The Silver Age

by Nicholson Gunn

  It was getting late. A couple of years earlier, they might have kept going, stayed up all night. Now they were more careful. It was Pete who finally announced that he’d better head home.

  “One more, for old time’s sake?” Stephan asked. He was almost ready to give up on the evening, but not quite.

  “Some of us have to work for a living.”

  “I work too, you know.”

  “True, but you don’t have to be at your desk at 8:30 every morning.”

  “Maybe not, but I’m guessing that the steady paycheque must be a consolation of sorts. And besides, tomorrow’s Sunday.”

  “Even worse. Brunch with Sally’s folks.”

  “Oh, fine,” Stephan said. “I suppose you’ve done your part.”

  Out on the street, they said their goodbyes.

  “We’ll have to do this again soon,” Pete said. “It’s been what? A couple of months since our last meet-up? That’s not acceptable.”

  “Agreed.”

  A cab approached, and Pete flagged it down. “Want to join me? I can drop you off along the way.”

  “No, that’s fine, thanks,” Stephan said. “I think I’ll walk for a bit. Get some air.”

  “Suit yourself, then. I’ll see you again soon.” He slid into the cab’s back seat, and was gone, with a wave of his hand out the window.

  * * * * *

  Ever since his teenage years in the suburbs, when he’d hike down to the lake on cold autumn days, Stephan had loved to walk. The steady rhythm of his stride always put him in a meditative state of mind. It was something like the feeling he had in the darkroom. The part of town he was now in, Little Italy, had gentrified in recent years, but was still known as a busy, active neighbourhood. Tonight, for whatever reason, it had a quiet, lonely, feel. The storefronts were dark, the sidewalks deserted. An isolated cluster of club-hoppers passed him now and again, their voices beery bleats. Otherwise the night was still. He turned up a side street, a black corridor between silent row houses, and disappeared into the darkness.

  So many men, so much time

  by Jenny Wynne

  Youth is wasted on the young – it’s such a terrible cliché, I know. (I happen to love clichés, incidentally, since they’re so much more heartfelt than originality, as I assume Oscar Wilde once observed.) But in this case, the cliché also happens to be totally wrong. Okay, maybe not 100 percent, unequivocally, disproven-by-brainiac-scientists-with-graphs-and-charts wrong. Vanilla wrong. But wrong all the same – at least when you look at certain members of the current twenty-something set in our fine (if occasionally a tad on the chilly side) city.

  Twenty-somethings today are determined to get everything out of our extended youth. We’re gathering our rosebuds while we may, and finding there’s no big rush, because tomorrow the florist will have a new batch airlifted in from their boutique growers on Tenerife.

  We’re trying out different careers – in the media, on-line, as gourmet chefs who build cedar-strip canoes on the side. And we’re testing out all the romantic options too. A bit of ex-jock finance guy here, a little sensitive poet with a taste for flowery prose and light bondage there. Yummy. Life for young people today is like the tasting menu at Semaphore – so many options… just be sure to schedule in some aerobics the next morning.

  Of course, you baby boomers out there had your youthful salad days, too. LSD, Woodstock, going back to the land and running around naked in the fields while strumming Fender Stratocasters, etc. (I picture the naked aspect of that as being a tad uncomfortable, by the way, what with all the mosquitoes, cow pies, and poison ivy patches out in the hinterlands – although probably you were too stoned to notice.)

  Actually, you eventually did notice, because by the time you were into your mid-twenties you were already settling down, populating the earth, and lining up for those high-paying corporate jobs so many of you wound up settling into. You traded in your Mystery Machine for a minivan, your commune for a gated community.

  But by the time Generation X came along, the party was over. No wonder Kurt Cobain was so bitter – if he hadn’t been a rock star, he would have been stuck in some crappy McJob.

  There were other factors at work, as noted by leading sociologists. The human lifespan has been growing longer – meaning less rush to land that (admittedly non-existent) corporate job. Result: adolescence now extends for many of us to the age of 30 and beyond.

