If I Lose Her (13 page)

 Jo and I saw
as much as we could of each other the last few months of high school then
graduation came and went.

 Jo had won a
Boetcher scholarship and was accepted to Regis University where, thanks to
pressure from her parents, she would be studying history. I wanted her to go
hard after her art, but neither of us were really sure what good an art degree
would do, so they finally agreed that if she majored in something “stable” then
she could spend the rest of her time pursuing whatever she liked. She would
also be able to apply her Oxford credits to her degree. So, we both made our
peace with it, and I watched her get on the plane for the United Kingdom.

 With Jo gone
and school finished, I spent my energy moving out of my mother’s house and into
a studio apartment.

 The
apartment was downtown in a renovated warehouse off 8
^th
&
Market, just blocks from the legendary Tattered Cover bookstore giving me more
than a healthy amount of access to their books, delicious coffee and warm
pastries. I spent nearly a month living off of savings, and a little help from
my mom, while I looked for work when, one day, I saw a guy with long,
straight-black hair hanging a Help Wanted sign on the bulletin board in the
Tattered Cover coffee shop. The word ‘photography’ jumped right off the page at
me.

 “Hey,” I
said walking up to him.

 “Hey.”

 “You’re
looking for a photography assistant?”

 “Yeah.”

 “I’ve
actually been looking for work for the past few weeks, and I’m a photographer.”

 “Really?
What kind of work do you do?”

 “Mostly
journalism.”

 “I’m looking
for a fashion assistant.” I could tell by his tone that he was starting to
dismiss me.

 “Well, I’ve
done portraits, I know my way around a camera and I’m a hard worker!” I said a
little over enthusiastically.

 “I tell you
what. Why don’t you come by my studio on Friday, at 4:30, with a portfolio and
we can take it from there.”

 “Great.”

 He gave me a
business card and left. Michael Baxter Studios, the card read.

 I waited a
few minutes then went up to the Help Wanted sign and carefully changed a three
to an eight on his phone number.

 I only had
two days to put a portfolio together, and I wasn’t thrilled with the work I had
to show. A few sports photos, some portraits and maybe one or two events, but
it was the best I had so it would have to do. Thankfully, being downtown gave
me access to what I needed to put something together quickly.

 Friday
afternoon I drove up to his studio, parked the cougar and rang the bell.
      

 No answer.

 I rang
again.

 No answer.

 I looked at
my watch. It was 4:38.

 I went back
to the car, found the business card. Then the door opened.

 “Hey, come
on in. I was just finishing a test shoot.”

 I followed
him into what looked like an old loading bay for semi trucks with what had to
be thirty-foot-high ceilings and skylights that filled the huge room with
natural light. A couch, coffee machine and table sat on one side of the studio,
on the other were several studio-lights on rolling tripods, a seamless-white
background and rolls of other background colors standing on their sides.
Michael’s desk, with cluttered piles of camera equipment, a computer monitor
and a laptop, sat in the middle of the room like an island of technology. Above
what looked like a makeshift kitchen was a loft where I could see a couch and
some living room furniture.

 A Latino
woman in her late twenties walked out from the bathroom in the back corner.

 “Thank you
Mikey,” she said picking her purse and coat up from off the couch. Then she
winked at me as we passed each other and she left. I sat down at the table
across from Michael and looked back at the door.

 “She’s
pretty hot isn’t she,” he asked with a small grin and raised eyebrows.

 “Yeah!”

 “Well, she’s
a guy.”

 That wiped
the smile right off my face.

 “Really?”

 “Did you
bring your portfolio?”

 I looked
back at the door one more time, trying to digest what I had just heard. Then I
handed him my book.

 He flipped
from page to page, not spending any particular length of time on any one photo.
He closed it and handed it back to me.

 “I thought I
was going to have a lot of calls about the job, but you’re the only one, which
puts you at the top of the list. What do you know about studio lights?”

 “I used one
with a soft box at school for senior portraits.”

 “Do you know
anything about Photoshop?”

 “Yes, that I
know. I was the Editor of my yearbook at school last year, and I got pretty
good at changing color and adjusting exposures.” He didn’t look too impressed
by any of this.

 “I need
someone for a shoot Tuesday. I’m doing a casting call to hire some models for a
shoot next month. The art director will be here with some of her staff, and I
just need an extra pair of hands to help with coffee and whatever else might
come up; just a gofer really.”

 “That sounds
great.”

 “After that
I need someone who can work three days a week full-time with flexibility to
work more when shoot days come up, which will be happening more in the summer.
You’ll start by fetching shit, sweeping and that sort of thing, but I’ll be
training you to work with the grip and edit photos. How does this all sound?”

 
Find out
what grip is.

 
“Yeah,
that all sounds great.”

 “Good, I’ll
see you Tuesday then.”

 “Could I ask
one question?”

 “Yeah.”

 “How much
does it pay?”

 “Eight bucks
an hour with room for growth.”

 
Eight
bucks is going to be tight only three days a week.

 
“Great.
That sounds great. I’ll see you Tuesday.” Then I left.

 I drove out
to mom’s and told her how I got the job and flirted with a transgender model.
She laughed and we ate dinner.

 On Monday I
came home from having a coffee at the bookstore to find a letter in my mailbox.
The postmark was from Oxford, UK. I tore it open and began to read.

 
Dear
Alex,

 How are
things? I’ve gotten settled into my apartment here, which is called a flat, and
things are going well. Oxford is amazing. Classes are keeping me busy, but it
still hasn’t quite sunk in yet exactly where I am. J.R.R. Tolkien taught just
down the street, and I walk past the spot every day where they think Lewis
Carol thought up Alice in Wonderland. The Dean’s daughter’s name was Alice and
she had a fat orange cat. How funny is that?

