Hi all! Some of y'all said you did want short stories, and I've had a few new subscribers enter the fray since I sent out my last email, so here are the first 3,000 words of "Perfect Shot."
This story is about a concert photographer who becomes obsessed and infatuated with the lead singer of an underground punk band, and becomes determined to get the "perfect shot" of (and for) him.
Perfect Shot
---
I am driving home listening to "Miss World" by Hole. My hands tap on the steering wheel; my eyes are wild. I can just tell. I'm not usually like this.
Jay and Andie came with me to Super Happy Fun Land tonight. We got a little buzzed and watched some mediocre music. I took pictures, like always. It's good for the bands, and good practice for me. Gets me in for free sometimes, too. Not that I really care either way. But it doesn't hurt.
"Lola!"
I had heard Jay's voice ping over to me like a siren. I was walking back with another beer. PBR: cheap and shitty. I'd normally frown at the poor selection, but you can't be a snob in The Scene. The punk scene, the underground. DIY music and shows, et cetera. You'd get kicked out, probably. At least socially blacklisted. I was once before, from the house/EDM crowd in Houston. I don't go around those events anymore. But that's something I don't talk about
"The bar was packed," I shrugged. Casual, if a little defensive.
Handing over my PBR was enough to save me from Jay's scolding. I had been gone a minute, to be honest -- mingling, taking some portraits. But what's it to her? She was just looking for something to complain about.
She took a hefty swig, then handed my (now much lighter) drink back with a wicked smirk. I frowned, chagrined by her greedy sip. Andie laughed. Her dark-lined eyes crinkled under the swinging light bulbs. I quickly thought to myself how those must be a fire hazard.
Andie, Jay, and I must have looked like a raggedy group. All of us were in beat-to-hell boots, threadbare socks. The works. I confess Jay looked the least treacherous of our trio, decked out in silver jewelry to match her extensively-pierced face and ears. Her black tank had a dangerously-low neckline, which made me feel embarrassed looking at her. I guess she did always like to have that effect on people. Intimidate, intrigue. Outperform.
Andie wore a paint-streaked denim vest and vintage button-down. The dark buttons on it matched her eyes, I remember noticing. Her jeans were smudged with some foreign materials, and ripped up high on the left thigh. Before we left the apartment, Jay warned her that her lace panties kept poking out; Andie said she didn't give a shit.
I had on a comically large leather coat, probably from some rotten old thrift store ages ago. My tights weren't ripped, but I figured at the beginning of the night that their luck may change. Unfortunately for the stockings, I turned out to be correct. Jay interrupted my scrutinizing.
"When are you guys heading out?" she grabbed my drink back for another swig, finishing the can. I went to complain, but Andie interrupted me.
"I'm chillin' for now. It's a nice night."
"Right? I was thinking that, too."
I flipped my hair back from where it had landed in front of my shoulders -- tucked my stringy bangs behind my ears. "I want to see Junky -- they're next, I think." Jay perked up noticeably at my mention of the band.
"I heard they're super good! The lead singer is supposed to be badass." Andie rolled her eyes at this supposition.
"I heard he's an ass."
"Oh, don't be a bummer, Andie." Jay swatted at her vaguely to emphasize her point. She's the type of person with a flair for the dramatic. And physical. Andie opened her mouth to sling back some cynical remark, but was interrupted by an announcement from the stage, "Thank you! Stick around a minute, Junky is up next!" Jay's eyes lit up; Andie rolled hers.
"Ooh, they're next!"
"Only creeps play the last set. Case in point."
I interrupted their bickering here, asking if they wanted to get closer to the stage. They agreed.
"You owe me a beer though, Jay."
"Boo."
"Me and Andie will be at the front, okay?" Jay rolled her eyes, but nodded and headed off for a replacement drink for me. Andie clapped an arm around my shoulder, armpit odor hitting me like a truck. I tried not to make a face, but I don't know if it worked. Still, forward we walked together, to the pit.
