Frank Capri's Memoir

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2005-10-19T10:23:00.000-04:00

(Go to Part 1 for the beginning.)

Shooting Stars in Hollywood will soon be sent to publishers. If you'd be interested in buying a book from the first printing, send us an e-mail at fcapri@nyc.rr.com with "Shooting Stars" in the subject line. We'll add your name to the mailing list for advance copies with no commitment to buy until the date of publication. In the meantime we'll keep you updated with coming news. Or just send us your thoughts. Thanks.

Peace,
Frank

Chapter 29 (Final Chapter)

2005-09-26T20:31:00.000-04:00

(Go to Part 1 for the beginning.)

(Continued from Part 6)

The outdoor newsstand I frequent is at Hollywood and Vine where Henry, a gruff unshaven bear of a man smiles at everyone through a rectangular frame of competing magazine covers. No, kid, the new Cosmo ain’t out yet. You’ve called 50 times. Hold on a sec’. Looks like you’re in luck. The truck is pullin’ up now. I make the drive from Santa Monica to Hollywood in record time for the Pinto and before I can ask for it, Henry hands me the new Cosmo. The Camp Beverly Hills ad is on page 195 and I’m grinning at the quarter page photo. There’s Gina with her head tilted upward as if taunting the gods. I show Henry the credit in the lower right hand corner. Photo: Frank Capri. Henry raises his eyebrows. Hey, I’m talkin’ to a big-shot. I’ve got just enough money for two copies but Henry gives me four and says with a wink, So we were a little short on the delivery. Hey, you gonna remember me when you’re famous? Of course, I say, and he says, Of course not.

PLEASE NOTE: THIS IS THE END OF THE BLOG!

AS SOON AS ADVANCED COPIES OF THE ENTIRE BOOK ARE AVAILABLE, I WILL LET YOU KNOW. THANKS TO ALL MY LOYAL READERS AND I HOPE THAT SHOOTING STARS IN HOLLYWOOD INSPIRES YOU TO MAKE YOUR OWN DREAM HAPPEN.

PEACE,
FRANK

(to be continued every Tuesday)

Part 28

2005-09-21T10:48:00.000-04:00

(Go to Part 1 for the beginning.)

(Continued from Part 27)

The nanosecond the proofs are ready I’m at my photo lab. The manager of Focus hands me an envelope reeking of photo chemicals and says, Nice work. Gerrard is intensely critical and when he says, Nice work, it’s high praise. Quickly I open the envelope expecting contacts that confirm the nightmare. But the lighting is precise and everything worked, especially the extra special touch, the four-point star burst on Gina’s sunglasses. All in all they’re the least horrible shots I’ve ever taken.

At Camp Beverly Hills I nervously show the proofs. Jeff studies them for an eternity then breaks the silence. Not bad. Not bad at all, Capri. Now lemme borrow the negs. Yeah, borrow, not keep. Sure, we’ll give you a check for your expenses but you gotta give us the negs. I don’t know why you’re being so difficult. Okay, have it your way. You keep the negs even though it’d be a lot more simple if we kept ‘em. Jesus, for somebody who walks in off the street you’re pretty touchy about the damn negs. Guess we’ll have to order prints from you instead of make ‘em up ourselves which would be a helluva lot easier. Fine, we’ll do it your way. I think from here on out you’re our man. I don’t see how anyone with a heartbeat can look at these shots and not do a double-take. Okay if we run a shot in Cosmo? No, I’m not kidding.

Yeah, you’ll get a photo credit. I can’t believe you just walked in here with no damn appointment, just your book and your balls and now you’re our man.

Jeff pulls out a checkbook and says, I’m adding a little something extra. The amount is twice what I would have asked for and I’m grinning again and shaking his hand until he’s dizzy. Next stop -- Jeff’s bank. I ask the teller for small bills so it’ll look like more. The feel of the money rivals the pleasure of sex, and after filling up the Pinto with Extra instead of Regular I pull over at Ben Franklin’s coffee-shop. Instead of the usual appetizer-meal, I splurge on the lunch special, complete with apple pie al la mode. After the banquet there’s a private toast. I raise my coffee cup and look out the window to the cars zooming by on Sunset. There’s a tear in my eye and I’m thinking, Finally, my first Big Break.

(to be continued every Tuesday)

Part 27

2005-09-12T15:00:00.000-04:00

(Go to Part 1 for the beginning.)

(Continued from Part 26)

The model doesn’t have to be good, she has to be perfect, I tell the booker at Wilhelmina. For two days I interview novice models in the lobby of the Beverly Hills Hotel, models who desperately need new shots for their portfolios.

The New Faces, as the agency calls them, arrive in clusters and when one such constellation of pulchritude arrives I discover a star of such shining magnitude that it’s difficult not to be rude and stare at her which I know will only hurt and piss off the other models. I look at her book last to be alone with her and tell her that she’s the one I’ve been looking for.

There’s a skeptical smile that keeps coming to Gina’s mouth as if she expects the worst in people. Though short on the charm, she’s long in the legs, and her precisely even face and pleasantly uneven body takes my breath away, the kind of arresting beauty that causes car accidents. I ask her to wear a bikini for the shoot and tell her I’m looking for a swimming pool for the setting. My boyfriend lives up in the Hollywood Hills and he’s got a big pool in the backyard that’s just waiting for us. She tells me that Troy was a fake evangelist who made a killing off his parishioners in Tennessee. When you hear him preach you can’t help but give him the shirt off your back, she says. That’s the way he has with people and I guess if people are stupid enough to give him their money they deserve to be taken. And there goes her skeptical smile.

On the day of the shoot I’m surprised that Troy is not much to look at with his mop of curly hair and scrawny build and I feel a pang of jealousy as Gina snuggles into him wearing a short robe that’s a crime against nature because it’s covering such perfect form. It’s quite a house, I say awkwardly. Paid for by the light of Christ, Troy says with a sparkle of mischief in his eyes. If you’ll excuse me I’ve gotta work on my script, a story of repentance, brother, about where I went wrong. Yes, I admit it. I took merciless advantage of the ignorant and the elderly. The wealthy ignorant and elderly, Gina adds. But that’s behind me now, he says. I most sincerely confessed my sins, stepped out of the darkness, and started over in the light of Jesus. I was at rock bottom, and he stares down as if looking into an inferno then lifts his eyes which are beginning to tear. I tried to take my life and meet my Maker before my time. Wanna see my wrists? Don’t encourage him, Gina says, and she pulls me down a hallway. The ways of the Lord are Great and Mysterious, Troy yells, and he aims his index finger at me like a gun. Hear me, brother. Walk in His light before it’s too late! Is he for real? I ask. Depends on the day, Gina says, but I’ll tell you one thing, whatever he does he finds a way to turn it into gold.

The pool is at the edge of a cliff overlooking dozens of other cliff-side homes with their own pools. I load up my Nikon FM and Gina slips off her robe, revealing a sparse black high-cut bikini. Do you want me oiled? When my eyes get to her hand I see she’s holding a tropical butter lotion which sends my imagination in the wrong direction. Oil is good, I say, and she begins a head-to-toe massage that makes me turn to distract myself with a half dozen unnecessary light-meter readings while muttering, I’m a professional, I’m a professional....

Gina slips on a CAMP BEVERLY HILLS T-shirt, the letters arced in a semi-circle between two palm trees. Does my bathing suit top show through the T-shirt? and before I can reply she unhooks the top and tosses it aside. Natural is good, I say. Eyeing herself with hubris in a hand-mirror, she slicks her shoulder-length hair back for a dramatic wet look.

Our dance begins at the pool’s edge. There might as well be no film in the camera for the first shots which only serve to loosen us up. I woo Gina with the preaching of photographers. Beautiful. Good, good. That’s it. Beautiful. Gina moves fluidly, giving my camera one gift after another, and I tell her to put on her sunglasses. When we’re warmed up its time to put my plan in effect and make real the burning image in my mind. I attach a star filter to the lens and say, Get everything wet except your face. Gina submerges to her chin then rises slowly, causing the Camp Beverly Hills T-shirt to cling to every curve. Next thing I know I’m wading into the water in my clothes. Anything for a picture that transcends ordinary.

I glide closer, like an alligator set on devouring her. She mounts an attack of her own,spontaneously slipping into poses that nearly immobilize me with rapture. Our dance is in the danger zone and now there’s no holding back. The clicks of the camera keep tempo, moving from andante to arpeggio.

Raise your chin higher, I say. The image looks good. Damn good. I’m tempted to settle for it, especially since its near the end of our shoot, but one of my adages comes to mind: Good is never good enough. A little higher, I say, knowing that I’m risking an abrupt change in the model’s mood, from sensual to pissed off. Gina obliges and just as the sun appears on her shades a reflection explodes into a four-point star. That’s the moment I’ve been searching for…the dream that I wanted to make real…and I snap the shutter. The dazzling image lingers in my mind and seems the culmination of everything we had been building to, and it’s not until we finish that we suddenly become aware of the fact that we’re utterly exhausted.

Good shots, I say. How can you tell without seeing them, Gina asks. It’s a gut feeling, I say. I just know. But that evening the confidence deserts and I’m tossing and turning with images of disaster. All the shots are as black as night.