 The
library here is called the Bodleian. It houses a copy of every book printed in
the UK since, like 1650 or something. It isn’t like libraries back home. It
takes up about fifteen buildings around campus, including a huge central
building with a green dome called Radcliff Camera. It feels so posh because
only students are allowed access, so I can’t help but grin when I walk past the
crowds of tourists taking pictures and know that some of the best scholars in
history came and studied in this very building.

 There are
several small and medium sized museums around town, all of which are free, and
one of them near the library had original hand-written copies of Mary Shelley’s
Frankenstein on display.

 It’s like
I’m in a different world. The buildings are so old and so rich with history,
I’m having a hard time taking it all in.

 I’ve met
a couple of people here and have plans to go out tomorrow night with my
roommate. The students don’t usually eat at restaurants here like they do in
the states. If we go out it’s usually to a pub, which is more like a little inn
than a bar really. There’s one just outside my building called The Bear. Friday
nights are standing room only, but they make a great burger and the walls and
ceilings are covered with the ends of student’s neck ties that have been
clipped off and hung on the walls over the years. There must be 3,000 of them.
The oldest one I’ve found so far was from 1932!

 The pub
that C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien ate at every Tuesday while writing their
books is here also, which is fun to visit, but its food is rubbish. That’s one
of my new words: rubbish.

 I really
wish you were here. You would love this place. It’s like knowledge and learning
sprang right up out of the ground and created a fortress for itself here within
these walls.

 I miss
you so much and I miss Mexican and I miss mom and dad and Susan, but I’ve been
so busy the last couple of weeks that I haven’t really had time to stop and
miss home that much. Don’t worry though. I’m not staying. There’s just no way I
could pull myself away from you for four years.

 How is
the apartment? Have you had any luck finding any work? Have you given any more
thought to applying for a few grants for school?

 Next week
I’m probably going to catch the train into London. Hannah says that you can
show up the night of a show and buy tickets really cheap. I might try to find a
Mexican restaurant while I’m there also.

 I miss
you so much. I love you so much. I hope things are going so well for you that
you don’t have time to miss me. Before you know it, summer will be over and we
will be together again. I will write again soon.

      Love,

       Jo

 I read the
letter twice then laid it next to a framed photo of her sitting on my kitchen
table. I was happy for her, but I did miss her. I missed her terribly. A large
part of me also wished that I was the one filling my passport with stamps, not
the one staying home.

 The next day
I donned a clean pair of jeans and a white colored shirt, grabbed my camera,
just in case, and made my way to Mike’s studio. He wanted me to arrive at 8:30.
    I was fifteen minutes early.

 Both times I
had seen him he had been unshaven, wearing torn jeans and vintage tee shirts.
This morning he was clean-shaven with his hair pulled back into a surprisingly
well-kept ponytail, and all of his clothes looked washed and ready. 

 “Okay. The
shoot we are casting for today is a new handbag line for Susan Russel Taylor,
who happens to be a good client of mine. Janet Stephens is the art director,
and she’ll be here in the next twenty minutes or so. Our first model is
scheduled to arrive at 9:30. I need you to check models off this list as they
arrive,” he said handing me a clipboard with a list of about thirty names and
times they were arriving throughout the day. “Once they are checked in, have
them line up along the back wall. They’re scheduled fifteen minutes apart, but
a lot of them show up late and some show up early, so things will probably get
crowded.

 “Coffee is
next to the maker, bottles of water for everyone are in the cooler by the door
and the restroom is at the back. Any questions?”

 “No. I don’t
think so.”

 “Cool.”

 Then he
walked over and turned on two studio-camera lights and I started the coffee
machine.

 Janet
Stephens arrived right on time with an assistant carrying a tray of lattes from
Starbucks, including one for me, which surprised me. I turned off the coffee
machine, and twenty minutes later the first model arrived.

 For the next
three hours I checked names off of the list as models made their way into the
studio while Michael and Janet sat at a desk interviewing and reviewing the
portfolio of each one.

 I thought
these were all exceptionally beautiful women, but I could hear Michael and
Janet mention how this one’s look worked or that one’s look didn’t. Then we
stopped for lunch.

 Janet said
something to her assistant, who made a call and fifteen minutes later there was
a knock at the studio door. I opened it expecting the next model, but greeted a
sandwich deliveryman instead. We all ate while Michael and Janet looked over
tear sheets that the models had left with them.

 After lunch,
nearly five more hours of interviews ensued then Janet and her assistant left.

 “So, what
did you think?” Michael asked me as he cleaned up the stack of beautiful faces.

 “It was
interesting. They were all gorgeous.”

 “But, do you
think any of them could sell a purse?”

 “I don’t
know. What does someone have to look like to sell a purse?”

 He smiled.
“That’s a good question. Come take a look at these.”

 I walked
over to the table and watched him pick five photos out of the stack.

 “What’s the
first thing that comes to mind when you see each of these faces…other than
they’re gorgeous?”

 I leaned
over and looked carefully at each one.

 “Imagine for
a minute that you just got a $30,000 bonus, and you’re out walking around
Cherry Creek wanting to buy yourself something new–something expensive.
You turn and see this woman standing behind a counter holding a Rolex,” he said
pointing to the first photograph. “Would you walk in and talk to her about it?
What about this one?” and he pointed to the second photo. “Or this one? How
about this one?”

 Then I
stopped him and pointed to girl number four.

 “I’d buy a
Rolex from her.”

 “Not a bad
choice,” he said nodding. “But, selling handbags is different. When men look at
a photo of a woman selling something, they are drawn to it because they want
her. When women look at a photo of a woman selling something, they are drawn to
it because they want to BE her. Now, which do you think could sell a handbag?”