I extracted myself from Andie's pungent clutches, patting my camera bag, hanging lovingly from my left shoulder, landing at my right hip.
"I'll catch you guys after the set?" Andie smiled and nodded, waving me off. She might've said something, but I turned away too fast to catch it.
I stood at the front of the crowd after shoving through unceremoniously. No "excuse me"s, no "sorry, coming through." Nobody gives a damn at these things, I've learned. All it gets you is rolled eyes and an unmoving crowd. So, forward I pushed through the audience: gruffly, fists tucked to my chest, elbows out slightly to give my movement a bit of an edge. People probably glared; I didn't care. I had somewhere to be.
Eventually, I landed myself a great spot right at the makeshift "barricade." I remember turning my camera on, angling it upwards, towards the bassist and drummer.
I aimed, first, at the bassist -- a dark-skinned boy with more piercings than Jay. He seemed to notice my camera, and focused his gaze as far away from it as possible. After getting a few practice shots of him, I turned to the drummer, never lifting my eyes from the camera's viewfinder.
(I like to photograph as if I'm utterly confined to the view of my camera -- like I'm meant to be there, and only there. It helps me.)
The drummer was a curvy girl, and extremely pale. She had on orange eyeshadow which made her look ghoulish to me. Still, I was intrigued by her. She wore dark teal pants and a bright orange tank top; I wondered if she signed up to be the token "eccentric" of the band, or if she just gravitated towards that role naturally. Then someone stepped in front of my camera, blocking my shot.
I zoomed out, but the figure was too close, so I pulled my face back from the lens and found myself staring up at a god. He was lit from behind, looking like a Renaissance-era-angel, face smirking down at me. I remember blushing, then saying to myself, "Oh my god." Then, he spoke.
"What's up everyone! I'm Lincoln, this is Blue," the drummer waves, "and Omar," then the bassist, "and we are Junky. 1, 2, 3, 4!"
Then, Junky started to play, so I lifted my camera, faced the stage, and tried to get one truly perfect shot of him -- Lincoln. Lincoln. Lincoln.
---
And now I'm here. Driving home with a run in my tights from catching them on the bathroom stall door, where I ran after a few of Junky's songs, desperate for a brief reprieve from taking photos of the most beautiful man I'd ever seen. I am the girl you know can't look you in the eye. And, embarrassingly, I couldn't look him in the eye. I press "Next," uncomfortable. I can't shake the sensation that the lyrics are looking through me.
Next song: Zero, by the Smashing Pumpkins. Hearing, I'm your lover, I'm your zero, is a bit much for me right now. I turn the volume all the way down and watch the songs change, in silence, every few minutes as I drive home.
---
"These photos are amazing, Lola!"
Jay's voice whips me out of my silent stupor. I'm in my bedroom, going through the pictures from the night, while Jay and Andie sit on my bed and watch me. They're eating strawberry ice cream. Mine sits on my desk, melting pathetically. I thank Jay half-heartedly -- the pictures are mediocre at best. She wouldn't know better, though. She doesn't have my eye.
"This was Junky, right?"
"Yeah. Andie's favorite," I shoot back, teasing. Andie scrunches up her nose, and I notice that her face is still crusted-over with makeup from last night.
"The lead singer was such a douche."
"I thought he was cute!" Jay smiles, teeth dazzling.
"Me too," I admit. Cute is an understatement. I would make a religion out of him, given the chance.
I ask Andie and Jay if they remember his name -- Lincoln -- before looking him up on Instagram. I hadn't forgotten, but I figured if I admitted that "Lincoln" is already etched into my neural pathways, I'd get a lot of shit from Andie, and a lot of teasing from Jay.
Search: lincoln junky band houston tx
Nothing. I frown.
"I don't think he has an Instagram." Jay and Andie glance at each other, eyes widening. Jay laughs.
"Oh my god, are you stalking already?"
