Coffee and go inside to get snacks. Ben’s on Instagram, I’m on Twitter. Ramona’s making sure we don’t get hit by cars as she leads us down a series of streets. “We’ve got to get to the water,” she says. “They have this outdoor market at East River State Park on the weekends—Smorgasburg—and near there could be where the pics were taken.” As we get away from the little downtown-ish streets with shops and cafés, the streets get dirtier, the buildings more abandoned and there are more shifty-eyed locals scurrying past us. Or maybe it’s just my overactive imagination.

  Eventually we get to the water, and there are the tents signaling the outdoor market and tons of people taking advantage of the sunny, not-so-cold December day, but there’s no sign of any movie shoot.

  “Let’s keep going along the water—that way?” Ramona suggests, and we keep walking toward a narrow strip of parkland. Some guys are playing hacky sack without coats. Ben waves down a guy who’s running on an asphalt path near the soccer field. The guy, still running in place, tugs on the white cord around his neck and his earphones pop out.

  “Have you seen any movie trucks around here?” Ben asks.

  The jogger glances over at Ramona and me, then back to Ben before he shakes his head, then pops his earphones back in and takes off. We try again with the next person who passes by—a woman pushing a baby stroller—and then the next, until finally, about seven people later, we strike gold with a guy in his mid-thirties, who nods encouragingly. “Yesterday, they were shooting at the field—right there. Everyone said it was the new Countdown movie. I saw that guy—the one who was Batman? But they’re gone today.”