  Things are a little better now than they were in the early nineties. If you want that corporate job badly enough, you just might get it (although with the bursting of the internet bubble it may not be at www.billionsfornothing.com). Drive out to the suburbs, and you’ll find plenty of young fogies who already have kids and cars and picket fences and retirement savings plans.

  Good for you guys, I say. (Just don’t come crying to me when one of those now-elderly and stratospherically wealthy ex-hippie CEOs replaces you with a guy named Chang from Chungking and you realize you spent the flower of your youth mastering Excel shortcuts for nothing.)

  As for the rest of us, no doubt we’ll eventually want to settle down, too. Hopefully by then we’ll have robot nannies to take care of dirty diapers and other horrors – a girl can dream. Maybe we’ll even decide that we want some of those trappings: the suburban house, the minivan, the cottage on a lake up north. And maybe, just maybe, we’ll get them – and when we do, we can sit out on the dock sipping gin and tonic and reflecting back on how much fun we had in our twenties.

  But in the meantime, we’re enjoying this party while it lasts… and lasts… and lasts.

  Chapter 4

  As he waited for her near the entrance of the café she’d selected for their meeting, Stephan let his eyes wander over the outdoor patio, already fully colonized. There were people here and there among the patrons who stood out to him: a woman in her twenties with cascading chestnut hair that partially hid a glinting silver chain at her neck, regaling her rapt table-mates with an elaborate tale about her zany roommate that was no-doubt largely fictional; a ruggedly handsome white guy in his early thirties, wearing a grey jacket over an open-necked shirt, caressing a stubbly cheek as he chatted with a beautiful east-Indian princess who regarded him with unveiled longing. Stephan smiled to himself as he looked on. This was one of the ways in which you developed your eye as a photographer: by carefully observing faces and gestures and filing the best ones away for future reference.

  He had changed the exterior that he himself showed to the world a great deal since coming to the city. It wasn’t about physical appearance: it was more nuanced than that. As a student you could be carefree. You went out dancing at a club, or shot pool over drinks with your friends. That was what people expected of you. But since moving here and embarking on his career, he’d gradually become more conscious of how he presented himself. He was cooler in demeanour now, and more alert – in certain situations prone to calculated shows of indifference or impatience. It was a matter of self defense. If you were too genial or deferential in the city people assumed you were a lightweight, and brushed you off accordingly.

  Stephan wasn’t a snob or social climber. Unlike Helmut, for instance, his goal was not to gain access to a certain clique or set. He felt pride, of course, when he won an award, or had one of his shots published on the cover of a well-known magazine, but his ambition was about something else, something more subtle. That was partly why he was in fact well suited to a career in photography. A good photograph, he understood on some instinctive level, could offer a glimpse of the unnameable essence that lurked within things. If he could capture that essence, or at least get some kind of hold on it, then he would have a chance of succeeding on his own terms.

  Jenny Wynne arrived at the café a mere half-hour late, looking rushed, a touch out of sorts, even. She was wearing dark jeans and a pale pink shirt, closely tailored, the sleeves rolled up over her elbows, and was carrying a casual yet expensive-looking brown leather shoulder bag. For a moment he was disappointed that she hadn’t worn
something more elaborate for him, which was ridiculous of course. Had he expected that she was going to show up in a ball gown, like a princess in a fairytale girded for frog-kissing duty?

  She was glancing around the room, her eyes like security cameras, recording everything. He raised a hand in greeting; she saw him instantly and came over.

  “Stephan, hi!”

  “Nice to see you again, Jenny.”

  He rose from his bar stool to greet her, confident and collected. She gave him a hug as if they were old friends, and he felt the shape of her back under his fingers, cool and hard.

  Her cell phone blooped as she sat down beside him. In a smooth series of motions, she fished it out of her bag, scrolled through a text message, sighed, turned the phone off, put it away and looked up at him from under fluttering eyelashes, her smile a jaunty backslash.