"He was just cute. It's whatever." I am fucked.
---
Hours later, I am in my room alone. I haven't stopped editing the pictures from last night all day; I took one break, reluctantly, because I was about to piss my pants. I think to myself: this might be the start of something fanatic and weird. But I don't stop. Bikini Kill plays from my laptop speakers.
How do I see him again? How do I get closer to him? A stage is a wide divide. I need him on the ground with me. I think through the events of last night. Beers. Bathroom. Eyeliner. Sticky floors. Spray painted walls. Bands (Junky). Band members (Blue, Omar). Superstar (Lincoln). One step forward, two steps back; that leaves me at "Blue."
The good thing about being a photographer is that you have a quick "in" with anyone prone to bouts of egomania. For example, the overlooked drummer of a band, which, with or without her, will continue rising to underground stardom. That's a powerful card to hold: I see everything, but I want to see YOU. And tempting to be on the receiving end of. I go to Junky's band Instagram, which I uncovered with Jay and Andie earlier, and send Blue a private message.
"hi blue !! im lola, i do photography at shows and just saw ur band yesterday. i wanted to ask, do u guys need any promo photographs at the moment?"
Send. And wait, while Bikini Kill sings on, your palm, the back of my neck, it means more than any porn. I shiver.
Tonight goes by like a shard of ice down my throat. Slow and sharp. I keep checking Instagram, which shows that Blue is active. She even makes a post with another photographer's work from the previous night. Knife to my gut, fuck, fuck, fuck.
The bad side about being a photographer? Your advantage with bands/DJs/superstars, of whatever caliber, is expendable. They don't need you. I look at myself in my now-black laptop screen and try to get that fact through my stupid head. This big band doesn't need me. Fine, my pictures are objectively better than this other fucker's, but it doesn't matter. I am not needed.
Maybe, I tell myself, my message is buried in her "message requests." I'm not being ignored, I reason; I'm just hidden behind other, more important people. That doesn't actually help to think about, I realize. I also realize, now, that this album has been on repeat all day. I say a quick prayer that I don't wake up in the morning and hate it.
Waking up. Sleep. I guess that's something I should aim for now. I go to my bed, voices full of agitation and shame swimming in my head, and dream about a picture of Lincoln that won't hold still. Quicksand imagery of a beautiful man.
---
It's tomorrow, now -- Sunday. Junky has posted a last-minute show flyer, and I will attend. Jay and Andie don't know I'm going. Not that it needs to be a secret; as awful as it sounds, I just don't want them getting in my way.
Blue still hasn't opened my DM. Which, of course, is incredibly pretentious and annoying. But it's fine; it gives me a chance to come to the show without being noticed, yet, which is good.
I get ready at 7PM. No ripped stockings, I wear black leg warmers instead. I wrap them around my chunky loafers with care. I leave my stomach exposed to reveal my navel piercing, hoping to attract some sort of attention I usually reject. I wear dark, sharp eyeliner, and layers of shimmery silver eyeshadow. Sexy, hopefully. Or at least a decent attempt at it.
As I'm pulling my tattered shorts up, Andie knocks at my door.
"What's up?" I ask. I pray they aren't coming to the concert.
"Jay wants to go to a show tonight. You wanna come?"
"What show?" Crap, crap, crap.
Andie sighs. "Junky and whoever else."
I curse the day I was born, then reply, "Okay, sure! Give me a minute to get dressed." I'm already dressed, but she doesn't need to know I was planning to go alone. She'd be pissed. It is sort of a selfish thing to do -- sneak past your roommates, act like you're too cool to be seen with them. But whatever.
Twenty minutes later, we are seated comfortably in my car. I suggested driving separately, citing a (fake) headache that could cause me to leave early, but Jay protests that I can pop a painkiller and push through. So I pretend to swallow two Advil, and we make our way to the White Swan. I get closer and closer to seeing angelic Lincoln.
