Page 9 of Paparazzi

I confess that I enrolled in that contest, so I could have written the review today on my blog, but my luck ran out two weeks ago when I swooped into Thomas’ arms. I’ve never been a finalist for any competition, let alone win one. The embarrassing thing, though, is that I’m not entirely sure I enrolled in that contest for the review or because I was hoping to see Thomas and his blue eyes again. Since bumping into him, he has become my obsession, awakening the sixteen-year-old in me, fantasies included. He brought to life again that crush that I had long dismissed as irrational and typical of teenagers who fall in love with their idols. I’ll really start to worry when I start sticking the band’s posters on my walls.

I decide to show up in front of the record company building, regardless. There will undoubtedly be a lot of photographers there. It’s one of those classic over-advertised events, with a final press conference included, almost an official invitation for the paparazzi in the area. I’ll take some pictures of the winners, who will have their five minutes of fame. I’ll try and take a few shots of the Jailbirds, and then I’ll go home and continue my life as usual: looking for the unlucky star to be photographed in some awkward situation.

When the coffee machine starts bubbling and the glass carafe is filled, I pour a cup. I’d like to add some creamer, but I remember finishing it a few days ago. Dexter climbs to the kitchen counter, smells my mug, and looks at me disgusted.

“You better save the dry food in your bowl because we’re poor, and we need to ration.” Not that I’ve ever left my cat without food, but lately, I can’t afford to buy him too many of the treats that he loves so much.

I go back to my computer and take advantage of the early morning to finish a manual for one of my older clients. Their company produces cardboard packaging and needs to update internal manuals for employees at least a couple of times a year. It’s a job I hate—it’s boring and requires a massive effort of concentration, but they pay a few hundred dollars for a few hours of work, so every time they call, I accept without thinking twice.

“Admit it, you woke me up so early because you knew I had to finish this document today.”

Dexter meows as he rubs his nose against the corner of my laptop.

“You’re afraid to be left without food, aren’t you?” I almost challenge him with half a smile.

I have so few friends, beyond Emily, that often, the only conversations I have during the day are with my cat, and I’m not even sure he pays attention to what I say. In fact, he turns around, shows me his backside, and jumps from the coffee table to go to snuggle between the sheets.

*

As I predicted, the mob of photographers in front of the record company is impressive. I’m surprised the police aren’t already here to get us out of the way of traffic. With all the tourists in New York City during this festive time, a gathering like this is immediately kept an eye on by law enforcement to prevent someone ending up under a car. The barricades have already been placed, confirming that all this staging has been prepared for some time. There’s even a banner with the record company’s logo, sponsors, and a couple of big clothing brands, so winners can take selfies in front of it and post their photos on Instagram. I’m surprised they haven’t thought of a hashtag for the occasion. I should write to their press office and remind them of the basic rules of marketing.

“Hi Jack, how are you doing? How is Annabelle?”

Jack is a married man of over sixty with two grown children. At night, he works in a warehouse as a security guard, and during the day, he sleeps a few hours and then hangs out on the streets of New York to be a paparazzo. We often find ourselves at events like this, and, over time, I have gotten to know him better. Not that it’s his greatest aspiration to be out here photographing celebrities, but his wife Annabelle fell ill with cancer a few years ago, and to cover the expenses the insurance company refused to pay, he had to find a second job.

I first met him in front of a barricade, alone, looking like a lost puppy. I felt so bad for him, I introduced him to my narrow circle of trusted colleagues. There are so many places to cover, to take good shots, that we come together in small groups and divide into different areas. We let the others know when we spot a celebrity. Working alone becomes too complicated and expensive, in terms of energy and money, to think about surviving doing this job. Jack wouldn’t go far, so I tried to teach him as quickly as possible how to move. Over time, he’s become something like a friend.

“Baby Doll! What a pleasure to see you here. Annabelle’s fine. I took her for her check-up last week, and the cancer still doesn’t show up. It’s been two years now.” He tells me this with the happiness that only a person who has risked losing what is dearest in life can have. Now he can devote himself with less concern to paying off the debts that her illness incurred.