(to be continued every Tuesday)

Part 26

2005-08-30T10:05:00.000-04:00

(Go to Part 1 for the beginning.)

(Continued from Part 25)

Flipping through LA Magazine I’m looking for terrible photo ads, the more terrible the better. I can’t call up a boutique that’s using the work of visual icons like Avedon or Scavullo and say, Tired of success? How ‘bout a novice with a 17 year old Nikon that has a busted light-meter? A sufficiently horrible ad for a boutique called Camp Beverly Hills catches my eye. The photo of a model in T-shirt and jeans is underexposed and slightly out of focus which delights me no end. I pop in the boutique on Little Santa Monica Boulevard. The clothes are casual hip military-style. Jeff, an owner, happens to be in and I say, Lend me a few T-shirts and I’ll show you what I can do. He hems and haws and I reassure him, You pay only if you like the shots. You’ve got nothing to lose. We shake and I suppress the excited grin of a mad man. Jeff doesn’t share my enthusiasm and I say, Don’t worry. I’m going to give you great shots. I’m not worried about the shots, Jeff says. I’m worried that I’m not going to get the merchandise back.

(to be continued every Tuesday)

Part 25

2005-08-22T14:11:00.000-04:00

(Go to Part 1 for the beginning.)

(Continued from Part 24)

My new home in Santa Monica is a pre-WWII three-story apartment building that has a rust-colored Spanish tile roof, the kind my boyhood home had in Falls Church, Virginia. It’s only five minutes from the Pacific and I can taste the salt in the breeze. Out front is a winding cobblestone path that cuts through a courtyard speckled with red beaugonvillea. The landlady, a frail woman with snow white hair, gives me my keys and says, Hope you don’t mind being the only tenant under a hundred, Mr. Capri. If you want to meet some pretty young thing you’re not going to find her in this relic, I can tell you that. Only widows here and as soon as they lay eyes on you they’ll adopt you as their grandson and talk your ear off. My advice is to give’em a smile, that’s all, and keep walking.

My room is big and airy and in the corner is a Murphy-bed that flips up into the
closet to save space. Another benefit of the Murphy is that no has to see whether you made the bed. What I love most are the floor-to-ceiling windows. The shafts of light streaking in remind me of the summer of 1967 and the wealth of light I had in European hostels.

Those were the good old days when my folks still had money, allowing my brother Ralph and I to travel throughout Europe by car. We would stay at simple inns that seemed like palaces because of the glorious long windows, portals for the sun’s gift that would bathe the rooms golden. It was an awakening for me, an urgent need to express myself more through photography. Even to consider taking pictures as my life’s work. The notion that one could touch others with one’s creations filled me with reverence for artists, for painters of light. Ralph, however, was of a more practical bent. In Montmarte, he motioned to the impoverished artists along the Seine who were selling their paintings to stay alive. They were gaunt and in shabby clothing. You want to become an artist? Ralph said. Then take a good look cuz this is your life.

(to be continued every Tuesday)

Part 24

2005-08-15T10:30:00.000-04:00

(Go to Part 1 for the beginning.)

(Continued from Part 23)

Four months of portraits for LA Magazine and a dozen portfolios for Wilhelmina models and I have enough savings to move into my own place. I thank Francesca for taking me in and she thanks me for giving her an improved headshot. You should look into modeling,I say, and she shrugs and says, One of these days you’ll have to do a portrait of Blackie, and I’m thinking, I’d rather clean Mrs. Wesley’s toilets. Francesca hugs me tight. We only made love that one special day but the memory constantly floats back. Sometimes the hunger to make love again is unbearable but Francesca keeps a certain distance and I figure that maybe we were only meant to be intimate that once. Still I hope she’ll change her mind. I hate goodbyes, she says, and looking into her eyes I wonder what the future will hold for us. Maybe we’ll start dating again and become a couple if she doesn’t mind the crick in her neck from looking down. Then again maybe we won’t stay friends. Maybe if she becomes a big-shot actress and I become a big-shot
photographer we won’t want to have anything to do with each other. We’ll be amnesiacs and it’ll be Frank who? and Francesca who? because neither of us will want to be reminded of the struggle.

Francesca’s sweet voice snaps me to the present. At first I thought that by taking you in I was doing you a favor but you helped me at least as much as I helped you. I saw how hard you fought for what you wanted. It got me out of the dumps. Now I’m getting out there and hitting auditions again. I’ll never forget you, Frankie. We hug again and over her shoulder I see Blackie in the window flaring his evil eyes and giving me a little smile that says, Good riddance.

(to be continued every Monday)

Part 23

2005-08-08T12:03:00.000-04:00

(Go to Part 1 for the beginning.)

(Continued from Part 22)

The next morning, while Francesca is out on a temp job, I call Bill Curry, the art director of LA Magazine, desperately hoping he’ll have an assignment. Capri? Oh, the one who popped in my office. Can’t talk right now. A flaky photographer canceled on us at the last minute. Helluva jam. You think you can handle it? Okay, I’m gonna gamble on you. I want you to take a portrait of an airline attorney at his office to illustrate a lead story. I’ve seen the guy on TV. It’s like he’s carved out of wood. Throw a bucket of cold water on him if you have to but lemme see that he’s alive.

He’s expecting you, the secretary says, and she leads me into the attorney’s opulent office. My eyes rest on a Picasso, and the lightly bearded lawyer says, That’s an original, not a print. I back away so I won’t knock it off the wall and prompt the attorney to yell, Sold! A book-lined conference room acts as the backdrop for my shoot, and in order to soften the glare of my cheap flash, I bounce the light off the ceiling. The attorney, in a perfectly pressed three-piece pin-striped suit, stands before my camera with such rigidity that I have to blink to see if he’s real. A little more serious, I say. Just kidding. He laughs loudly and I snap the shutter which breaks the ice and I tell him to pretend he’s in court trying a case. My client is innocent, your honor, he says, and I’ll demonstrate why. Use your hands, I say, and pretty soon he’s more Italian than I am, waving and pointing and trying his case with conviction. I object, he yells, startling me. Good, I say, now turn to that window and fix your eyes on something. I like that plant, he says. I tell him the plant is perfect but to remember that the plant is not a plant. It’s a jury. The moment the shoot ends the light in the attorney’s eyes goes dim and his face falls flat. My secretary will show you out, he says.

(to be continued every Tuesday)

Part 22

2005-08-01T17:10:00.000-04:00

(Go to Part 1 for the beginning.)

(Continued from Part 21)

Stretched out on a celestial couch, I hear Blackie meowing like mad from Francesca’s bedroom. Francesca says, You big baby. Stop being so jealous. Blackie keeps it up and as I’m drifting off I’m wondering if Blackie was once like me, a lonely stray on the street that was rescued by Francesca’s kindness.

Francesca and I are getting along famously over the next two weeks but Blackie is still a big jealous baby. He hisses, flaring his evil eyes to defend his home turf from The Invader. This evening when Francesca comes home tired from temp work, I greet her at the door and lead her by the hand to the roof of the building. The stark rectangular deck has been transformed into a tropical rooftop eatery. Next to the potted palm tree I lugged up four flights of stairs is a table-for-two set with a red and white checkered tablecloth, long red candles, pasta, and cheap wine. It’s a small thank you, I say, and Francesca puts her hand to her heart. After dinner I hit the Play button on the tape recorder stashed behind the palm and Christopher Cross sets us Sailing. We’re slow dancing in a cool breeze and I begin to fret. This is too perfect. Back inside Francesca’s apartment we finish off the wine and the effect emboldens me to try and make peace with Blackie. I get down on my hands and knees and wiggle a square carpet piece. That’s his favorite toy, Francesca says. Look, Blackie. See what Frankie has for you. It’s working because Blackie seems to be moving his tail with excitement and crouching low in the attack position of his ancestors. Com’on, Blackie, get it. He waits and waits and I’m wondering if he’ll ever get off his fat haunches. I jiggle the carpet piece faster and suddenly he springs. Instead of going for the carpet piece, however, he leaps over it, quite deliberately, and sinks his claws into my hands. Every obscenity I’ve ever known is emancipated while I raise up with Blackie, the cat who surely was named for his heart instead of his fur. Shaking him loose I go to the bathroom and nurse my wounds with cold water. Francesca runs in and applies antiseptic, band-aids, and apologies for Blackie’s behavior. She picks up Blackie and cradles him against her breasts making me envious of his position in life.

I think it’s okay to pet him now, she says. Blackie is too comfortable to hiss or flare his evil eyes so I pet his spiteful little head and my stroking is almost against Francesca’s lovely breasts. We’re looking at each other soulfully and for all I know I’m poking Blackie in the eye. Blackie leaps off and all I see are Francesca’s full open lips. She seems to be breathing hard and I take it as a sign. Gently I take her face in my bandaged hands and kiss her lightly on the lips. She doesn’t recoil in disgust and Blackie doesn’t attack again so I kiss her deeper, one kiss leading to another. We help each other undress her and suddenly its as if I’m in the Louvre staring with rapture at sculptural curves and enticing eyes. There are surprises in the love-making. Good surprises. In photography, I am The Director, but in this art form we collaborate. Two alternating currents, yielding and directing, then directing and yielding. A passionate painting unfolds, and in the end we both yield to blissful sleep.

