Page 4 of Mr. Picture Perfect
“That’s the spirit!” he exclaims, taking hold of my outreached hand and mistaking the gesture for a handshake. I suffer having my skull jostled by the power in his mighty hand and arm. I nearly drop the box, forced to hug it against my chest. He lets go of my hand abruptly. “Oh, and, uh, work on that smile before you head out. Part of the job is not scarin’ away the people you’re tryin’ to get a story from, y’know. Even if you’re not that kinda guy, fake it ‘til you are … or however the saying goes.” He pushes away from my desk—and I watch the stack of folders at last meet their doom, falling over onto my keyboard and scattering to the floor. Burton obliviously saunters back to his office, whistling to himself.
The box, I’m sad to report, also got crushed when I squeezed it to my chest. The tiny monstrosities, formerly smiling, now appear misshapen and angry, one of them having fallen over onto its side.
I just realized that’s me. A squished, unidentifiable thing on its side, with a face that scares people.
I’m a Jiggle-Wiggle.
“Oh mygoodness, Noah, sweetheart, you’re not ajello monster,” laughs Tamika an hour later when I find her at the festival. She is the bubbly intern I work with, a recent grad from Spruce High who now takes courses nearby at Fairview Community, as sweet as they come, sharp and quick-witted, with vibrant, attentive eyes, golden-brown skin, and cascading curls that hug her petite face. “I see you as more of a … hmm … cute marshmallow.”
I hug my camera to my chest, wincing as we push through the crowds on Main Street. I really, really hate crowds. “A cute what?”
“I mean, if we’re talking edible stuff. Otherwise you’re more of a skittish cat. Hey, don’t let Burton get to you, okay? He’s like the tough bit of meat everyone cuts around to get to the good stuff. He lacks … seasoning. Needs to be marinated longer. Should I keep it up with this food theme we’ve started? Oh, look! It’s the Tucker-Strongs! Mayor Strong is standing next to them! Take a shot!”
I can’t manage a shot of anything in this crowd. “Tamika, I … I think maybe this isn’t the right career path for me anymore.”
“Why? C’mon. Just because Boorish Burton tossed you into a pressure cooker?—Yikes, now that you’ve started me on the food stuff, I can’t stop.”
“I’m great behind the lens and behind the computer … I guess I’m great when I’mbehindthings. But not people. Talking, digging updirt… I’m not a town gossip.”
“But that’s literally what the newspaper is,” she says. “It’s the world’s first iteration of written gossip. The world’s original form of social media. That’s a little pearl I just heard my professor say in class last week. Hey, just leave the talking to me.” She gives me an encouraging pat. “I’mgreatwith people. It’s totally my thing.”
Being a theatre, yearbook, and newspaper girl herself in high school, Tamika is no stranger to social endeavors. She was in the auditorium at Spruce High when I had that humiliating audition experience, too. She was a freshman. She knows what happens when I open my mouth in front of people.
What she doesn’t know are the words I overheard before I left the office. I was crouched by my desk gathering my spilled folders off the floor—the ones Burton unknowingly knocked over—when I overheard his voice: “Nah, nah, already sent him to the festival.” I lifted my head slightly and peeked around the corner of my desk. Burton stood by the coffeemaker, phone pressed to his ear, back turned. “Yeah, I know, me too,” he carried on. “I said the same thing. Nah, he’s an okay photographer, it isn’t that. The guy just doesn’t understand people. Really, I’m serious, he almost pissed his pants when I told him to go to the festival and—What? Yes, that’s what I’m sayin’! How can you work at the Spruce Press and be afraid of people? Nah, dunno why he’s still here. I think his granddad used to run the paper or somethin’. Probably a favor.”
I pulled myself back behind the desk, afraid to be seen. On the drawer next to my head was a sticky note Tamika gave me last October when I was having a bad day. I kept it.
In pink letters, the note said:You got this! Keep smiling!
“You bet your ass this is his last chance,” said Burton. “Yep, my dad’s eyeballin’ a couple of recent grads to replace him. What’s that? Yeah, I can grab a bite. Whatever you want. Pizza. Will Cindy be there? Just wondering. She’s … nah, it’s not like that. I just … I dunno. She has a way of calmin’ me down, alright? Hey, whatever, keep makin’ fun of me. Thanks for lettin’ me vent, you punk. See ya.” Then I listened while Burton closed up his office and took off.
I sat in my desk chair, folders in my hand, and stared ahead at nothing. In the reflective screen of my computer monitor, I saw a dull and lifeless face I hardly recognized: my own.
I decided to practice a smile at myself. It was short-lived.
Even if you’re not that kinda guy, fake it ‘til you are. Interesting advice Burton had given me. I wonder if it’s the same advice he gives himself every day since being hired on by his dad.
Maybe he’s under pressure, too.
“Hey, Noah,” says Tamika, pulling me out of my thoughts. “If you stand over there by Ms. Huntington’s picture frames where there are less people, I think you might get a better shot of the mayor and her son. I’ll stay on this side of the street and try to get you a clear view, alright?”
She always has my back. I’m so thankful to have at least one friend in this town. I head across the street to find a spot. As usual, she’s right. I stand by the curb where it’s less crowded and easier to manage my camera, then lift it to my face and take a look.
At first, people are blocking the way. The shot is messy. I keep looking and focusing, waiting for the timing to be right, waiting for the mayor to make just the perfect expression I can capture, something that tells a story, something I can write about.
But the longer I stand here waiting, the more Burton’s words creep into my mind.This is his last chance.I adjust the focus on the camera. I can feel my hands growing sweaty, unsteady, trembling.My dad’s already eyeballin’ a couple of recent grads to replace him. I frown as I squint through the lens, now and then losing sight of the mayor and having to readjust.
Somewhere else in my brain, wiggly jello faces mock me.
Somewhere else, my mother’s sweet voice:They’ll just love it!
Somewhere else, I’m making squeaking noises on a big stage, except now I’m naked. Everyone is laughing, talking to each other, wondering what the hell is going on with this weirdo Noah dude.
Through the lens, I see Tamika. She’s shouting at me: “Take the shot!”
But I don’t see the mayor anymore. Where did she go? Where is her son Tanner? Her son-in-law Billy? The longer I look through the camera, the less I see. I find myself paralyzed with self-doubt and crippling uncertainty. I see so many people in front of me—happy faces, laughing ones, holding hands, strolling merrily along. None of them seem scared. None of them tremble, wring their hands, or worry over every word that comes out of their mouths.
How does everyone else make it look so easy?
