Jimmy the Photography Salesman

9:35am – I am sitting in a giant warehouse that passes for a photography studio.  70 or 80 hopefuls will come through the doors today, expecting to be photographed and made into stars.  Many dreams will be crushed.  Some will cry.  Those that don’t cry right away will be pushed over the brink by my prices.  I glance at the receptionist.  She is bossy and wears a skirt that is pink and shredded at the hemline, apparently on purpose.  I consider telling her that her skirt is ripped.  I decide against this course of action.  She is responsible for bringing me each victim and I don’t want to piss her off.

10:45am – I am sitting across from my first ‘client’.  He is 5’6”. He is Indian.  He is hairy.  His collared shirt cannot subdue his chest hair, which is making a play for my keyboard.  I casually pull the keys closer to me.  His chest hair counters and almost takes control; at the last I am successful, but only because my arms are longer than his several hairy strands.  Jitu Patel is his name.

“What kind of work are you looking for?” I ask.  Standard question.  Hopefully he wants to be a model, because that means he will have to buy lots of pictures.

“Well, I’m just starting out, so anything really.”

“Are you a guild member?”

“What’s that?”

We have now come to a critical crossroads; those who don’t even know that the guild exists are much better prey.  I go in for the kill and come out with a glossy color headshot and three 9X12 prints for his ‘portfolio’.  Price tag: $320.00.  Sap.

11:30am – I am sitting across from sap #2, an elderly Russian immigrant who wants me to understand that she speaks Slavic, Russian, Croatian and English.  She has with her two suitcases of clothing.

“I’m not to be sure how much I was to bring, so I bring this two cases of suits.  Some dresses, one very pretty, from wedding party, and also one of sequins.  Shiny is good, yes?”

This is almost too easy.  100 color headshots later, the Russian is shaking my hand and thanking me for this opportunity.  Somewhere in Heaven, an angel falls.

12:36pm – I am sitting across from a very homely young man, wrinkled and aged before his time, a real Steve Buscemi in training.  The problem here is that he actually has a resume.  With stuff on it.  And at the top it says in a very matter-of-fact font, SAG/AFTRA/EQUITY.  Damnit.  This is the tough sell.  How do you put the toothpaste back in the tube?

“So tell me Paul, what kind of work are you looking for?”

“Well, I’ve been working a lot on CSI and The West Wing, single camera shows like that.  But right now I’m really trying to get into film.  I just had a screen test for a feature but I don’t think I got it.  Small part opposite a name actor.  But that’s the breaks eh?”

I’m in big trouble here.  He knows terms like ‘single camera show’ and ‘screen test’.  How can I convince him that he should become a model and get a zed card?  Thankfully, I don’t have to.  At this very moment my ‘associate’ Pam comes up and introduces herself as Paul’s new booking agent.  Before he can retort that he already has an agent Pam looks at the proofsheet of his photo session and proclaims, “you’re so good with the camera.  Have you ever thought about getting into modeling?  You could really do a lot of print work.  I would love to get a nice 4-look zed card of you as soon as possible.”

A bit more smoke is blown and Pam flits off confident that she has just closed the sale for me. Instead, Paul is already gathering his things.

“Well, I’m not gonna spend any money with you guys.  I thought this whole thing was free.  I already have headshots.  I’m just here to take advantage of the free photo session.”

6:42pm – My last client is a thin, wiry black boy in his early 20’s.  He was recently discharged from the military – the navy – and is currently wearing a pair of jeans that no man should ever wear, tight, bedazzled and cream colored.  His voice is high and soft, like a geishas.  Obviously gay.

“I just want to dance and sing!  But I had to wait until I left the military.”

“So are you prepared to spend a few hundred dollars on headshots?”

“No, but that doesn’t mean I won’t spend a few hundred for some head!”  He giggles furiously and cups his hands over his mouth. “Seriously, I’m a real good sin-ger and I know I’ve got the whole package.”

I’m concerned that when he stands his package is going to come clear through his pants.  I decide against ripping this one off as he seems to have enough problems in life.  This is my moral compass.  I only scam those as I think can handle it.  Plus, I’ve seen enough packages to last me a lifetime.