(to be continued every Tuesday)

Part 21

2005-07-25T13:18:00.000-04:00

(Go to Part 1 for the beginning.)

(Continued from Part 20)

My heap follows Francesca’s heap to her one bedroom apartment in East Hollywood and she introduces me to her black cat Blackie and starts whipping up an omelet. It’s been eons since I’ve had a home cooked meal and even the sound of the eggs sizzling is bliss. I’m doing my best not to drool and Francesca sets the kitchen table with a veggie omelet, home fries, fresh squeezed orange juice, steaming Chamomile, and croissants with marmalade. As we’re eating I make myself put down my fork now and then so I won’t break any speed records.

Sharing a passion for movies, Francesca, who’s obviously a spur-of-the-moment woman, suggests we go see Kramer vs. Kramer. Do you mind if I follow you in my car? I ask. Mine is acting up, which is stretching the truth because while my wreck-on-wheels is acting up, the real reason I don’t want to give her a ride is so that she doesn’t see by the suitcases and junk crammed in the backseat that my car is my home. Help is one thing; pity another.

In the darkened theatre I almost have to pinch myself to make sure I’m not in a dream. We’re not holding hands but we’re sitting close and the warmth of her shoulder and the brushing of her leg makes me think that I should see the film again because all I can think about is Francesca instead of Kramer vs. Kramer. More than the film, I'm remembering the warmth of her body and the alluring scent of her perfume.

We take a window booth at a Denny’s coffee-shop on Hollywood Boulevard and I’m only half-listening to Francesca because her deep blue eyes are hypnotically drinking me in like whirlpools. Wasn’t Dustin incredible, and Meryl amazing! Meryl’s real name is Mary Louise Streep, and I say, Louise is my Mom’s name. It’s so inspiring to see great acting, don’t you think, and what I think is that my heart is giving the woman in front of me rave reviews and I’d better slow things down. Meryl married a sculptor, she says. It must be so intense having another artist as a soul-mate, and that makes me wonder if Francesca and I could ever be a couple. Francesca is a little taller than me but I don’t care about the looking up if she doesn’t care about the looking down.

I’m having the time of my life and my feet seem a mile off the ground when Francesca asks, Where do you live? I’m too ashamed to point to my Pinto in the parking lot but she does it for me and I wince, seeing that a spot light from the roof of the coffee shop is showcasing my car’s incriminating interior. We sit there with down-turned faces till the waitress comes by with the check.

At Francesca’s home we’re standing at her doorstep and I’m thinking the sooner I’m out of her life the better. I take her hand and I’m ready to say sayonara when she says, As an actress I’ve gotta trust my intuition, and my intuition tells me you’re a good person and someone I can trust. You might be another Jack the Ripper but I don’t think so. You’re welcome. You came to my rescue today, Frank. Now I’d like to help you a little if you’ll let me. Don’t say no before you hear me out. I’ll give you the couch in the living-room. As long as you’re out looking for work and an apartment you’re welcome to stay. Wanna be my roomie? My eyes shine and I’m grateful that we’re in the shadows. I’d love to be your roomie, Francesca.

(to be continued every Tuesday)

Part 20

2005-07-19T10:55:00.001-04:00

(Go to Part 1 for the beginning.)

(Continued from Part 19)

A week of sleeping in my car decimates my dream of becoming a photographer and fills me with gloom. Instead of showering every day I take hand baths in public restrooms, focusing on the sink to avert the disapproving stares and cold smirks.

Its noon on Saturday and I make a welcome discovery -- loose change behind the front car seat. Enough to buy peanut butter. I’m standing with the posture of a Neanderthal in a slow line at the grocery store and grumbling, What’s holding everything up?! I’m famished. The culprit is an inconsiderate screwball who is arguing with the cashier. Everyone in line is staring daggers at the customer for the inconvenience. I can’t see the inconsiderate screwball but when I finally get a good look my daggers suddenly melt. The source of the irritation is drop-dead gorgeous. Long brown hair and a form that should be in the Louvre. She glares at the cashier and says, I ask you to take care of the fruit and you throw it. Why?! The cashier gives her a Who cares? look and tells her she treats her stuff like everybody else’s stuff and to move on unless she wants her groceries delivered in which case she has to fill out a form. I don’t want a delivery, she says. I’ve had enough of your help, thank you, and she scoops up four huge paper bags of groceries that are obviously too much of a load and sways like an Olympic weightlifter going for the gold. Miraculously she manages to leave without dropping anything but when I get outside I see she’s dropped everything. She’s kneeling on the sidewalk in the middle of what could be a rough rendering of Van Gogh’s Starry Night with a dozen star-suns that are broken eggs surrounded by a slowly swirling sky of black cherry soda.

I kneel down to help. Please, don’t, she says. I’ve got it. She’s not even looking at me, gathering things too fast and dropping them again and when I say, I don’t mind, she raises her fair face. Instantly I’m mesmerized by the sparkling eyes and full pouting lips. We’re gazing at each other and there’s something unspoken that seems to click, something chemical. A weak smile comes to her face and she says, Sorry I was such a bitch. I’m an actress and I had a rotten audition this morning. I blew it. This isn’t my day. By the way, I’m Francesca. If you’re Frank that means we’ve basically got the same name. She shakes my hand warmly and doesn’t take it away, and between the chemical look and the electric touch I’m quite taken with this damsel in distress who has the most beautiful name I’ve ever heard -- Francesca. I was supposed to do some temp work today but it fell through. Things could be worse, I say. I lost my job last week. Sorry, she says, and I say, Don’t be. I was a houseman but it’s just as well cuz I’m really a photographer.

Have breakfast with me, she says. Whenever I mess-up an audition I over-shop and eat for two and I definitely don’t need the extra pounds so you’d be doing me a favor. Have you eaten? Good. I’ll make brunch if you have the guts to risk it? I stare at her thinking she’s the one with the guts, risking a total stranger in her home and I wonder if that’s common in LA or if she’s as lonely as I am.

(to be continued every Tuesday)

Part 19

2005-07-12T12:25:00.000-04:00

(Go to Part 1 for the beginning.)

(Continued from Part 18)

I'm allergic to lying, even little white lies but Ralph's right, I tell myself. This is survival, and I rehearse the routine, how I've been a waiter for over a year at The Cave where I had to dress like a caveman.

My first interview is at The New World Restaurant in West Hollywood. The manager brings me back into his small stuffy office and looks over my application. Hmmm. Looks okay, he says, lighting up a cigarette. The first questions are easy and then comes one from left field. What kind of waiter system did they use at The Cave? Ralph never said anything about any system and my forehead beads with sweat. The manager kills the time blowing smoke rings my way. The best answer I can come up with is a system from my high school football days, and I say, We used a man-on-man system. He tilts his head. Never heard of it. How'd it work? It worked good. What else did they use? Sometimes they'd switch to zone but it was mainly man-on-man.

There's a pregnant silence and he's staring hard. I curl my toes so tight they start to cramp. I want to jump up and stand on the cramping but endure the torture of my toes and the torture of the smoke and the torture of the lie when suddenly he blurts, You're no fucking waiter. He says it as cold fact. If he had asked that would be one thing but he flat out tells me You're no fucking waiter and I do my best to look shocked and offended. What?! I said you're no fucking waiter! You're a fuckin' fraud, and he rips up my application which is a relief because I can stand again and ease the terrible tension in my toes and get away from the smoke that's burning my eyes. And to pay him back for torturing me I point to his cigarette and say, Those things are gonna kill you, and he says, I don't give a rat's ass. Get the hell outta here!

That night, curled up in the backseat of my car in the parking lot of Sunset Grocery, I'm wondering about the wisdom of trying to make a living from drawing with light. I don't know if I'll ever become a photographer but I know I won't become -- I won't ever become a houseman and for damn sure I'll never become an indoor houseman.

(to be continued every Monday)

Part 18

2005-07-05T15:12:00.000-04:00

(Go to Part 1 for the beginning.)

(Continued from Part 17)

I'm crumbling inside but order myself to think and come up with a plan that will get me out of my car-home. I call my broher Ralph for advice and his voice is slurred from his addiction to prescription downers. He once said, They're for the pain in my back but I'm not hooked. I could throw 'em away any time I wanted. His girlfriend Debi agreed that he needed something for the pain but not his self-prescribed dosage of 15 to 20 a day.

Ralph hears my plight and says that being a waiter is the quickest way to cash. Nah, it doesn't matter that you've never waited tables as long as you play your cards right. I'll call my manager and he'll say that you've been workin' at my restaurant for over a year. I know you hate lies but desperate times call for desperate measures. This is your ticket out. It's survival. You okay with this?

I wince but I'm desperate and my silence says, Go on, Ralph.

