We got to Rick’s car and I jumped in to grab his camera. When I popped out, Jenna was standing right next to me. I could feel her breath on my skin. She tottered into me, tangled her arms with mine.
“Take out your camera,” she said. I took it out. She pressed her body against mine. “Why don’t you let me inspire you?”
She was about to take off her top when I stopped her. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
“I don’t… I don’t like doing this kind of photography. I don’t think it’s artistic or fresh. It’s just T&A.”
She stared at me disappointed.
“Sorry,” I said.
She shook her head. “I understand.”
We headed back without another word.
III.
I sat alone feeling miserable.
“What’s wrong, man?” Rick asked.
“Nothing.”
We were back in the tent when two photographers came our way. One was short, stocky, with a ‘50s-style suit and a fedora. He had an oblong face that seemed very smug and insecure at the same time, carrying a pair of binoculars attached to a box.
“3D photography,” he explained. Looking through the glasses, each slide had an image that popped out. It was pretty amazing as the flat plane of normal visual imagery seemed more vivid and raw: images of men tied up by women, ribald playfulness rampant.
His companion was an obese male who’d shaved his head. He had a thick beard and gruff voice, his posture imperious and overbearing. “So what’s your story?” he said to the girls. “’Cause you guys realize this is a ‘networking’ party, the key word being networking. Ever since I’ve gotten here, you guys isolated yourselves. Why’s that?”
“We didn’t isolate ourselves. We were just having a smoke.”
“For the past two hours?”
They introduced themselves: Jacob, the big one, Jefferson, the shorter one.
“I hate it when models think they can give feedback to us,” Jacob said. “We’re the artists. Just shut up and pose. That’s why we’re hiring you. But no, they always want to give input.”
“I don’t think input hurts,” Jefferson said. “I’ve gotten some of my best work done through suggestions.”
“I’m the total opposite. Whenever models give input, they don’t see the big picture. I try to explain things I see in my head, but they just don’t get it. I’m like, just trust me. I know what I’m doing. It always works that way. Suppose you take their input and it comes out like crap. You think they’ll take responsibility? No, but suppose I’m a total asshole and I force my vision on them. Even if they’re not happy, if it turns out awesome, they’ll forget everything and praise me afterwards. That’s the way it works. I don’t give a damn what they think.”
“I know your work,” Jenna said. “I’m a big fan.”
“That’s good,” Jacob replied. “I’m amused by you.”
“By me?”
“I want you to be in one of my projects.”
“Really?” she said with a surprised gesture, cheeks turning red.
They chatted while I went to grab a drink with Rick.
“That guy gets on my nerves,” Rick said.
“You know him?”
“Yeah, we’ve met.”
“Is he good?”
“He’s famous. He gets his stuff shown in galleries all the time.”
“Why don’t you like him?”
Rick kind of shrugged. “It’s his attitude, he thinks he knows it all. Guys like that just rub me the wrong way. I think no matter where you are in life, you gotta always stay humble. There’s a couple girls he dated. They told me he didn’t treat them well, verbally abusive. But they didn’t care because he was famous. He gets girls lined up all the time man. That could be you, you know.”
I laughed. “Does fame make it okay for you to treat people like crap?”
Rick laughed. “Course not. Then again, I’m not famous,” laughing more. “You want to get going?”
I thought about Jenna. “Yeah, I’m kinda tired.”
When we got back to the tent, Jacob was saying, “—this hardcore porn actor but he’d gotten so sick and tired of it, he gave up sex and became a monk. Said sex wasn’t fun anymore.”
They laughed hard.
“We’re gonna get going,” Rick said.
“What about karaoke?” Jenna asked.
“You still want to go?” I asked.
“Of course! Can we?”
“Yeah. Rick?”
“Naw man, I’m too tired. You go have fun.”
I nodded. “I’ll have to get my car but I can meet you guys there.”
“All right!” Jenna exclaimed. “You’re coming with us, right?” she asked Jacob.
“Uhh, I don’t know if that’s my thing.”
“Oh c’mooooooonnnnnn,” she said.
Jacob laughed. “I am curious to observe you in that setting.”
Desdemona, glum and feeling ignored, muttered, “We gotta wake up early tomorrow.”
“We’ll just be there for one hour.”
It was settled.
IV.
Koreatown has different rules from the rest of Los Angeles. People can smoke indoors and drink alcohol past the 2 a.m. cutoff. The parking lot was filled with ‘rice rockets,’ Hondas and BMWs upgraded to be racing cars. The karaoke station was on the second story in a big plaza. After we entered, we were escorted by a cute young Korean girl to a station in the back. We passed several rooms with tinted glass panels where we could hear accented voices blaring John Lennon and Phil Collins. “Can we get a soju and tambourines?” I asked the girl.
The room comfortably fit ten people. It had a big television with gigantic speakers. A strobe light illuminated the room in iridescence. After a toast, we took shots. The three were too nervous to grab the mike so I started by singing “Hotel California.” Jenna took a shot and sang “Bohemian Rhapsody.” Desdemona had her arms crossed with a stern look. “They don’t even have Justin Timberlake,” she said glumly. Flipped through a few pages, sitting in a foul mood.
“I’ll pick a song for you guys.” I selected a Spice Girls song, another by Cyndi Lauper. Desdemona got into it, suddenly setting up a queue. I was relieved, realized Jenna and Jacob were quiet. I turned and saw the two were making out in the corner. Something stabbed me inside. I tried to ignore it by singing. After three songs, I looked back and noticed she was watching me to make sure I was watching her. In some strange way, I realized she was paying me back for what she’d earlier perceived as a rejection.
“I can’t believe the selection is so small,” Desdemona complained again. “In San Francisco, they had so many more.” As she complained and hogged all the singing time, I saw Jenna and Jacob sneak away.
“We’re gonna use the restroom,” Jenna explained.
They returned thirty minutes later, Jenna’s hair a disheveled mess.
“Will you stop singing so goddamn loud?” I barked at Desdemona.
She glared at me. “Excuse me?”
I shook my head. “Nothing.”
“What went and crawled up your ass?”
Jenna was giggling with Jacob.
I grabbed the side of my chair. I felt dizzy while Desdemona sang a Mandy Moore song about true love. I wished I could turn the camera on myself, take a shot, capture my jealousy and longing. But I knew it wasn’t possible and I felt bitter that my emotions couldn’t be documented, airbrushed, then categorized comfortably away.
It was 4 a.m. when we got out. Jenna left with Jacob. Desdemona drove off on her own. I got home an hour later, couldn’t sleep. Went to my computer, stared at the images of Jane and Lane. I felt pain coursing through my veins, unadulterated pain. It wasn’t Jenna; it wasn’t Jane. It was me. And I cried, I wept: I felt so alone. As the tears poured out, it occurred to me that this sensation of wanting to rip my innards out, this raw feeling of agony I wanted to eradicate, this was what I’d been hiding from. I wept, but I laughed. Without anywhere to hide, I felt like I’d been released from the grip of fabricating lies to make things prettier than they were. I selected all the images of Jane and Lane, dropped them in the trash bin, hit delete. Something shook inside me and it felt good not to have to worry about framing, to relish the moment, to be exposed and nude — to be real.