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Igetoutofthe office with minimal interference, and most of Stan’s staff avoid me like I might send them to therapy next. The promises I made loom over me like a storm cloud. I can be on my best behavior to ensure things go smoothly and my promises are fulfilled. I was also a dumbass telling him I will find a friend to work with me.
As I climb into my FJ Cruiser, my phone chirps with a notification. Messages chime through my phone nonstop, my inbox overflowing with girls requesting to model for me.
Off the record.
In private.
Without clothes, ending in a horizontal tango.
I don't reply to them since the last one was a stage seven clinger. Yup, two levels up from normal.
Desperation doesn’t get my blood pumping anymore, no matter how hot they are.
I pull out my phone as I purr the engine to life, anticipating another artfully nude photograph with a pleading message. Instead, I am greeted with something different. A snarky message isn’t new for me. That’s not the unexpected part.
I get just as much hate mail as I do women looking to get me alone in a dark room to have their way with me. Or maybe so I can have my way with them. A whole new breed of people can find you on the internet. They think you being a grumpy asshole means you are all about angry sex that leaves you sore the next morning.
I am surprised at the fact the snark isn’t about how I treat people, but instead about my actual work.
How did an untrained eye like yours land a spread in Ovis magazine?
Is this serious? Untrained eye? I trained for years with Patrick. I know more than bullshit university courses could have taught me. Not that it was a traditional education by any stretch of the word, but he still put me through the wringer.
The drive home has my mind racing and my memories playing like movies in my head. Thankfully, I don’t have far to go, but I sure as shit don’t remember getting here, my thoughts lost inside themselves.
The lock clicks as I push the door open. The light in the entryway is still glowing, awaiting my return. Having a light on when I get home gives me a feeling of someone staying up for me, wanting to make sure I got home safely after a long day. Except there is no one here for that. It’s only me.
My stomach lets out an audible discomfort, so I make my way to the kitchen. Disguised behind a wall of shelving is the bare minimum. When I bought this unit, it still smelled like the sweatshop I'm sure it was decades ago. I love having the open space to take pictures if I want to do any private sessions. The one thing I didn't renovate is the kitchen which must have been used as a break room or something with its bare-bones layout. Coffeemaker, microwave, some weird mini stove, and refrigerator. No dishwasher. Not like washing dishes for one is hard.
I pull open the freezer door, eyeing my options. Am I feeling like a Hungry Man? Craving the false sense of a home-cooked meal with Stouffer’s? I decide macaroni and cheese is the winner. I use my fingernail to vent the top, plop the frozen brick into the microwave, set the timer, and revisit my thoughts of Patrick.
One of the first challenges he gave me was making a pinhole camera out of supplies I could find in my tiny apartment. Cardboard, tinfoil, and a piece of broken mirror impressed him. Hell, it even impressed me. Learning that I could create my primary tool for the trade gave me a new appreciation. Pretty sure that isn’t on the curriculum at Elysian Tech.
I wanted nothing more than to make him happy. Pathetic, I know, but he was the only one who supported my dream wholeheartedly. Even if I was a punk kid with no respect for the craft, I had the drive for it. My soul has always been hungry to capture life in a still moment, to trap and immortalize their happiness forever.
The beeping of the microwave brings me back. I pull back the film, stir it a bit, and put it back in to finish heating. I hesitantly pull my phone out of my pocket and remember the message from earlier. My sister’s voice chirps in my mind:give it twenty-four hours before you reply. Take that time to reflect and relax. We respond instantly with aggression.Man, I hate when she makes sense. As a little sister, she’s not allowed to be smarter than me.
The click from my phone screen going dark combines with the microwave song. Dinner is served. Alright @CarterCaptured, you get twenty-four hours until I give you a piece of my damn mind. If I can hold my tongue that long.
I sit on my bed, which is bachelor style: a mattress on the floor. My macaroni and cheese is now scorching. I attempt to cool it off by stirring it with a plastic fork. I blow on the bite lightly, scattering the steam. My impatience and hunger are getting the best of me. Go figure, it’s still fucking cold in the middle. I bet people say the same about me.
Idon’tevenlikeparties, yet here I am, sitting on a couch that feels as if it was made of my Nana’s lumpy mashed potatoes. Today Carter hates the Carter from last week who agreed to this socialization. I don’t mind the occasional camaraderie between friends, but some parties feel forced.
Come to this place, drink this decision-making inhibitor, and dance on all the furniture. It’s hard to argue the distraction they provide us from the world. While we bump and grind to an electronic remix of top pop hits, the world outside keeps spinning. Our troubles take on the role of the big bad wolf, ready to huff and puff and blow the house party in.
Coming out of a temporary escape can hurt worse than it did in the beginning. The numbness always wears off. The anesthesia always brings you back to being awake. But for now, I plaster on a big smile for Rory and pretend the numbness is still in effect.
Who knew that vet school graduates could throw a party like this? Partying like animals, literally. An audible giggle slips past my lackluster expression, surprising me. My smile gets even bigger when I see Rory dancing around the kitchen. She is easy to spot, her height making her hover above most of the partygoers. She looks like a tree in the middle of a hurricane, swaying and twisting with the wind.
The two of us became quick and unlikely friends. I was taking a photography class for my degree. She was taking the same class for a change of pace from her required medical instruction. I graduated before her, my degree hardly as demanding of credits as hers.
An Ovis magazine sits on the coffee table in front of me and I can’t help but thumb through the pages. Ovis is a newer publication, founded within the past ten years. This is a past issue that I have seen before but that doesn't stop me from flipping through. They're notorious for being ahead of the trends and I draw inspiration from them more than any other publication.
Bright colors accent the article titles like graffiti on the cover. The model adorning the front stares into my eyes as I observe her pose. People look at magazine covers because they are designed to be easy on the eyes, tempting us with an article to solve their recent woes. I have a different angle.
My brain instead runs through ideas of what the photographer did to elicit the emotions they captured. I remember being in the grocery store checkout line sneaking looks at Cosmo. Even back then, I dreamed of being that.
As I scan through the spreads, I see a familiar photographer’s name popping up nonstop.