Leave everything to me and you'll come outta this smellin' like a rose. Ralph's gravelly words become more sluggish and I'm wondering if he's going to conk out. Then he speeds up again. You still livin' at that mansion? Your car?! I didn't say it was funny. I did not laugh. Can I finish? When you apply you tell 'em you worked where I'm workin', a goofball tourist trap. We wear caveman outfits so the tourists can take pictures with us. Wow, I can't believe it but I've been stuck there two years. See, that's why I call it The Waiter Trap cuz you take the job thinkin' you're gonna be there two months and before you know it it's two years. Another thing. I know you don't smoke but if you get this job you'll be doin' a pack a night without lightin' up. Think you can handle that? It's not gonna look good if you go around coughing all over the place and makin' faces at the customers, lecturing 'em to death about how they're gonna croak from cancer or emphysema. They know all that and they don't give a damn which reminds me, I've gotta hit the 7-11 for some Marlboros. I hope to God I'm not stopped by the cops. I've got one headlight out and a couple of DWI's that I should never have gotten. Wish me luck. Good luck, Ralph.

(to be continued every Tuesday)

Part 17

2005-06-28T16:33:00.000-04:00

(Go to Part 1 for the beginning.)

(Continued from Part 16)

After a back-breaking four hours of yard-work and scrubbing outdoor walls, Mrs. Wesley says, I need you to do extra housework today. No, I'm not going to hire a maid. We're not the Rockefellers and it wouldn't hurt you to pitch in a little more considering the fact that you have a free room. There's one more chore in the den and you're done. I follow her to my least favorite room, my eyes averting the judge's arsenal, a shrine to the NRA that includes a bastion of bullet-spraying assault weapons.

Mrs. Wesley fires three verbal bullets my way--Clean the toilet. I can't believe my ears but there's a toilet brush in a pail beside her. She shoves it in front of me. Take it. My survival instinct tells me to swallow my pride and clean the damn toilet. The handle of the pail is in my hand but it's like lead. I can't lift it. I won't.

All my life I've heard the labels and they come rushing back. Dad is saying, Compromise. You're not going to get anywhere being over-sensitive and stubborn; Mom is saying, Just once in my life I'd to see you do something with no questions asked. I'm wondering if they're right. I look up at Mrs. Wesley and a tight smile comes to her thin lips as if she enjoys my dilemma. Suddenly I shove the toilet pail across the parquet floor and it comes to rest at her feet. Only outside work. That's what I was hired for.

Her eyes narrow. I'll give you one more chance to change your mind. What notice? Now you listen here, you don't give me 30 day notice. I'm not here for your convenience. If that's the way it's going to be then I want you out first thing tomorrow morning. It's not my problem that you don't have a place to stay.

The next day I'm out on the street again. I'm feeling guilty and thinking that Mom and Dad are right - I'm too stubborn for my own good and constantly doing myself in by bucking The System. Out of desperation, I call my folks and Mom answers drunk, probably from too many of her usual drink, a lotta bourbon and a little Ginger Ale. Hi, lovie, she says. I'm sitting here in the living-room playing solitaire, winning a few, losing a few. Your father? Why do you want to speak to him? He's such a bomb but if that's what you want.... Lovie, giving birth to you and your brother was the best thing that ever happened to me. Hold on. I'll get your father if he's not out fooling around with one of his tomatoes, and the receiver falls to the floor with a Clunk.

I tell Dad what happened with Mrs. Wesley and he says, Of course I'm upset. You used terrible judgment. No, I'm not going to send any money. Not a dime. If you don't have a place to stay then check into a motel. Then fine, your car. Be sensible and forget photography. Get a regular job, Frank. I worked at a steady job before I went out on my own. You've got to put the horse before the cart. Write and let us know how you make out. Click.

(to be continued every Tuesday)

Part 16

2005-06-20T13:10:00.000-04:00

(Go to Part 1 for the beginning.)

(Continued from Part 15)

Katrina oohs and aahs at the proofs of Annie and says she'll run a quarter page ad in LA Magazine. I won't forget your photo credit and I'll even give you bold type. I'd rather have money than bold type but I tell myself, It's a start. When Katrina receives her advance copy of LA Magazine I rush over and she takes me into her office and shows me the ad with a proud smile. It's better than I could have hoped for, she says, and I give her credit for her own creative touch, printing the ad in shiny silver tones which make the image of Annie beaming in the breeze stand out so strikingly that the other ads look cheap in comparison. And there's the credit. Photo: Frank Capri. I grin and Katrina claps her hands with joy. It's magic, isn't it, Frankie?

She pulls out a bottle of champagne and tells her secretary to hold her calls. Ahead of me two glasses to one she says, I haven't told you but I find you very sexy. Her eyes are dancing over me and my blushing gives her a chuckle. Don't be embarrassed. It's a compliment. You look like Al Pacino and he's my favorite actor. Tell me, Frankie, what do you want? I go on about how I want to make a statement in photography, an artistic statement and not just a commercial one. I was hoping there was something else, she says, and casually she describes the prime properties she owns in Beverly Hills from this husband and that one and tells me she's in constant need of new pictures but she'd like someone who's not just a photographer because those are a dime a dozen. To be honest, she begins, which is a phrase I've always hated because whenever someone begins with, To be honest, it sounds like a rare exception. ...I need a lover, Katrina says, someone who would give me one or two afternoons a week, that's all, and you look like you could handle that. She slides a well-manicured hand around my leg and her eyes are dancing again. I'm married but not happily. She's got so many chunky sparkling rings on her fingers that I never noticed the wedding rock. I admit I'm a hypocrite, she says. I mean if my husband did this to me I'd kill him. I can't help myself, Frankie. Look into my eyes. See how hungry I am? Her lake-blue eyes and her partly open lips are like a grotto, inviting me to sail inside for some spellbinding excitement. Yes, I can see her hunger and I'm getting pretty damn tempted to grab her and show her who's really the hungry one here. The famished one.

Katrina slowly hikes her dress which sends my brain into hibernation. There's a stirring between my legs and suddenly the word "gigolo" rises to the top of my career goals. I can't believe I'm actually giving pause to her offer and that the word gigolo is soaring to the top of my career goals. Katrina certainly isn't that old or bad-looking and she must have a ton of money, a foreign substance I haven't seen a trace of since I decided to become a professional starving artist. In my gut, though, I know that whatever I win has got to be on my terms or it won't mean a thing. Not a damn thing. And it's that party pooping thought that makes it easier to stand, and now I'm wondering whether to kiss Katrina goodbye or be smart and shake her hand. She decides for me, coming to her feet and giving me the gift of her full luscious lips. I know I should back off but it's the best thing that's happened to me since I came to LA and I'm not about to end the pleasure any faster than I have to so I kiss back, melting in the wetness of our lips. Sorry, Katrina.

She gives a Mona Lisa smile. Never say never, Frankie. Sleep on it. It's an offer that doesn't come along every day. If you don't keep me company someone else will, someone smart. After that day I never stopped in Spirals again except in my fantasies. Sometimes though when I walked by the store I'd give a quick look to see if Katrina was around, and even though I didn't see her a smile would come to my lips at the memory.

As for Annie, I never saw her again. Last time I talked with her on the phone she said she got a restraining order on her lunatic boyfriend because he started hitting her. She said she tried to get the order before but the police said, Our hands are tied, lady. We can't do anything to him till he does somethin' to you. So when he beat her up again that qualified her for the restraining order and she went to a shelter, and promising me to secrecy, said she was moving to New York to become a Rockette.

At Christmas time, when they show newscasts of the Rockettes on TV, I drop everything and squint to see if I can spot her in the long-legged line-up. I've never found her and I guess I never will. I miss Annie and just hope that wherever she is, she's safe and happy.

(to be continued every Tuesday)

Part 15

2005-06-14T11:14:00.000-04:00

(Go to Part 1 for the beginning.)

(Continued from Part 14)

Impatiently I ask Ricarado to hurry with Annie's hair. I don't want to lose the light, I say. He gives me an annoyed glance and takes his sweet time and when I've worn a hole in the carpet he finally releases his masterpiece. Annie looks spectacular in the long silver dress and make-up and hair done to perfection, and Ricardo asks, Know where the word cosmetics came from? I don't know and I don't want to know because I don't want to lose the light! It came from the ancient Greeks, Ricardo says. Their word for the universe was cosmos, a universe they looked at as orderly and beautiful. Viola, cosmetics.

Annie lets me drive the sex machine Porsche to the site of our shoot, the downtown space-age Bonaventure Hotel. At the glass towering edifice on an open rooftop plaza Annie takes a bold stance and slips on long silver lamè La Crasia gloves that match her silver dress and I start shooting at low angles to make her look taller. Annie's poses are stilted at first but gradually, as if the sinking sun itself warms her up, she comes alive and every picture is one of grace and sensuality and soon I'm doing my best to keep up with her. No longer do I have to direct her poses or tell her how gorgeous she is because she's obviously feeling beautiful and enjoying herself and she's giving me everything, and now the best way I can direct her is not to direct at all.

Suddenly a strong breeze whips up and automatically she turns away. Use it, I say, and she turns back, her dazzling dress unfolding in the wind to reveal an image that leaves me breathless. The unexpected breeze is the perfect touch that elevates the shot from ordinary to extraordinary. Each move Annie makes draws me closer and when I take my last shot we look at each other in the silence of the soft golden light. It's as if we've just made love and both of us are exhausted and exhilarated at once.