Darkie the Foster Child

From the time I was little, I have been confused and confusing when it comes to my ethnic background. Children on the playground would ask me questions like, “why are you so dark?’ and ‘how come your brother is white and you’re not?’ and ‘what language to you speak?’ I remember wondering as a child whether my mother had fucked a neighbor or the mailman while my father worked nights as a grocery store stock-boy. Family portraits look like that scene from Sesame Street where 4 children stand in four different boxes, all throwing a ball, except for one who is twirling a baton. The screen would go dark in just that one box, and that baton-twirling boy would be singled out: one of these kids is not like the other, come on, can you tell which one?’ Technically I’m white, whatever that means. I’m not a fan of being labeled something that can also be used to describe a type of bread, but the long answer is too much work. My parents have fair skin and my brother and sister have blond hair and green eyes. So it always comes as quitea shock when people realize that I, brown-eyed, olive skinned and angular, am related to my freckled kin. Such situations inevitably lead to the age-old question, ‘where the hell are you from, darkie?’

“Jimmy? Oh he’s Middle Eastern I think. Something like Sudan or Jordan or some shit like that.”

“What, Jimmy? Oh he’s Guatemalan. And a little Irish.”

“I think Jimmy’s a Mexican but don’t tell him I said that.”

And of course, many people think I’ve got a little black in me. And I’m not convinced that that isn’t true. But the bottom line is, I look ethnic, other, not white, not boy-next-door, not even country-next-door. I am so exotic that no one has any idea where I could have come from. “What are you, Egyptian? No? Mongolian? No? How about Italian? This is a good game! Gimme a hint!”

The truth is, I’m mostly German with a splash of other European nation states thrown in for good measure. It’s my 1/64th Spanish ancestry that has taken my visage hostage and created me in the image of the Moors invading Spain. Try fitting that in the checkbox on a government issued document.

I often wished as a child that the ridicule I received on the playground – Adopted! Adopted! Ji-iiiimy’s adopted! – was in fact true, and that I had no genetic relationship whatsoever to my white parents. I fantasized that one day, there would be a knock at the door and my real parents, the bronzed Lord Edward and Lady Sara, would be standing there, ready to reclaim me after what had obviously been some horrible misunderstanding. Lady Sara would unpin her hat and say, “that’s our child! You filthy people let him go! Edward, honey, tell the Driver to pull the limo around the front. We’re leaving this instant! Jimmy, darling, gather your….no, never mind. Nothing you have here will be necessary where we’re taking you. No, don’t worry about your toothbrush. We’ll buy you one when we get to Madrid.”

I imagined that I would be whisked away on a jet to a lush country estate where I would be given my own wing of the mansion and a pony. Breakfast would be served on Silver, like in the movies, and there would be a bell pull by my four-poster bed so that I could get the servants attention whenever I wanted. But sadly, this was never to happen. Though I often eyed large black cars with suspicious hope, I never met my fantasy parents. Instead my mother would say to me, “Don’t fool yourself buckaroo. You’re my kid, 100%. It took me 13 and a half hours to get you out and I’ve got the stretch marks to show for it. And you’re the only one of you kids to give me stretch marks too! No, you’re definitely mine. Now quit staring out the window and help me tie your brother to the highchair so he doesn’t squirm out again.”

I shared a bedroom and a set of bunk-beds with my younger brother, who was forced to sleep on the lower bunk so that he wouldn’t fall to the ground from a great height. “I swear that brother of yours is such a wiggle worm, he could dig a hole to China if you let him nap in a sandbox! Now help my put up the bed rail!” At night, I was rocked to sleep by my brother’s continuous twisting and turning, movements that sent our entire bunk bed gently swaying in an invisible breeze.

Wiggle Worm and I took the school bus to school when he got big enough to go. I would be forced to chaperone my 1st grade brother to his class every morning. Most teachers thought I was my family’s foreign exchange student and couldn’t understand why I was in charge of seeing Wiggle Worm safely to class and back. “Those parents are making that poor colored child baby-sit their 6 year old. It’s so sad. Someone should report them to Child Protective Services.”

Whatever our relationship now, Wiggle Worm and I were the best of friends; the most brotherly one can imagine when we were children. Only 2 and a half years apart, we had many of the same friends for much of our growing up. We spent time skipping rocks on the man made lake near our apartment or climbing trees and throwing pine cones at passing cars while snacking on honeysuckle weeds. We forged toy bow and arrows from bamboo and string to shoot at birds. We gathered neighborhood children for giant games of hide and seek. We took cardboard boxes and slid down grass hills at breakneck speed. And all the while, I was thinking “This is all well and good now, but when my REAL parents come, I’m gonna have a real bow and arrows with which I can hunt pheasant, and I’ll skip diamonds over the surface of my own private pool. And pure honey that comes from my own private beehive will be brought over to me in a tiny jar marked with a Fleur de Lis and I’ll spread it over graham crackers that the cook made special for me.” My reality was being overshadowed by my imagination more and more. Every time someone said to me, “Child, where did your parents GET you? Are you a foster child?” I retreated a little further into my life with Lord Edward and Lady Sara. To the question, “who’s your REAL dad?’ I often thought to respond, “Why, Lord Edward of the realm of Fauntleroy of course!” but instead would be forced to say, ‘that guy over there driving the beat up pick-up truck. That’s him. He has to sleep during the day because he gets up late to go open boxes at the supermarket. Sometimes he brings them home though, and we get to slide around on them, my brother and me, so I guess he’s okay.”

