He left the room.
Gena from HR arrived.
“Everyone loved you and they’re eager to get you in. Let’s talk a little about pay. How much are we looking at?”
It took me a minute before I realized she was asking me something.
“Can you repeat the question?”
Two weeks later, I received a call from Gena.
“I’m sorry, but our company is closing. We’re sending our office overseas to India. Cheaper labor, you know the deal.”
I nodded, then asked, “Did any of the managers lose his entire family last week?”
“Not that I know of. Why?”
I shook my head. “It’s nothing.”
Later that night, as I was eating alone, my wife came in dressed in a leather skirt, reeking of perfume. She didn’t say anything as she got her orange juice. She was about to go to the bedroom when I called out her name.
“Yeah?” she asked.
“I have a question for you,” I said.
“Yeah?”
“What’s the meaning of life?”
Urban Dreamers
I.
As a photographer of urban legends, my job was to authenticate a fabricated reality. I’d always lived in a world of fantasy gone awry. Death was a semblance of life; truth, a façade for illusion. My projects revolved around the lies people believed in: the hitchhiker who vanished in the backseat of the car, the baby crocodile flushed down the young boy’s toilet, the ridiculously cheap car possessing the stench of a corpse. I was in love with horror and wanted to capture it through the lens. Joy seemed dull; bliss a masquerade for the inevitability of solitude. I’d been dating a girl named Jane who lived with someone I’d mistaken as her twin—except they weren’t related at all. They just looked alike, dressed alike, worked at the same company, and had rhyming names: Jane and Lane.
I suggested we do a photo-shoot together. The theme would be the twins who weren’t twins: identity mimicked, in a mimicry of distinction. She was intrigued. I rented out a studio and attired them in similar outfits, their colors melding together as a study on the origins of hatred and bitterness.
“How would you describe the mood you’re going for?” Jane asked.
“I… I don’t know how to explain. It’s like everything’s dissolving into something else.”
“What?”
I tried thinking of an analogy. “Think about murder. It’s a magnification of narcissism. Jealousy is an extension of desire. Love is lust amplified, and greed is self-loathing.”
“What are you talking about?” Jane asked.
I shook my head. “Let me try to think of a better example…”
“Do you want to see some skin?” Jane asked, giggling along with Lane.
“You know I don’t do nudes.”
“But you can make an exception for me, right?” she asked, unbuttoning her shirt.
“No nudes, Jane,” I said.
“Aww, c’mon. You’ve never wanted to make a porno?”
I’d never photographed anyone in the nude, seeing nothing artistic about it at all. Tits and ass were tits and ass. “I left one of my lights in the car. I’ll be back.”
Eight minutes later, I returned with a photoflood and startled to find Jane and Lane kissing.
The two burst into laughter, blushing. “Sorry, we were just practicing for the shoot.”
“That’s not the kind of thing I shoot,” I said.
They laughed even more.
I flipped to sepias and the loneliness of desaturation. We went through five hours of shooting, an angling modification and perusal of the visual madness one conveniently referred to as ‘art.’ I was studying Jane, every pore, every scar. How many times had I seen her, how many times had I photographed her? And yet, every click felt like the last.
They both had glasses of wine and were getting frolicsome. I thought back to how we first met, a stroll near the beach as we visited the arcade, laughing about religion and the ineptitudes of life. All my shared moments seemed like separate rolls of film, developed in my mind as I flushed out the colors, boosting contrast and cropping out parts I didn’t like. I’d never understood what the difference between love and an addiction to familiarity was. I loved Jane, didn’t I? I’d been with her for more than two years. But how come I didn’t feel anything special about our commercially branded destiny?
After I finished, I felt an unexpected dread. The prospect of scanning her pictures, touching them up in Photoshop, then adding post-effects to make her more beautiful seemed burdensome. Why was I always working so hard to make people more beautiful than they really were?
A few days passed. She asked to see some of the photos. When I asked for more time, she became insistent. “Why are you being so stubborn? Let me just see a few of the pics.”
“Not till they’re ready.”
A week and fifty-seven arguments later, she said it was ‘over.’
“Me and Lane are going to start seeing each other. I just have so much more fun with her and I’m tired of your depressing mood swings.”
Strangely, I didn’t feel a thing. I plunged myself into the tedium of headshots, proceeding to photos glorifying violence and crime, all the dark seedlings of society dramatized for people to look over in modern art museums and say, ‘Can you believe people actually do that to each other?’
My usual partner in crime, Rick, went to New York for a day to shoot Tupperware. I picked him up at LAX, noticed a massive line.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“Lady Gaga skipping the line with the paparazzi after her.”
“You get any?”
“Aww man, you know I don’t do that bullshit.”
As we curved around to the 405, he said, “There’s a party tonight. It’s supposed to be a networking thing for this alternative agency. Interested?”
“What’s an alternative agency?” I asked.
“They do Goth stuff, vampires… you know, weird shit.”
I laughed. “I’m a little tired tonight.”