Annie leans forward and gives me a light kiss on the lips and I'm so happy with the shoot and the kiss that I don't even mind going back to the prison Mrs. Wesley calls the estate. Everything is glorious and finally I feel more like a working photographer than an indoor houseman.

(to be continued every Tuesday)

Part 14

2005-06-06T16:10:00.000-04:00

(Go to Part 1 for the beginning.)

(Continued from Part 13)

Katrina, the French owner of Spirals on Rodeo Drive, hires me to shoot an ad after I agree to work with a budget that is only slightly more than expenses. It's a start, she says. The photo will run in LA Magazine and I'll even give you a photo credit. I want you to hire a model who's flexible, someone who'll do the job for a trade in clothes and a tear-sheet. A tear-sheet is anything published in a magazine or newspaper, silly. It's crucial for a model's book and when I think about it she should be paying me because she gets to wear my fabulous clothes! They're magical, aren't they? I'm sooo into magic and spirituality, Frankie. I can't decide if there's one God or many. What do you think? Who knows, I say, which sums up my religious view of things, the confused and wondrous perspective of a tiny biped stuck on earth, looking up to the stars and contemplating the great beyond and coming up empty on the comprehension yet filled with reverence.

Magic is God, Katrina says. I sense it all around me but I suppose not everyone has that gift. Strange coincidences that aren't coincidences keep happening. Why do you think I ended up owning a boutique on Rodeo Drive? My uncle worked in rodeos out west, can you believe that? Do you really think that's coincidence, Frankie? What do you think? And she looks hard with her head tilted back and I know I'd better not say how ridiculous I think it is if I want to make a reality out of my dream of shooting my first ad for LA. Magazine. Who knows, I say. I try and keep an open mind, and the lie makes me curl my toes. Any ideas on a model, she asks. Lori instantly comes to mind but I know it's a lame excuse to see her again. I've got the perfect one. Her name is Annie. She's a model-friend who looks a lot like Audrey Hepburn (when she's not bawling her eyes out).

Annie pulls up at the park in front of the Beverly Hills Hotel in her jealous boyfriend's shiny red Porsche. I'm happy to see she's alone but when she steps out she's wearing a tear-stained face. He went crazy, she says, and maybe he followed me. Her shining eyes dart nervously and I get paranoid, wondering if he's in hiding behind one of the nearby palm trees with demons inside his head. He's so jealous, she says, that just before I was getting ready to leave he.... Her chin flutters and the tears flow. I tell her she doesn't have to talk about it but she blurts, He raped me so I wouldn't want to have sex with you. Do you believe that? She's sobbing and what I can't believe is that she's still with this maniac. I'm so pissed off I imagine that I'm the one in hiding behind a palm tree, and I step out and terrorize him till he wants to pee in his pants.

The daydream evaporates and Annie says, I still want to do the pictures but if you don't want to use me I don't blame you. She pulls out a hand mirror and dabs at her make-up. I look awful, don't I? You just need a little fixing up, I say. You sure you're up for this? Definitely, she says. I've got something to prove. Okay, I say, but why the hell do you stay with this.... I want to say psycho but I say guy and she looks away. That's what everybody says. I guess I need more time to get my act together. One day I'm afraid of leaving, the next I'm afraid of staying.

We arrive at Katrina's boutique on Rodeo Drive in the luxury of the Porsche, a four-wheeled sex machine that rides as smooth as silk and unlike my own vehicle, doesn't humiliate it's passengers with bloodcurdling backfires. Annie is fitted in a silvery metallic dress and fortunately my job is made easier because Katrina has hired a talented make-up and hair stylist, Ricardo. It's a pleasure watching the canvas of Annie's face transform into a work of art. Her fine features continually emerge and yet the colors are so beautifully blended they look completely natural. Ricardo has the fiery eyes of a young Picasso and as he puts the finishing touches to Annie's lips, Katrina motions me aside. Ricardo is into astronomy; I'm into astrology. It's a good balance, don't you think? Give me something special, Frankie. I know you will, and as I glance at Annie our eyes meet. In that moment there's a spark, an intensity we share that tells me with absolute certainty that the pictures will indeed be magical.

(to be continued every Tuesday)

Part 13

2005-05-31T11:10:00.000-04:00

(Go to Part 1 for the beginning.)

(Continued from Part 12)

To drum up business I call modeling agencies and offer to test. Testing means photographing models for free. It's supposed to be an opportunity for the photographer to build up his portfolio which in the beginning is usually putrid because photographers like myself in the early stages don't know a thing about lighting. Lighting is crucial for both the photographer and the model. For example, if the new model, who often does her own make-up to save money, has painted herself to perfection, and she's wearing an extraordinary designer gown from Neiman Marcus, which she'll return for a refund the next day, it's all for naught if I screw up the lighting, which I usually do since I'm lighting illiterate. It's no wonder models develop an Attitude when they have to endure this maddening process called testing.

Testing also takes it's toll on photographers. I can vouch for that. No wonder I become temperamental when I have to witness a beginning model's imitation of a statue. Of course that's only if she manages to show up even near the scheduled time, which she usually doesn't, and there is definitely no such thing as a courtesy call canceling or informing the clock-watching shutterbug that she's going to be a bit late because of the accident on the freeway which is a weak cover for the fact that she was out partying all night as arm candy for a sugar-daddy until her eyes are more circled than a raccoon. Testing makes everyone testy.

This afternoon Annie, an aspiring model, drives up from San Diego for a test shoot. I'm waiting for her at the park across the street from the Beverly Hills Hotel, and when her car pulls up my heart sinks because I see she's not alone. Ray, the boyfriend, had asked to watch the session but earlier Annie talked him out of it, I thought, tactfully explaining that it would be too distracting. Distracting is an understatement because as soon as a model starts to pose in the least bit seductively the boyfriend always starts with the suspicious disapproving stares that make her eyes look like she's watching a tennis game. Back and forth they go from the camera to her pissed off boyfriend and pretty soon she's looking as pissed off as he is and the shoot is shot.

Annie is first to get out of the car in a thin turtleneck sweater, a dark pleated skirt, and sexy black patterned stockings. She's has an Audrey Hepburn haircut and though she's petite in size she carries herself with alluring poise. I'm sorry, Frank, but he changed his mind and said he wants to watch. Ray gets out and starts in on her. If you've got nothing to hide, then why can't I be here?! This distraction excuse is bullshit. It's not bullshit, she says. Tell him, Frank. She looks at me with knitted eyebrows that tell me the smiling, feel-good shots I had hoped to produce are out the window. Don't tell him to tell me, Ray says. If you want me to get lost, you tell me! Fine, she says. I want you to get lost, and they toss the word Fine back and forth a few times until he says, I'm taking the train back. You take the car and have a great fucking shoot. He storms off and disappears and she says, Fine! Suddenly she bursts out crying and there's her make-up-to-perfection running down her face in colored streaks. I hold her till she's out of tears and tissues, and Annie tries to pull herself together. I still want to do the pictures. The show's gotta go on, right? Her chin starts to quiver and she's balling her eyes out and I'm feeling helpless seeing her so pained and pathetic with make-up that looks like a Jackson Pollock. No, I haven't eaten, she says. Sure, I'd love to go to lunch. McDonald's is fine, and if it's okay with you we'll shoot next weekend and this time I'll leave Ray at home. I promise.

(to be continued every Tuesday)

Part 12

2005-05-24T11:27:00.000-04:00

(Go to Part 1 for the beginning.)

(Continued from Part 11)

Lori and I hug tight at LA Airport and it's as if my soul is being emptied into hers. We hold tight and when I pull back I see a tear run down her cheek. It's not easy for me either with the memories flooding back. Lori looks lovelier than ever decked out in a burgundy silk dress and high heels, her long wavy brunette hair past her shoulders and those irresistible hazel green eyes melting me so that I can barely remember whatever I'm saying. She sparkles like a cover-girl and as we walk heads turn to devour her captivating beauty.

On the drive from the airport Lori gently encourages me to take a regular job if necessary and not rely on photography. It's a script we've rehearsed ad infinitum, and I lie and tell her I'll think about it. We have lunch at one of my favorite spots, Nate 'N Al's Deli, and we're seated in a cushy booth a few tables away from Henny Youngman who's yelling one-liners across the restaurant. Lori is laughing so hard she can barely eat and I'm glad she can get a taste of celebrity along with her corned beef on rye. We finish every morsel and the waitress points to our empty plates and quips, Sorry you didn't like it, kids.

Cruising along Sunset there's a lull in the conversation and I'm wondering exactly what I swore I wouldn't even think about - Should we get back together? Nervously I introduce Lori to Mrs. Wesley and the two of them talk up a storm with Lori fending all of Mrs. Wesley's questions like a seasoned guest on Meet the Press. Why don't you give Lori a tour, Mrs. Wesley suggests, and I show her the grounds as if I'm the proud owner ending up at my favorite scenic outlook by the pool. We take reclining chairs and watch downtown LA shimmering in gold as the sun sinks. Being in LA is special, Lori says, and I'm thinking maybe it would be if you were here. I tell her that the judge and Mrs. Wesley are going out tonight and that I feel funny waiting for them to leave. She laughs and says, They understand we want to be alone.