As I walk out the door, I get a notification from Instagram:
"hey lol. i'll ask the band& lyk"
I stare at the lackluster response, then realize I'm scowling. Jay calls out to me from the passenger seat, and I run out to them.
"What happened?" she asks.
"Nothing!" I lie.
---
At the White Swan, Lincoln screams into the microphone, and I slither around the pit trying to get a decent picture. I would usually pretend to be taking pictures of the other, boring band members, but I don't have it in me to bother with that today. Lincoln is made for my camera. If I'd been paying better attention, I guess I might have noticed Blue glaring at me over her drum set, but I hadn't been, so that little detail escaped me.
As I'm taking what might be my first half-alright picture of Lincoln, my finger slips off the button, slick with sweat. I realize immediately that my ratty bangs are stuck to my forehead; I touch them and they are crusty with my body's salt. I wipe my warm, wet hand off on my stomach, just to touch more sweaty skin. I forgot I left my stomach exposed. My cheeks burn with shame.
I push through the crowd, clutching my slippery camera to my tits, aware of seemingly everyone staring at me. My audience is split 50-50 between disgust and lust. Rosy cheeks turn to tomatoes on my face. Andie and Jay likely have noticed my sweat-soaked trample through the crowd, but I'd rather pretend that they're outside for a smoke and don't see me.
Once I've reached the final row of punk-rocker assholes, I turn towards the stage and pant heavily. My body temperature seems to be dangerously high. And isn't it just my luck that Lincoln catches my eye, wet eyelashes drooped over them, and winks at me. The waking image of cool composure, I book it to the rancid bathrooms.
My mind races like the other day driving home. Lincoln winking at me. Lincoln's eyes, Lincoln's hair. His slick and shiny upper lip. His arms on the guitar. Fuck, his arms, his eyes, his body. His waist.
And then I catch a brutal shooting look at myself in the mirror. Ugly, vile -- wet with sweat. Something is sick about me, here. Lincoln looking at me. It makes me feel sick, so I go into a stall with a door that doesn't shut (the other stall has no door at all) and dry heave until, dissatisfied and full of mental sick, I give up and turn to the sink.
The water is cold, so I turn the handle. It immediately becomes scalding, so I bring myself to live with the freezing water instead. The change is jarring for my hands at first, but I give into it and it becomes fine. Junky plays a riff that reminds me of Liz Phair's "Fuck and Run." I woke up in your arms; and almost immediately, I felt sorry. I shake the lyrics out of my head and dry my hands.
The music goes quiet and for a second I think I'm hallucinating the sudden silence. Quickly, though, I'm overcome with the need to pat away the sweat dripping from my face and hair. Paper towels are scarce, here, but I try to make do with the scraps leftover from concerts past.
Pat dry. Soak in cold water, pat my face. Pat dry. Repeat. I'm three cycles into this spontaneous ritual when Junky's drummer (oh my god) walks in.
Tonight Blue's hair is pulled into many tiny ponytails -- it's shorter than I remember, or had she cut it? I don't know. Dark, too. Moody, spiky, dark hair pulled into barbs around her face. I think it would look better if she'd used some gel, hairspray, or something. Might've fully armored her. But instead, her hair hangs spiky but soft around her. It looks young. Pebbles and Bam-Bam? Someone like that.
After a second, I realize with a start that I should say something. Girl-drummer Blue is frowning. God, I was staring at her ridiculous hair.
"I like your hair." I'm an idiot. Idiot.
"I like it out of my face." I'm alarmed. She's giving that bullshit response? It's obviously a statement on her part: "I am edgy, hear me roar!" Without intention, my face twists into condescension.
She moves, stony-faced, until she's uncomfortably close to me; I move without speaking and give her the sink. Her face twitches evilly. A fragment of a smirk.
As it turns out, I hate her deeply.
And that's where we'll leave off today!! Hope you guys enjoyed, I'll update once I have another 2,000 - 3,000 words done. Thanks for reading!