“Dude, you’ve been avoiding going out, but not this time. This is a professional responsibility.”
I nodded, forcing a grin. “All right.”
Rick was in the army when he picked up photography. He was fit with a staunch posture, and usually had a determined glint in his gaze. We met at a fashion show a few months back. The lead designer reserved a spot in a club that didn’t have a catwalk or lights. The doormen hadn’t heard about a fashion show and stared at us askance. “Is there really a show, or are you guys trying to get in for free?” We were scuttled into a back room to wait. Three hours later, the designer rushed in, not in the least apologetic. “The show will continue,” she assured us. But the models stumbled around because none of them had modeled before, there was scant lighting, and the clothes were barely functional, one model having her top pop off, exposing her tiny breasts for a jubilant throng. I met Rick because the other photographers were too snobby to talk to us. From the beginning, we were making fun of their bad attitudes, Rick saying to one girl, “Sorry, you don’t got the looks to be treating me the way you are.”
This particular day, he was telling me about his friend who’d fallen in love with a stripper. “He was a successful guy, had a lot of money saved away. Lost five years of his life chasing her. He quit his job since she’d been banging other guys when he was at work. He calls me two nights ago, crying that she went back to the clubs. I told him, look man, don’t be stupid. Let it go. But he couldn’t.”
When I dropped him off, he turned to me intently and asked, “What’s the moral of the story, man?”
“Don’t fall in love with strippers?”
“Don’t try changing people, because you can’t.” He gave me a grin. “Thanks for the ride.”
“Hey,” I called out.
“Yeah?”
“Do you ever feel—do you ever feel like everything we do is fake and we just lie to make up things visually?”
“Yeah, of course.”
“Do you ever get tired of it?”
He laughed. “Dude, that’s our job as photographers.” He gave me a pat on the back. “I think you’re suffering from breakup depression. There’ll be some cute girls tonight. We’ll have fun.”
He hopped out, grabbed his bags, and strolled up to his apartment.
II.
It was evening when I met him. I got into his Jeep, a manual transmission with a stubborn, raucous engine.
“What’s been up with you?” he asked as we headed towards Burbank. Tara—a model I’d worked with, who was his friend—had told him I didn’t want to shoot nudes of her.
“I felt uncomfortable about it,” I said.
He burst into laughter. “You’re talented, but you gotta learn how to have fun once in a while.”
“I don’t want to shoot nudes.”
“There are perks with this job, you know? You’re the only photographer I know who doesn’t want to date models.”
“It’s not like I don’t want to date them. It’s more like I’m working with them and I feel self-conscious if I hit on them.”
“And they know that! That’s why they’re attracted to you. You gotta use that to your advantage man. Me, they know I’m a sleazebag. But it’s okay. I’ve had my share of good times.” He described some of his encounters with the models.
“They let you do that?” I asked.
He laughed. “You wouldn’t believe it. A lot of these girls are voyeurs deep down. It’s the only thing that gets them excited. If you make them look prettier than they are, they’ll love you for it. Think about it, man—we know more about the way they look than they do.”
We arrived in the neighborhood, spotted the house with a faded sign that read Agency. We entered, saw four stalwart men clad in leather and rings. “WELCOME!!!” they warmly greeted me.
The hostess, a woman with thick black hair that reached down to her knees, kissed Rick on the cheek.
“This is an associate,” he introduced me. “He’s one of the most talented photographers I know.”
“Not really,” I said.
She gave me a kiss on the cheek. “No need to be modest. Help yourselves to anything you want.”
I got orange juice, walked into the living room. It was filled with the most diverse set of women I’d seen. Each had distinctive marks—one with a tattoo across her chest, another with red hair and seven piercings in her face. There was a model that wore a cape with half her head shaved. She was saying, “They didn’t tell me they were gonna hang my body from the ceiling. They wrapped my arms and legs, pinched my nipples with these clippers that really stung, and it was cold as hell. I was hanging bare-ass naked, but they got into a big argument about the lighting. I was like, guys, can we hurry this up?” Everyone burst into laughter.
In another circle, they were talking about the travails of corsets and aluminum garters. “Did you hear how Jessica had two ribs removed?”
“How much did your boob job cost you?”
“I had the doctors drain twenty pounds from my stomach.”
“How you doing?” Rick asked.
“Fine.”
When a pair of models passed by, he called them and introduced me. They looked through my book of photography. “These are really beautiful and mysterious,” they said. “You really like the noir look, huh?”
I nodded.
“And what are the backgrounds?”
“I recreate urban legends,” I answered.
“Why those?”
“I think urban legends are an outlet for the psyche and it’s a representation of something real that people don’t like to deal with consciously. You guys have a portfolio?” I asked.
One of them handed it to me. All the pictures were Goth nudes displaying bondage, S&M, artistic pornography in which they looked like they were in pain. “These are great,” I said.
Rick took me out to the backyard for a breath of fresh air.
“Don’t be so tense,” he said. “You gotta get used to this kind of thing.”