The judge revs up the Lincoln and Mrs. Wesley calls me aside. Lori is very nice and one of the most beautiful young women I've ever seen. How did you ever let her get away? I try to laugh it off but Mrs. Wesley doesn't buy it and says, Sorry.

When Lori and I have the estate to ourselves I order a pasta dinner delivered complete with Cesar salad, Chianti, garlic bread, and tiramisu. I can't afford it but I'm thinking, there's no rerun on today. This is the night. We dine poolside while the ever-changing colors of the sky grow more magnificent with each moment and just as I start wondering again if Lori and I can pick up where we left off she says, I'd better get going. My heart aches at her loveliness in the twilight but it isn't till we're on the drive back to the airport that I ask, How 'bout if we go out again?

She looks at me in anguish. I should have told you. I'm seeing someone and I think we should be apart for awhile, Frank. What's awhile? I ask. I don't know. Awhile. And maybe it would be easier on both of us if we didn't write, at least till I work things out for myself. I don't know how I manage to stay on the road but like one of those hideous toys that are on the dashboards of cars, the goofy cartoon characters with heads that bob up and down, I'm nodding to Lori as if I agree with her brilliant suggestion that we light a fuse to a bomb that will blow our relationship to smithereens.

At the gate we hug goodbye and twice Lori looks back as she walks away and out of my life. On the long drive back to the estate I'm telling myself not to dwell on the regret but to be grateful for the time we had together. Count your blessings, fool. There's no better way to end a relationship than as friends. But at the moment I don't want to count my blessings. And I don't want friendship. I want someone to share LA and everything with. The hurt is killing me and out of spite I decide serious relationships are ill-advised and that if I ever get in the crazy mood again to switch the mind for the heart I'll pull out our old romantic photographs to remind me how full of bliss everything looks in the beginning but how it never lasts and always ends up as torture.

(to be continued every Tuesday)

Part 11

2005-05-18T10:18:00.000-04:00

(Go to Part 1 for the beginning.)

(Continued from Part 10)

On a gray rainy afternoon Mrs. Wesley says, I want all of the former houseman's belongings taken from the tool-shed and put out with the trash. Why are you looking at me like that? Apparently he doesn't want them or he would have retrieved them by now. I can see it's raining. Now just do as I say, and as the rain escalates I lug a half dozen open crates of books and knick knacks out to the trash-bin at the end of the driveway. I wince as I watch a fine Ansel Adams poster, Autumn Moon, Yosemite National Park, 1948, curl up in ruin. The moment I finish Mrs.Wesley comes running out of the house. I've changed my mind. Put it all back. She turns away guiltily and runs back inside.

Full of gloom, I quickly return the houseman's things to the tool-shed then find Mrs. Wesley smoking at the kitchen table. I don't feel like a talk, she says. Why can't it wait? Oh very well, and she leads me into my least favorite room, the den. I spill out my pent-up gripes about the houseman job really being a maid's job and how she damaged the former houseman's things. Her eyes narrow and there's an awkward silence. I'll think about it, she says coolly. By the way, when did your girlfriend say she was coming up from San Diego? I remind her that it's this Sunday and she reminds me that Lori is more than welcome as long as she doesn't spend the night. She won't be staying, I say. She's my ex-girlfriend, and Mrs. Wesley says, Once you see her again, who knows.

(to be continued every Tuesday)

Part 10

2005-05-10T11:32:00.000-04:00

(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)

Part 9

2005-05-03T11:19:00.000-04:00

(Go to Part 1 for the beginning.)

(Continued from Part 8)

Walking through the gardens I see Mrs. Wesley stooped over with gloves and a trowel. She's like a Van Gogh painting of a peasant woman in a field only her toil is out of boredom, not necessity. I'm struck at how her brittle face softens when she's tending to her flowers. When she sees me, however, she raises the trowel like my fifth grade teacher used to raise a menacing yardstick. Tomorrow morning, 9 a.m. sharp, she says.

I resist saluting, and in my room I escape into my prized photo book, The Family of Man. Its powerful images push back my four walls and help me forget that I'm a houseman instead of a photographer. Already I'm tempted to quit and give Mrs. Wesley a historical update informing her that Lincoln abolished slavery in 1863. But not wanting to turn my car into a motel again I bite my tongue and put up with her broken promises and never-ending coldness. Part of me feels sorry for her. Even on weekends the judge is seldom home and she secludes herself in the big house drinking and smoking with nothing to do other than direct my work. Whenever I'm about to finish up for the day she says, Just one more chore, and she says it with the charming insincerity of a photographer promising, Just one more shot. The tasks never end until I put my foot down and remind her that I need the luxury of lunch. At first I gave in to her fickle wants but now I know that nothing will satisfy her, like someone who is never satisfied with their plastic surgery because what really needs fixing is inside.

(to be continued every Tuesday)

Part 8

2005-04-25T11:45:00.000-04:00

(Go to Part 1 for the beginning.)

(Continued from Part 7)

Attack, attack, Mrs. Wesley says, repeatedly hitting my shoulder. I want you to attack those walls and cabinets until everything is spotless. Instead of focusing on the dirt, my eyes are glued to the Wesleys' leftover breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, home fries, and blueberry muffins. She sees my distraction and wags her finger. Let me make it clear that you're not to touch any food in this house. This isn't the Brown Derby. Your meals and snacks are your responsibility. Now let's roll up our sleeves and attack!

After a grueling two hours of scrubbing I say, This is a lot tougher than it looks. Don't be a softie, she says. What about the work outside? I say. That's tomorrow. Now let's keep up the good work, and I don't know why she says let's when I'm the only one doing the scrubbing. Anxious to get away from the house, I drive to my new hangout, the lobby of the Beverly Hills Hotel where I can make phone calls to Lori. The other day she was on the verge of tears from our separation. Today she's cool and matter-of-fact. You sound better, I say, secretly hoping she's reeling in pain and that she'll beg me to come back. Never leave me again, Frank. Never! I'm fine now, she says. It gets easier every day. It was definitely for the better that we separated, wasn't it? By the way, she asks with equal importance, how's the weather?

On my second day as houseman Mrs. Wesley reneges on her promise that I work outside. Instead I spend another four hours attacking walls and cabinets. Maybe tomorrow we'll work in the yard, she says. For leisure that won't require money I drive to the ABC Entertainment Center at Century Plaza and browse in the shopping mall. It's lunchtime and I'm tortured by aromas floating from the outdoor cafes. In the open doorway of the Playboy Club I see a voluptuous young blond-haired model dressed as a bunny. She's posing seductively, coaxed by a photographer who instantly I loathe for the reminder that instead of making love to models with my camera I'm at war with Mrs. Wesley's dirty walls and cabinets.

The photographer and the model take a break and I pry about the shoot. The photographer ignores me and says to the model, Don't go anywhere. I'm gonna grab a smoke. I'm not disappointed with the opportunity to talk to his spectacular subject who says with pride, I'm going to be the August centerfold in Playboy. Her eyes are wide and child-like in sharp contrast to the bold body and skimpy outfit she's almost wearing, devilish curves leading to the face of an angel.

I'm a photographer, I say, and it seems a bold lie because I'm more of a houseman. An indoor houseman. I tell her I'd love to photograph her and she says, I can always use new pictures for my book. Call me, and she writes on the back of a Playboy Club businesscard. Remember this name. It's gonna be famous - Dorothy Stratten.

(to be continued every Tuesday)

Part 7

2005-04-19T11:43:00.000-04:00

(Go to Part 1 for the beginning.)

(Continued from Part 6)

The Pinto is The Little Engine That Could, gasping and gurgling on the drive up to the estate, and I'm coaxing, Com'on, baby, you can do it. Mrs. Wesley introduces me to her husband, the judge, who nods without shaking my hand. He's portly with silver hair and a habit of turning to his wife for rulings. What should I wear tonight, the gray or the black suit? Is it cold enough for a sweater? When are we going to eat? When the judge is home he seems to be the one who wants to be ruled, and Mrs. Wesley seems more than willing to comply. Be a dear and take Mr. Capri to the guest house, and she disappears. The judge unlocks the door to my room, mumbles that I'll be able to clean it up in no time, and quickly excuses himself. I'm left dazed. The box-like and barren dust-covered room he has sentenced me to is furnished with one bed and a dozen daddy longlegs. The arachnids bolt every which way in panic and when one runs near my shoe I pick it up and release it outside. Judge Wesley, who is watering the garden, smiles curiously. Interesting that you wouldn't kill that spider, he says, raising a bushy eyebrow. In this world I figure you've gotta choose sides and then it's either be strong and dominate or be weak and be crushed.

I'm strolling the grounds when a strong breeze comes up and rattles the tall acacia trees. I relish the sound of the rustling leaves and the feel of the cool breeze against my face. At the end of the gardens I look back at the mansion and suddenly I'm back at the mansion I was raised in. As a boy I knew all the comforts of wealth on an estate in Falls Church, Virginia, just outside Washington, D.C.. Dad, a prominent psychiatrist and the author of over 30 self-help books, was a millionaire. Then he lost everything by grossly underselling three prime real-estate properties. Going from riches to rags was a rude awakening for the whole family and made Mom especially bitter. And thinking of my folks, I decide to give them a ring to celebrate a roof over my head.

