Part 10

(Go to Part 1 for the beginning.)

(Continued from Part 9)

 Desperate to become a photographer and hating that I borrow money from Mom and Dad to subsist, I call LA Magazine for work. The secretary has a good laugh at my suggestion of a meeting with the art director. Then can I drop off my portfolio? Sorry, she says without a trace of sorrow. We're too busy for drop-offs. Try back in a few months. Click. Now I'm ticked off and I tell myself, Don't get mad. Get even.

The magazine's towering Century City office is darkly tinted glass with sleek lines jetting up into the sky and as I enter its bowels I'm feeling more like a burglar than a photographer with my plan of slipping into the art director's office. The receptionist is preoccupied on the phone and several employees step out of an elevator. Quickly I join in, laughing when everyone else laughs. I'm afraid the pounding of my heart will give me away but I make it inside and pretend I know exactly where I'm going so no one will say in a cold, suspicious tone, Can I help you?

Unfortunately there are no names on the doors. I stick my head in an office and hold up my portfolio. Where's the art director? He needs to see this. I'm directed to Bill Curry's office, and I head down the hall as if it's the walk to the gallows. I want to turn around but I'm thinking, What do you have to lose? The art director spies me at his open door before I'm ready to make my entrance and says in a cold, suspicious tone, Can I help you? He's a balding middle-aged man with gray dress slacks and a blue button-down shirt. His striped tie is loosened and his sleeves are rolled up and he says, Well? I put my portfolio on his desk and say, I just wanted you to take a quick look but if you're too busy I understand, and what I'm really thinking is, If you're too freaked out and are about to call the burly security guards in the red sport coats who will probably take a twisted delight in knocking me to the floor, handcuffing me, and throwing me in jail then I'd just assume take a rain-check.

Reluctantly he takes my portfolio and says, I don't have time for this but I'll take a quick look. Any excuse to put off this damn paperwork, and I say, Thanks, Mr. Curry. I like that, he says. Mr. Curry. The new photographers come in here just out of art school and it's Bill this, and Bill that. I'm new in town, I say. I called first but your secretary wouldn't give me an appointment. That's what I pay her for, he says, to keep pushy photographers out of my gray hair. Slowly he flips through the book of my least horrible photos and he says kindly, I like your style because you don't try to be trendy. He pauses on a shot of Lori and says, There's a depth here that's a cut above the norm. Of course you need to build up your work, but you've got potential. What's your name? Frank. Frank Capri, I say repeating the name so it will have slightly more of a chance than winning the lottery for being remembered.

Ever think of photographing celebrities? Every day, I say. They're not always easy to work with, he says. We just shot a cover with a diva who was impossible, or maybe it was more the sycophant parasites around her who claim they know what's best for her when in fact they're running her career right into the frigging ground. The most important shoots always seem to go wrong and this one was no exception. The publicist insisted on editing the shots when he knew damn well we have a policy that doesn't allow for that. He got pissed and threatened he'd never make the actress available again. Can you imagine? What an ass-hole. It gets worse. We used one of the best photographers in town who does consistently great work until he shoots this actress for our cover. The shots turn out terrible and he apologizes and says he had an off day. The publicist said we butchered her and threatened a lawsuit. Mr. Curry looks off and mutters, What a fucking mess.

A secretary walks in and gives me the evil eye but before she can ask in a cold suspicious tone, Can I help you, Mr. Curry intercedes, This is Margaret. Margaret, this is.... Frank. Frank Capri, I remind him. Glad to meet you. I didn't know you had an appointment, Bill, she says, never taking her eyes off me. It was a last minute thing, Mr. Curry says with a sly grin. I thank Mr. Curry for his time and I'm a little emotional about it because it's my first big interview as a photographer and it seems to have gone okay even though I had to make my entrance as a burglar.

Mr. Curry motions to the window and says, There's a lot of punishment out there. I'm sure I don't have to tell you but this is a killer town for photographers. I wish you luck, Fred.

(to be continued every Tuesday)