“I’m so glad! One of these days, I’ll come by and bring her that lemon cake Emily makes that she likes so much.” I’m barely able to tell him this before being swallowed up by the noise and turmoil rising among us. Apparently, a limousine with the lucky winners inside has just stopped in front of the red carpet and is letting the occupants out; they’re mostly teenage girls dressed like they’re at the Oscars, their phones ready in hand to document every single second. This event is more fake than my worst expectations. I imagined it would be a waste of time, but I didn’t think they would arrange something so far from the authentic, almost rough, image of the Jailbirds.

I take some photos; the kids parade practically all in a group. Within five minutes, the show is over, and it is clear the Jailbirds will never walk this carpet. They are already inside enjoying the show from some window upstairs.

“Quick and painless,” Jack laughs as we move away from the mob.

I already know this morning’s shots are entirely useless. No newspaper will pay for an agency picture when you just have to be here with a cellphone or fish from the winning kids’ social networks to find better photos than ours. It was still worth a try. If, out of a hundred tries, ninety-nine are bad, but one gives you the shot of the century, it will always be worth it.

“At least you can go home and spend some time with Annabelle. Did you sleep a few hours last night?” I ask him worriedly, taking in the deep, dark circles around his eyes and his hollowed-out face.

Jack smiles softly and rests his hand on my shoulder, and then pulls me into a hug. “We’re fine, Baby Doll, don’t worry, okay?”

I nod and watch him walk away to the nearest subway stop, among pedestrians who bump him without caring for the expensive camera inside his crossbody bag. They’re oblivious to the fact that this is actually one of his livelihoods and the reason Annabelle is still alive. I’d like to shout at them to be careful, not to break it.

I enter one of the alleys behind the record company, an area of Manhattan where you can breathe a little more, far from tourists. The difference between visitors and people working here, in the center of the world, is all in the walking. Tourists stroll, looking around with their noses up among the enormous skyscrapers, stopping suddenly in the middle of the sidewalk to look at the map on their cell phones or take a picture. The festively decorated shop windows create annoying traffic jams, with everyone stopping to immortalize the engineering masterpieces that fly the reindeer of Santa’s sleigh or run trains laden with presents inside fake tunnels, artificial snow descending at an almost hypnotic pace.

The people who live and work in Manhattan, on the other hand, walk fast without ever turning around, looking at people in front of them, unconsciously calculating trajectories and traffic light times. Months of trampling the same sidewalk make them experts on the subway-office journey, where even a single second can change the entire working day. If you have a job in this city, among these skyscrapers, they expect you to be available twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, three hundred and sixty-five days a year. You can never pull the plug, and even that miserable minute between the subway car and the office is a minute you could use to do something constructive. Whether it’s Christmas, New Year’s Eve, or the middle of summer, the people who work here don’t care how beautiful and magical this city is. They don’t have the time.

That’s why I love this café nestled between the walls of the offices, practically invisible. They are efficient, quick to serve you. You are in line behind people who know exactly what they want and do not even look at the price list on the wall behind the counter. Christmas decorations are also few and essential: a tree with warm lights and some garlands hanging on the walls. Some call it minimalist. I just see something simple and quick to set up, so as not to waste too much employees’ time. I’m pleased when I order my black coffee. I sit at one of the ample modern white counters next to the entrance and start working on my new blog post.

“So, you can survive even with your feet on the ground. You don’t have to be suspended over other people’s heads.”

A voice I recognize makes me raise my head. Next to me, holding a tray with four cups in his hand, Thomas is looking at me as if I were his favorite dish. I don’t know if I’m flattered or intimidated. He’s looking at me curiously, lingering on every inch of my face, like a photograph he wants to imprint in his memory, freckles included. It is not a lustful look. On the contrary, he seems genuinely happy to see me again, making my legs tremble and my stomach tighten.

“I thought one of the perks of being rich and famous was that you had an assistant who gets your coffee,” I reply, pointing at the tray.

He bursts out laughing, closing those blue eyes that choke my breath in my throat every time, and showing his perfect pearly whites. He grabs the stool next to me with a smooth gesture, sits, and rests the tray next to my laptop.

“I volunteered to come and get them. If they had forced me to smile for another selfie, I would have risked paralysis,” he explains, amused.

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