From the nearby flamingo pink Beverly Hills Hotel I call home and Mom says, How was the move from San Diego? I know she doesn't want to know the gory details so I give her the retouched picture. I edit out the photo assistant who prefers an occasional banana and the sleepless nights sleeping in the Pinto and the all-work-and-no-pay arrangement with Mrs. Wesley.

I'm so glad everything is working out, she says. Hold on. I'll get your father. The receiver falls to the floor with a Clunk. Dad says, Glad you're getting a foot in the door. It's a start till you get a regular job. Don't ever rely on photography for income. Keep it a hobby. Write us at least once a week. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Mom says. Why should he write that often. You never do? Awww, stop it, Louise. You stop it, Mom says. You stop it. Sorry you have to hear this static from your mother, Dad says. He wouldn't have to hear it if you'd just breathe through your nose, Mom says. Dad says, To change the subject, your brother is doing much better. What do you mean? I ask. Didn't we tell you? Ralph's jaw was broken. He couldn't pay off one of his bets on a football game so a bookie sent over some thug who broke Ralph's jaw so bad it had to be wired shut. He's doing much better now, Mom says. Pretty soon he won't have to eat through a straw. Don't forget to write once a week, Dad says. Leave him alone, Mom says. You're the one who needs to write more. Awww, stop it. You're spoiling the conversation with Frank. Well, gotta go. I just wanted you to know that everything's okay. Tomorrow's my first day at work.

See, Louise, he's hanging up because you can't control yourself. Are you listening, Frank? Mom says. How do you like that cruelty from a psychiatrist? Believe me, if you marry one you need one. I'm sorry you had to hear that, Dad says. I don't know why we can't just have pleasant conversation. Anyhow, congratulations on your move. I know it's going to be hard for you to listen to Mrs. Wesley when she tells you what to do but you need security now. Promise us you won't rely on photography to make a living.

Don't worry, Dad, and Mom says, I told you he wouldn't promise. You're being stubborn, Dad says, and without missing a beat Mom adds, A chip right off the old block.

(to be continued every Tuesday)

Part 6

2005-04-12T10:46:00.000-04:00

(Go to Part 1 for the beginning.)

(Continued from Part 5)

At a prized window table at Dunkin Doughnuts on Hollywood Boulevard I'm hypnotized by the cars whizzing by and disappearing along with my hope of becoming a photographer. I'm tempted to raise the white paper napkin on my lap, wave it in surrender, and retreat to the safety of San Diego. A remnant of pride won't hear of it. Don't quit. Not yet.

My shutter finger runs down the classifieds and pauses: Houseman Wanted for Beverly Hills Estate.. No pay. Free room. In a flash I'm at a pay phone booth. Yes, this is Mrs. Wesley. How is two o'clock? My coughing car struggles up steep Coldwater Canyon passing mansions. It's one magnificent mausoleum after another. The residents no doubt call it peaceful; I'd call it dead. Not a blade of grass out of place and not a soul in sight. Suddenly the Pinto lets out a booming backfire which in this crusty neighborhood is the equivalent of an elephant fart during a eulogy.

Mrs. Wesley opens the thick door and leans against it. She has steadfast hazel eyes and grey-black hair that frame a prune-like face. Though money is obviously no object she's chosen to age naturally rather than undergo the knife of Beverly Hills' finest cosmetic surgeons. On the way to the den she says, I regret that my husband couldn't be present for the interview. He's a judge. He should be here soon, very soon. It seems she wants to make it clear that if I have any peculiar ideas about raping and robbing her I'll be immediately apprehended by her husband, a judge, who should be here soon, very soon.

The colonial den is lined with two of my least favorite objects. Guns and drawings of the so-called sport of hunting. I'll call hunting a sport when I see animals armed and shooting back. Trying to mask revulsion I overdo it and smile stupidly. Mrs. Wesley grimaces and looks away. I'm thinking the interview is already over but she motions to a fine leather chair. Settling into it is so pleasurable that I have to resist another stupid grin.

Awkward silence fills the air as Mrs. Wesley leans forward and stares. Her eyes are about to fire lasers when she blurts, There will definitely be a thorough FBI check on your background. I don't go screaming from the room which brings the first sign of satisfaction to her tight thin lips. Where are you staying? With a friend, I say weakly, and the friend is my car which is a bold lie because a car that's a friend doesn't constantly humiliate you with sudden booming backfires.

I think you should know that you're the most presentable young man I've interviewed so far. I'll show you the estate. One grand room outdoes another and wherever I look it's a page straight out of Architectural Digest. You wouldn't believe the problems we had importing this pink marble from Italy! I give her a sympathetic look and we walk outside past tennis courts complete with night lights, an Olympic size swimming pool adorned with a statue of a young nude woman that I try not to show too much interest in and finally as if an after-thought there's my would-be room. I don't have the key, she says. If you're accepted my husband will show it later.

We're back at the front door and she says, Check in early tomorrow. No problem, I say cheerfully but it's a long depressing walk back to my car-motel knowing I have to endure another night cramped up like Houdini and longing for escape. First thing in the morning I stretch my aching back and call Mrs. Wesley for the verdict. Of course I remember you, Mr. Capri. You can move in today if that's agreeable. I do a crazy little dance, jab my fist in the air, and say casually, Today would be fine.

(to be continued every Tuesday)

Part 5

2005-04-05T10:37:00.000-04:00

(Continued from Part 4)

The ruckus wakes up the boarders and they peek in the doorway while she stomps around the room gathering up her possessions so I won't steal them. With everyone's glare I might as well be snarling and threatening everyone with rabbis. A woman in curlers protectively pulls her two children away. Now I've had it so I stand with my blanket around my waist and order everyone out so I can get dressed and as far as I can from this loony bin and the studio manager who likes an occasional banana and his lunatic landlady who is screaming to her boarders, He's damn lucky I didn't plug him.

I'm tempted to check back into the Stardust but the night is already half over so I check back into my Pinto to economize. On a side street I lock the car doors, curl up, and long for my miserable bed at the Stardust. I'm sound asleep when my car-motel shakes violently. Just my luck. My first week in LA and The Big One has to hit. I'm blinded by powerful beams of light. It's not The Big One and I'm not abducted by aliens, and in the glare I make out the shadowy forms of two police officers. They pound their fists on the windows and yell, Open up! I unlock the door and hand them my driver's license which bears a portrait worthy of No. 1 on the FBI's Most Wanted List. What's the matter, college boy, can't you read?! An officer points to a tiny sign attached below the parking meter: No parking 3 a.m. to 5 a.m. It's 4 a.m.. No, college boy. No warning. So you're broke. That's your tough luck. I want to say, As an outsider, what do you think of the human race, but I keep my mouth shut knowing that if I let out even a fraction of what I'm thinking I'll wind up in some stinking jail instead of my stinking car.

With the ticket that will cost twice what a night at the Stardust would have, I find an empty Sunset Grocery Store parking lot and crawl into the backseat to salvage four hours of sleep.

I'm beginning to hate L.A..

(to be continued every Tuesday)

Part 4

2005-03-29T10:54:00.000-05:00

(Continued from Part 3)

Forget that, Arnie says. That's years off. You gotta pay your dues first like I'm doin'. This city is a ball-breaker. I know what you're goin' through, and he slaps me on the back and laughs. We photographers gotta stick together, right? Hey, why don't you move outta that fleabag motel and into my place. It's a big old house and there's an empty room that's been sittin' there for months. The landlady digs me and I'll bet she'll give ya the room for free till you find your own place. She loves artists, 'specially photographers. Hey, don't thank me, man. We photographers gotta stick together. Our mugs clink and Arnie's heap follows mine down Sunset to The Stardust. I ask him to wait outside so he won't see how cruddy my room is and be tormented by the smell of mildew and by the cockroach that has no respect for people's toothbrushes.

The old wooden rooming house is atop a hill, looking dark and foreboding against a fiery twilight of streaked clouds. All I can think of is the Bates Motel in Psycho and I'm wondering what I've gotten myself into. It's fabulous, isn't it? Arnie says leading the way along a winding cobblestone path. The front door creaks open slowly and we enter the dim musty foyer. I'm half-expecting a deranged Anthony Perkins to fly out of the shadows, and apparently Arnie senses my apprehension. Beggars can't be choosy, Frank. Damn, the landlady isn't in. Take the empty room in the meantime. Sure it's okay. I told ya, she loves artists. Hey, where are your bags? Better bring 'em in if somebody hasn't ripped 'em off already. You gotta be more careful, man. This isn't San Diego.

When I return, Arnie sees my portfolio tucked under my arm and takes a look. I know its not up to LA standards but Arnie mutters, Not bad. The beauty shots are hot. A strange intensity comes to his shadowy face and he goes over to the door and shuts it and I'm wondering if he's going to rob me. Of what I don't know. He starts the staring again, and says, I see you like the tomatoes. Personally I prefer an occasional banana. Hey, man, don't freak. This your first time with a guy? Okay, okay, I'm going. Take it easy.