“This isn’t my style,” I said.
He laughed. “Go and mingle. Remember, you don’t have a girlfriend anymore. You’re allowed to have fun.”
There were pockets of social activity, people sucking on their cigarettes and chatting about the quirks of particular models. It was cold, thick clouds making it gloomy, atypical weather conditions on a LA summer night. I headed for the tent they’d splayed out back, took a seat. Across from me were two girls. One had dirty blonde hair, looked like she was in high school with thick eye shadow and mascara surrounding her pupils. She was pale with a grungy shirt that slit above her belly, revealing a pierced navel. She waved exuberantly when I sat. Next to her was a very attractive girl with darker skin, a bit more rounded, though not plump. She was smoking a thin cigarette, but wasn’t looking in my direction.
I introduced myself.
The blonde was named Jenna and the other, Desdemona.
“You’re a photographer?” they asked.
“Yeah. You guys are models, right?”
“Yep.
“You guys have a portfolio?”
“Unfortunately, no,” Jenna said. “I’m looking to make contacts so I can make one.”
“I just came along to keep her company,” Desdemona added.
“What about you?” Jenna asked.
I handed her my book. She went through page by page.
“You idealize women,” Jenna said. “It’s funny how it’s always one way or the other.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean the photographers here fall into two categories. Guys who despise women and debase them, and guys like you.”
“Photography is about extremes,” I said. “That’s what makes it interesting. Who wants to see pictures of ordinary women?”
“I do,” Jenna said, then laughed. “No, you’re right. This is beautiful work. I’m not knocking it.”
I grinned. “Thanks.” I took the book back from her. “How long you been modeling?”
“I just started. I’m actually from West Virginia and I’m thinking about moving out here to get my career going.”
“How’s your journey going?”
“Pretty good. I made some contacts at a convention and saw some celebrities.” She named four people from TV shows I’d never heard of. “I found out about this party through harakirigirls.com.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s a really popular site. They do lots of the Goth, bondage kind of stuff. It’s really big and I wanted to be one of the models. She’s,” referring to Desdemona, “one of the models. She’s crazier than me though and can do it all. She was just in bugxxx.com.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s where a model gets paid to be taken captive for a weekend.”
“Captive?”
Jenna laughed. “You want to explain?”
Desdemona seemed irritated but said, “Basically, the guys put you up in a really nice hotel for a day, capture you and take photos for two days. They’re really long and grueling but it looks a lot worse on camera. They’re actually really nice and they take good care of you.”
“What kind of stuff do they do?”
“Anything short of actual penetration.”
“Penetration?” I said, confused.
“Use your imagination,” she said.
“What about you?” Jenna asked. “How long you been doing photography?”
“A couple years now. I do a lot of fashion shows and production stills for movie sets. How do you like LA?”
“It’s great! Check this out.” She suddenly stood up, dropped her skirt, revealing a g-string and a bare rear. There was a tattoo of an elephant shaped like a human on the left cheek of her butt. “I got that in Venice.”
“Why an elephant?” I asked.
“It’s not just an elephant,” she said. “It’s Ganesha.” Seeing my confusion, “He’s a Hindu god.” She describe
d a couple places out on Sunset she’d been to, getting drunk the night before at a gay bar, hunting down places for karaoke. “We only found one place but the line was way too long.”
“You gotta go to Koreatown,” I said. “They have the karaoke places with your own private room.”
“Do you know where they are?” Jenna asked excitedly.
“Of course. You want to go?”
“Yeah! Let’s go!”
I laughed. “All right. But only after the party dies down. We still gotta make contacts.”
“Sounds good.”
Rick came by and I introduced him to the two.
“How long you in town?” he asked Jenna.
“Two more days. I was hoping to meet some photographers so I could get some photos before I went back.”
“Well today’s your lucky day. The two of us will take your photos.”
“REALLY?!” she exclaimed.
Rick laughed. “Really.”
“Do you guys mind taking different kinds of photos?”
“What do you mean different?”
“I mean nudes,” she answered.
“Not at all,” Rick said.
Jenna peered over at me furtively.
We chatted more, poured additional drinks. Desdemona and Jenna went to take a quick bathroom break.
“That girl digs you,” Rick said to me.
“Who?”
“Jenna, who else?”
“She’s just being nice because I’m a contact.”
“She digs you, man. You guys have chemistry.”
I laughed and shrugged it off. But inside, I wondered, does she? She was attractive, funny, quirky. I was interested.
When the two returned, Rick said, “Why don’t you take a couple photos right now?”
“I don’t have my camera,” I said.
“You can use mine. It’s in the car. Here’s the keys.”
“I’ll come with you,” Jenna said with a bright smile.
We headed for his Jeep.
“I don’t know what it is, but lately, I feel like everything I do is a lie,” I said.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“I don’t feel inspired anymore. I keep on wondering, is this it? I mean, yeah, you can make more money, but how do you get better? How do you push the art without just trying to be provocative to get attention?”
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