  “Sorry I’m late,” she said. “I had to stop by my parents’ place to pick up a book I needed to look at for a column I’m working on. My father – he teaches law and politics at the university – got on a tear about the decline of western civilization, and it took some manoeuvering to extricate myself.”

  Stephan was sure he’d seen the man on television news programs, holding forth around election times, clad in an unctuous turtleneck and tweed jacket.

  “He does tend to drone on,” she continued. “Getting fawned over by buxom graduate students all day for his entire adult life – it’s made him self-important as hell.”

  “Hmmm.” Stephan pictured himself at the centre of a cluster of ambitious young women in clingy cardigans and wire-framed glasses, straining to impress.

  “He thinks my writing is a bunch of worthless fluff,” Jenny continued. “He’d much prefer it if I were an academic, like him, or a crusading human rights lawyer.”

  “A person of substance.”

  “Yep, pretty much.”

  He thought of his own parents, puttering in their cozy suburban backyard. How would someone like Jenny Wynne react to his father, with his yellow accounting notepads and conservative political leanings, his prominent role in the local Chamber of Commerce? As a student, Stephan had once participated in a group exhibition to the opening of which his father had insisted on wearing a letterman jacket with a huge Pepsi logo on the back, picked out in a fuzzy, carpet-like material, that he’d won at a charity golf tournament. His mother would be an easier sell. She came from a family of once-enterprising Scots who’d helped to build the railways before declining into lethargic averageness a couple of generations back.

  “But I’m going on about myself,” Jenny Wynne was saying. “That’s so rude of me... and like my father, come to think of it – sorry about that.”

  He grinned and shrugged, to show her that he didn’t mind, which he didn’t.

  “Feeling thirsty?” she asked.

  “I could go for a drink.”

  “Fantastic – let’s sit down. Patio work for you?”

  “No, not my thing at all, sorry. Let’s see if they have anything in the basement.”

  As if by silent arrangement, stubble man and his adoring companion chose that moment to leave, and Stephan and Jenny were able to lay claim to their table. Eventually, a waiter wandered over, a lithe twentyish woman with black bangs cut straight across her forehead. Her demeanour wasn’t rude exactly but abstracted, as if someone close to her had died and, sorrow wracked, she was only just keeping up appearances. She was in on the unspoken codes of the city, too.

  Jenny ordered a glass of wine to start and Stephan had the same. The sun was just setting, its rays skimming in from the horizon – golden hour, as photographers called this time of day, because the light was at its warmest and softest, and there were few shadows. But there was a bit of a breeze as well, to keep the humidity in check and to rustle her hair, lifting a few loose strands now and then away from her neck.

  When a few minutes earlier they’d stepped out onto the patio together, he had sensed people’s eyes on her, and on him, too, by proxy. The sensation was unfamiliar, somehow like being bathed in a fine warm mist. It died down once they’d taken their seats, but every now and then he felt it again, and would look up to discover some woman’s eyes flicking over him from across the patio. He shifted in his chair. The attention seemed unearned, but then again, so what?

  They talked a little shop over their drinks.

  “So have you seen Bullmoose yet?” he asked.

  She rolled her eyes. “I was at the launch party for their first issue,” she said. “I’ll say one thing: the Pecorino family knows how to throw a party... assuming Russian escorts and monied ex-fratboys in fitted suits are your idea of fun.”

  “Do they know how to run a magazine?”

  “Do they need to? As far as I can see, their editor just looks in GQ and Esquire each month and then finds the equivalent person or trend up here.”

  “Ha ha. That’s quite mean.”

  “I know. It’s hypocritical, too – I do the same thing in my column most of the time.”

  “I think we all borrow a little inspiration now and then,” he admitted. “What’s the old line? Good artists borrow, great ones steal?”

  “Well, I’m getting tired of it, of knowing that so much of my little world is just an imitation of something cooler and more authentic happening elsewhere.”