I slam the door shut and wonder how many photo assistants he's lured over with the promise of work. Maybe that's just part of life in the big city, like audacious cockroaches. I'm pacing the room feeling violated and stupid for being taken in. When I discover there's no bed I grab a blanket, roll myself into a cocoon, and start to drift off. Suddenly the door explodes open and standing in the doorway like a human Rock of Gibraltar is a massive woman with flabby arms folded tight. Who the hell are you?! A pair of mangy cats are doing figure eights around her swollen ankles. You're goddamn right I'm the landlady! No, I didn't talk to Arnie. I haven't seen that fool in days and I like it that way. No doubt he's out drinkin' and pissin' away my rent. You're lucky I didn't plug you, and from under an ample arm she pulls out a 45. Of course you scared me. What was I to think comin' home to a complete stranger. You could be a rapist, an axe-murderer, a pervert molester. You're what?! Oh, Lordy! Worse! Another goddam photographer! That means you don't have one cent to your name, right? I want you outta here this minute. No, you can't stay till morning. Out!

(to be continued every Tuesday)

Part 3

2005-03-21T11:16:00.000-05:00

(Continued from Part 2)

In search of an apartment that's a step up from The Stardust, my poor Pinto crisscrosses sprawling LA to no avail. The cleverly worded classifieds are never like the actual apartments. Cozy means room for one standing up. An apartment in Westwood that was described as romantic and roomy makes my cubicle at the Stardust look like the Taj Mahal. Usually I leave without a fuss but I'm tired and pissed off and like Mike Wallace on Sixty Minutes I confront the manager with his ad and ask how he could describe an apartment that's the size of a phone booth as roomy. And where's the balcony? He opens a door at the end of the un-roomy room and reveals a six inch ledge with floor to ceiling window guards.

See, he says. Now it's a helluva lot roomier, ain't it? No, I say, and there's still no balcony. The ledge is the goddam balcony, he says, and if you don't grab this place, pal, somebody else will, somebody less picky.

With my savings being devoured by the Stardust I put aside the drudgery of apartment hunting for the drudgery of job hunting. I call a photo studio and say I'd like a job assisting, and the studio manager says, You and a million other starving artists. Click. I'm running out of places to call when finally Arnie, the manager of a fashion studio in east Hollywood, returns my call and says he could definitely use another assistant. Com'on over and I'll give ya the tour. You called the right place, at the right time, pal.

The studio has everything I could dream of and I'm doing my best not to drool. Fashion magazine covers and tear-sheets line the foyer walls. Inside the main studio are two big Norman power packs, Hassleblads, and a powerful red fan on wheels for that sexy windblown look that you always see in magazines but never in real life. And just off the set is a huge dressing room for hair and make-up. Arnie boasts that he gets to work with all the hottest models in the biz who think nothing of getting naked. Let's talk about the job over a couple of beers, he says, and we end up with Coronas and limes at the bar of a dive Mexican restaurant on Melrose. Arnie calls for a second round which is my strict limit and though I know I can't afford it, I grab the tab because the job possibility is the only bright spot I've seen since I hit The Stardust a week ago. The beers loosen my tongue and I let out my dream of becoming a full-time photographer...

(to be continued every Tuesday)

Part 2

2005-03-15T10:58:00.000-05:00

(continued from Part 1)

Near LA the rain stops and the sun breaks out and I take it as an omen. My bright mood is short-lived because the closer I get to the city the thicker the traffic. I’m not used to six lanes on each side or the diagonal driving which seems the norm and although my poor Pinto is going as fast as it can it’s still the target of raging motorists who lay on their horns and shout taunts out their windows like, Get that fucking piece of crap off the road!

The dirty haze stings my eyes and I take the Sunset Boulevard exit not out of practicality but out of nostalgia for the movie and the memory of poor Norma Desmond. Billboards boast the bronzed bodies of disgustingly flawless young men and women and everywhere along The Strip is the implicit message that sex sells as if the whole city is love-starved. There are the homeless lying on benches or sidewalks as if in a rehearsal of their death, and further east painted prostitutes are openly practicing their ancient art. In short shorts and stiletto heels they cavort like animated road signs – Dangerous Curves Ahead!. Potential clients are lured aside and terms are exchanged quickly. Time is money.

White-domed Cinerama beckons. I dream that someday I’ll be able to afford to see a movie there with a model or actress who will snuggle into my shoulder and make me wonder which is better, the magic up on the screen or my own real life. On Hollywood Boulevard there’s Grauman’s Chinese Theater, a pseudo-oriental edifice of escape where stars like Bogart and Bacall have left immortal imprints in concrete. My car suddenly backfires startling the flash-popping tourists. Ascending the hill leading toward the towering Hollywood sign it slowly dawns that my new home is the world’s Mecca of Magic. Anything seems possible!

My lodging is The Stardust, a flimsy motel along Sunset, its neon shooting star blinking like a beacon promising miracles. The claustrophobic room is dingy and dusty and reeking of mildew. It’s only temporary, I tell myself. A few days and I’ll have my own apartment. Exhausted, I plod into the bathroom to wash up and call it a night. I stand frozen at the sight of a cockroach perched atop the bristles of my toothbrush. For its size it must be a mutation from atomic testing and for its disrespect I scoop it into a plastic cup, hurl it into the toilet, and flush it away. No doubt as one of nature’s sturdiest creatures it will return to torment other unsuspecting guests of The Stardust. When I turn in I tell myself that I shouldn’t let a little thing like a big cockroach with no respect for people’s toothbrushes dampen my spirits. It must be part of life in the big city. For fear of picking up a dozen diseases from the tattered and soiled sheets I sleep in my clothes.

My eyelids are heavy and I start to drift off. It’s still hard to believe that I’m in Hollywood. A dream slips in behind my eyes. I’m a big-shot Hollywood photographer. Armani suits, a red Ferrari. Lori shows up at my plush condo begging me to come back. She says she’s seen the error of her ways and that it was a terrible mistake letting me go. She wraps her arms around me. Please try and forgive me, Frank. Take me back and I’ll never let you go again. Never, never, never....

(to be continued every Tuesday)

Part 1

2005-03-10T15:47:00.000-05:00

In a downpour I pack everything I own into my mud brown Pinto and hold Lori in my arms and wonder if I’ll ever see her again. Her bright green eyes shine and she says, I know you’re going to make it, Frank, no matter what everyone else says. What do they say, I ask, and she says, They say you’re gonna end up broke in Hollywood, that you’re crazy to move without a job lined up. I tell ‘em, That’s Frank. Too stubborn for his own good. She could have left off that last part but I suppose that’s what came of living together two years. We were able to hold a mirror to each other even when neither of us wanted to look.

I love you, Lori says. That’s why I’m gonna say this. I totally agree with your parents. Get a regular job and do pictures on the side. Make photography a hobby. You’re not even thinking about it, are you? I can see it in your eyes. That’s another thing that’s always bugged me about you. You hear something you don’t like and a steel door comes down. I nod as if I’m listening, hoping the sound of the rain has drowned out the steel door that just slammed shut on her well-meaning suggestion to make my life’s passion a hobby! Taking pictures is the only job I’ve ever found that sets my soul on fire. Ever since I first picked up a camera at 12 I knew I’d never put it down again. And here I am at 33 still consumed with photography and longing to make it my profession. I don’t want to be lying on my deathbed wondering what if and brooding with regret.

The last few years I’ve talked endlessly about moving to LA to become a photographer but never the action. Then Lori and I broke up and there was nothing left to hold me in San Diego. Even now as I’m standing under an umbrella beside my packed car I’m still plagued with doubt. I was teaching high school and when I think about giving up that kind of security the move to LA seems downright stupid. I’ll miss out on the steady salary and benefits and even the roughneck kids who nicknamed me Serpico because they thought I looked like Al Pacino and because Serpico was a cop. I earned that tag for not letting them do whatever they wanted whenever they wanted, like taking breaks during class to listen to Alice Cooper, ZZ Top, and Kiss. But it’s music appreciation, Mr. Capri. Whenever I heard Mr. Capri I knew a con job was in the works, and when I said no to their pleas for music appreciation they said, You got no culture, Mr. Capri. Photography seems a hard life but as far as I’m concerned it’s nothing compared to teaching.

Lori always sided with my parents, arguing for a job with security. You’ve in your thirties, she says. You’ve never taken a photography course in your life, and your only camera is a 17 year old Nikon that could go any day. Like your car. But now she’s holding me in the rain and wishing me well just the same and I figure I’d better get going before she catches pneumonia. We kiss goodbye under the umbrella and I’m wondering if that’s our last kiss or if it’s the seed of a new beginning. Maybe after I move we’ll start seeing each other again and eventually, if she’ll have me and I can deal with my fear of the big M-word, we’ll marry. Who can say what tomorrow will bring. Probably whatever I least expect. I start the engine and the one windshield wiper flip flops begrudgingly. Lori waves and everything is fading in the rearview mirror as I head north for the City of the Angels.

(to be continued every Tuesday)