As an adult, I have learned that I am more like my parents than I ever thought would be possible when I was young and throwing pine cones. It turns out that my mother had a similar fantasy world that she felt more painfully than I did my own. And my father is still somewhat dizzied by the fact that he had three children by the time he was 24. And so sometimes it’s easier for my dad to say, ‘yeah, I don’t know who that guy is. He looks a lot like my son, but he’s way too old to be. Plus I think he’s black.”

The Coalition of the Spilling

Atlanta, GA - In a move today that stunned the White House and the leaders of many Communist nations, the newly coined Coalition of the Spilling invaded the state of Georgia in what it called a mission ‘to stave off the genocide of unborn American citizens that has been all but enforced by the Democratic Party of The United States.’ Military forces from some 7 nations that included France, Italy, Swaziland, Belaruse, Burkina Fasa, Yemen and the former USSR province of Uzbekistan arrived in a kit plane over the airspace of Atlanta Georgia early Tuesday morning. It is not yet clear exactly when or where the Coalition was able to build their kit plane, but speculation has led American law enforcement to follow up leads both on the island of Cuba and the Florida State University campus in Florida. The kit plane landed on the green swath that leads to the NIH building complex in the early hours on Tuesday. The 9 man coalition exited the plane carrying what looked to be brooms, mops, vacuum cleaner attachments and nine millimeter sidearms. The coalition met little resistance from scientists as it entered the NIH complex, establishing a beachhead of sorts at the large double doors to the main building. The Yemenise and Uzbekistani men were left to stand guard while the other 7, led by the two French, carried out a seek and destroy mission that involved locating and destroying all liquid Nitrogen tanks containing human embryonic stem cells. Only hours after their Commando-style landing, the Coalition of the Spilling had overturned an estimated 2 large tank-looking objects, tearing away any tubing attached and emptying their contents onto the floor. One source close to the NIH, speaking on condition of anonymity said, ‘I haven’t been inside since the invasion began, but based on the reports I’ve been hearing, it sounds like they may have overturned some vats of soup in the NIH kitchen. I’ve been in that kitchen once or twice and believe me, under the right circumstances, I may have mistaken the Split Pea for embryonic stem cells too.’

By nightfall, the Yemenise Soldier, rumored to have needed a bathroom break, was seen leaving his post, much to the dismay of the Uzbekistani. Negotiators were then able to establish a line of communication with the invading coalition via the lone door ward and have begun disseminating what they think is the underlying policy for the invasion.

‘It’s clear that the Coalition went into the NIH to liberate unborn fetuses with inadequate resources. Reports have put the number of women troops in the coalition at 3, maybe less. We know the Swazi and at least one of the French are women, but two or three wombs is just far too few wombs to get all those embryos out alive. Far too few wombs,’ said Special Forces Commander Jason Tarkington of the Atlanta SWAT team.

Tarkington was able to confirm that the overturned vats were indeed chicken noodle soup. It has also been claimed that the lives of at least two NIH scientists as well as the life of the coalition force from Yemen have been lost in this military operation. The Coalition has released a statement to the world clarifying their aim:

‘We nations have a clear-defined duty to rid the world of oppressors of humanity and we will act according to our moral and ethical compass. The United States poses imminent threat to untold numbers of unborn fetuses and we must not be deterred from sparing them destruction. Though we have found no unborn fetuses to this point, we will not be discouraged; our search continues. We will stop at nothing to save all unborn fetuses from destruction, even if it means we must sacrifice the lives of our own men and women to do so. We will not be dissuaded by The United States’ campaign of disinformation that ‘embryonic stem cell research is much more prevalent in the private sector’ and that we would be better served to examine and infiltrate publicly traded companies that deal in biomedical research. The number of Coalition lives lost is a small price to pay in this just and noble cause.’