  “So what to do then?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? We go to the source. New York, London, Paris, Los Angeles.”

  “And start over from scratch?”

  “I’m afraid so. How sad for us, I know. The gods weep.”

  He considered the possibility of the two of them going down to New York together, taking their clichéd shot at the big time.

  “Would you ever actually make that kind of move?” he asked, curious.

  “Yes, I would,” she said. “I’ve still got a couple of years left on my current contract, and then... well, we’ll see. But sure, I have schemes, just like everyone else. Book ideas, a couple of drafts of a screenplay tucked away on the hard drive. I’d love to give it a shot.”

  “Was that what you wanted to meet about?” he asked. “To discuss our long-term plans?”

  It was his boldest comment yet, but she didn’t miss a beat.

  “Nothing quite so grand, I’m sorry to say.”

  “Well, then?”

  “They’re doing a redesign over at the Telegraph, and it’s time to give my column a new look, but the photographers over there are just so literal and blah. Typical newspaper types. Anyway, it’s not the normal procedure, but I’d like to have my own shots done. The editor in chief and I happen to be on very good terms, and he’ll say yes if I ask nicely. Plus, I’m in talks with a small publisher here in town to bring out a collection of my best columns, if you can believe it.”

  “You want me to take your picture?”

  “Well, it’s just a little thing, and I know it’s totally beneath you, but I thought you might be willing to help out – for a fee, of course.”

  “Hmmm...” he said, folding his arms. Channeling Helmut, he decided not to give in too easily.

  “So you’ll do it then, that’s great!”

  “Hang on, I didn’t say...”

  In an instant, the warmth seemed to drain from her face, which suddenly resembled a blank mask – not angry, not disappointed, just indifferent, which was far worse. He scrambled to make that non-expression disappear.

  “I mean, are you sure you’d want me? You know my style isn’t flashy.”

  “Well, I saw your work at the magazine awards, when you won your silver medal, and I’ve been through your online portfolio as well, you may be interested to know. There’s a lot of variety in there – plenty of people stuff. I want to do something fun and contemporary for a change. And I think you’d be perfect for a project like that.”

  “I see.”

  It was over now, but she did him the kindness of continuing to negotiate. She had a knack for it – not pushing too hard at any one moment, or resorting again t
o the mask of indifference, but subtly moving things along. She pointed out that it would be an opportunity for him, however low-key, to apply his style to a new type of subject. She mentioned, in passing, that there’d be many interesting people at the book launch she could introduce him to. Who knew where the collaboration might lead?

  When he finally allowed that sure, he’d be able to help her out, it wasn’t a surprise to either of them. Nonetheless, her warm response was such a relief, it was as if some subtle but resonant frequency of her being was suddenly unblocked to him.

  “Stephan! That is so wonderful – I’m really, really grateful.”

  A few minutes later, after she’d stepped away to use the ladies room, he finished off the last of his drink in a mood of quiet contemplation. When he’d first encountered her at Helmut’s studio, it would have been impossible to imagine their even speaking to each other again. He could, if he wanted, tell her about this. If he asked her to think back, would she remember the photographer’s assistant she’d unwittingly dispatched on a new career path? But when he saw her coming back towards him from across the room, her smile whole and intact, he thought better of raising the issue.

  They met at his studio the following week for the shoot. Thinking to ease in, Stephan began with some simple, austere setups, photographing her in casual clothes against a plain white background. Penny was on-hand to assist, positioning a reflector disk to angle the natural light from the skylight onto Jenny’s face. She did her job as required, with her usual professionalism, but it was clear from her demeanor that she was not especially taken with Jenny Wynne, or by Stephan’s cozy rapport with his new friend. A couple of days later, minus assistants, the two of them met in the garment district for a session of outdoor location shooting in a warren of narrow alleyways between old brick buildings. The location was perfect, the aged, soot-blackened brick walls providing a compelling visual foil to Jenny’s smooth, pristine skin.