Under the Stars and Stripes (Under Him)

“Jesus,” Brittany gasps.

“He’s not lying,” Justin says.

“Okay, Justin,” Tony says, grabbing him by the shoulders and turning him around. “It’s that kind of thing that makes people think we’re a couple.”

Justin looks at both his shoulders one at a time and then back up at Tony.

“And it’s this kind of thing that makes people think you’re old enough to be my grandfather.”

Justin pulls back.

Tony’s face looks disappointed, as if he doesn’t know he’s flirting with 40.

“You can think about that offer some more, by the way,” I tell Brittany, as I start unpacking my camera with just five minutes to six o’clock left. “Or if you ever just need it for a one-night thing, that’s cool too.”

“Is that all I am to you? A one-night thing?” she teases.

“That remains to be seen,” I tell her, as I snap a photo of her by surprise. “Oh, and thank you for coming prepared, by the way. Most of the pigeon-brained models seem to think that if I have clothing sent to their house from here, there’s some logical explanation for bringing it back here without it being on their bodies.”

“I prefer when the clothes are off their bodies, myself,” Tony says.

“I get more of a ‘you prefer the bodies to be cold and in a casket’ vibe from you,” Justin tells him before blowing him a kiss.

“Omigod, Justin, stop doing that!” Tony says. “Everyone already thinks I’m gay.”

Britt nods her head a bit.

“Yeah, I kinda did.”

When the Prompt and Punctual Perfume man finally arrives— right at 6 o’clock to the minute— he is ready to immediately begin shooting, only to stop us four or five times so that he can rearrange the set and give Brittany direction that I immediately have to signal her not to follow because it is ruining every single shot of her.

It’s a long process, because Pefumey doesn’t really know what he wants.

When I’d asked him to give me the elevator pitch for the ad, he’d said it was supposed to be, “Fragrant.”

“Riggghhhttt,” I said to him. “But see, I just take the photos. You’re the one who prints them out on shitty magazine paper, sprays some perfume along a glued edge, then folds it down for lazy husbands to rub on their underarms when they don’t feel like going all the way to the bedroom from the living room to put on deodorant.”

He shook his head.

“And you call yourself an artist?” he asked in his phony French accent.

So, we take a lot of shots over the next hour, some that I think will look really good once they’re developed.

“So, when do I get to see the photos?” Brittany asks me.

“Oh, well, I only shoot on film, so it’ll be a day or two before they’re developed.” I tell her. “Oh, but I did develop the pictures from your camera test, if you want to see those. There are some really good ones in there.”

“Really?” she asks me. “Just from a silly camera test?”

“See for yourself,” I tell her.

I reach over toward a binder and pull out a manilla envelope with the prints on them. I carefully pull them out so that I don’t bend any of the photos and then sit down on a fold-up chair beside her and start going through them one-by-one.

There are probably about 25 total. The first is from when she walked in the door and I couldn’t help but snap a photo of her.

After that, there are the candid pictures I took of her, then the ones where I had her pose, and finally, the very last one is the photo that I took where she was peaking behind the curtain with no idea she was being photographed.

“Oh, wow,” she says as she looks at it.

“Is that me?” she asks.

I laugh.

“What do you mean? Of course it’s you.”

“I look so… so...”

“Breathtaking,” I say before I can stop myself.

“Oh,” she says, her face blushing again like it did the other day when I told her that her body was perfect. “Yeah, um, well, no. I mean… thank you.”

I chuckle, “You’re welcome.”

I then point to how she’s holding the curtain.

“You know who you look like here?”

“Who?” she asks.

“Judy Garland pulling back the curtain to find out who the Wizard of Oz really is.”

“Omigod,” she mutters. “That’s so sweet.”

“It’s true. She had perfect cheeks, just like yours.”

She smiles.

“I wonder if I click my heels three times if I’ll be spirited away to my new home.”

“I don’t think they actually pick a new home for you. Just take you to it.”

“So, um, hey, I was thinking about your offer,” she begins. “And I guess that… well, considering that it would probably keep me from screaming my head off in frustration at my dad if I have to keep staying with him any longer— although I was really looking forward to that; cleared my whole schedule for it and everything— I was thinking that I might take you up on that offer to stay with you, just until I find a place I like.”