Zen and Sex (3 page)

I take it in my stride and frame another shot. There’s an art to taking pictures of food; it’s not all just point and click. The food must be prepared in a special way; maybe some extra food coloring is added and they definitely spray the fries with some concoction that makes them look like they just came from the fryer. I asked one of the prop guys once what they put in the spray and stuff. All he would say is that it’s a trade secret.

The first time I shot food was three years ago and it was for the same people. I was actually pretty proud of my work, especially when I stood in line for lunch at one of their outlets and looked up and saw of all my photos on the brightly lit menu display. They really looked neat.

I actually turned to a cute blonde standing in line behind me and part pride, part come on, I told her that I had taken all of the photographs. She looked at me like I was crazy (crazy that I took them or crazy that I admitted to taking them, I don’t know). Without saying a single word or even making some noise in her throat as an acknowledgment, she looked straight past me as if I didn’t exist. Embarrassed and feeling humiliated, I similarly pretended that I hadn’t spoken but truthfully? that stung. To rub it in, some wise ass behind her (I didn’t see him wink to his friend but I’m pretty sure he did) clipped my shoulder to get my attention and then with a serious expression on his face said, “I love your work, man.” A-hole.

But you know what? I do love my work. I do take pride in capturing the subject at its best and making the client happy, giving them what they want (most of my work projects, like this gig, are from repeat clients). Whether it is food or babies or a secluded, semi-detached house in the suburbs, to me, this work is a perfect combination of art and commerce. I do what I love
and
it pays the bills.

Ever since I got here, I’ve been checking out this hot chick, Sandy, I heard one of the crew guys call her name. I’ve been looking for an opening to make some small talk but she’s been working non-stop, multi-tasking like crazy: setting up a conveyer supply of food plate combinations, spraying the food that’s been lying around too long, even setting up and adjusting some of the lighting. “We’re done with number fifteen, bacon cheeseburger with curly fries,” she yells to a young crew guy, who logs it.

Working freelance is cool, I like it, but it means that you don’t get to see the same people on a continual basis; it’s mostly interacting with new folks for a few hours and then it’s on to something or someplace else. So, if you see someone you like, you had better act fast. The problem with acting fast is that they don’t know me or have time to get my dry sense of humor, so to someone who doesn’t pick up on irony, I risk coming off looking like a total moron. As we pack up, I finally get to say something to Sandy. “Long day, huh?”

“I’m used to long days,” says Sandy, not breaking stride as she packs up some gear.

“Want to grab a bite?” I ask, with my best mischievous twinkle of the eyes. “I know this great little burger joint just around the corner. My treat.”

I have found, through experience, that if you’re going to ask a girl out on a date and if she’s hot and maybe a level or two out of your league, you ask them out in a jokey fashion. That way, if they are truly interested, they can say, “Yeah, sure.” If they reject you, you then tell them that you were joking. Then they “get it” and smile, maybe loosen up a bit and you can actually come out of it looking kinda cool and interesting.

“Are you serious? We’ve been spraying burger shit all day. I don’t think I’ll ever eat a burger for the rest of my life,” Sandy says, as if I have just insulted her deeply.

“No, I’m not being serious,” I say in my best jokey voice. “It was a joke. Go to a burger joint, after this? Seriously.”

“Then, why did you ask?” says Sandy, looking at me like I’m an idiot. As if she is not even remotely interested in hearing any more of my clever retorts, she picks up a heavy tripod and carries it out of the studio: game over.

So, I’m back in the park and it’s a couple of hours shy of sunset. There are a few courting couples around but they’re not acting particularly romantic towards each other; the coming splendiferous sunset has yet to work its amorous magic.

A few single women pass me by and I give them each a hopeful smile but instead of a tentative smile of acknowledgement, they mostly act as if they are mentally wondering whether their mace spray is in their purse or they left it back in their car. At least, that’s what their expressions look like to me. I guess it’s hard being a single gal. With all the come-ons they get, I’m sure they wonder to themselves if guys think that walking, or being out alone, is an open invitation to every single male out there to hit on her: Hey, dudes, I’m outside and I’m alone so go ahead, slugger, give me your best shot.

I sympathize, I do, but, seriously, how does a single guy meet a woman if he doesn’t actually meet the female of the species? There’s a cute woman right now, sitting on a bench, reading a book. How would I ever meet her? At work? It’s three o’clock on a Friday afternoon: does she even have a job? She could be an actress or have any other of myriad L.A. jobs where people never seem to work but they still have the time and the funds to hang out at coffee shops at all times of the day and night.

Maybe I could meet her at her gym (every hot looking man and woman in L.A. belongs to a fitness center) but if she is a gym member, I’d lay odds she belongs to Curves or some other ladies-only gym where women can work out without being hit on by guys like me. I don’t live in her apartment block; I don’t hang out with my laptop at her closest Starbucks where she most likely picks up her half milk, half soy, skinny decaf latte with a sprinkle of cinnamon every morning. So, how would I freakin’ meet her in a natural, cute-meet, just like in the movies, kinda way? Stop her in the street? Impossible.

But then again, that’s how my dad claimed that he met my mother. He had been drinking at the time and he was getting all maudlin’ and starting to talk atypically tough. Maybe in his head, he was imagining he was Gary Cooper or Clark Gable or someone similar (he used to watch all their movies).

“It was on a park bench. That’s where she was sitting, all alone. She was the most beautiful woman that I had ever seen. What was I going to do? Keep on walking? And forever regret the day that I didn’t have the nerve to say something to the most beautiful girl in the world? What was the worst that could have happened? She could have ignored me.” Then he gave what I can only describe as a mischievous, movie star smile (which I’d never seen before or since) and added: “But she didn’t.”

Okay, dad, you’re probably looking down on me right now and encouraging me with that very same smile, urging me to give it a go. And I will.

But not yet. First thing I need to do is reconnoiter and decide on the ideal position from which to casually interact. Then I need to work up some courage.

I manage to make it to the railing overlooking the cliff, just a few feet away from where the cute girl with the book sits, oblivious to my plotting. Now all I have to do is sit beside her and engage her in small talk. Of course, I need to look and act as naturally and nonchalantly as I possibly can, which isn’t easy when I’m this scared. Us guys don’t like to talk about it but I’ve yet to meet a guy that is not secretly terrified of the cold “come on.”

The cold come on is worse than the regular, more commonly experienced come on. The common come on is where you hit on someone that you know or at the very least have seen before. There’s some kind of mutual recognition: maybe it’s someone you fancy that works at Starbucks and has come to secretly name you, “Super Big Tipper,” in which case, you’ve broken the ice and a come on is expected. Even if the fancied is in a relationship, she may still feel aggrieved or less desirable, in general, if you don’t at least
try
to hit on her.

Another easier (and equally expected) come on is to approach the chick with whom you have been eye-flirting with in a bar. (Just make sure that it is actually you and not your better-looking buddy that she has been directing her come-hither looks toward. Sadly, that has happened to me a few times and although it has usually worked out for Mike and the oh-so flirty one, the best I got out of it was a pat on the head for making the introductions. An atta boy head pat never manages to soothe the embarrassment and humiliation, trust me).

  No, the cold come on is a killer: you don’t have a history, there’s no one to introduce you; you didn’t get the all clear to approach with her eyes: you’re going in cold. And no pressure, but you’ve only got one chance - just one line - to break through her defenses.

Admittedly, the majority of guys never use the come on; this is root canal surgery to most males. Those brave enough to enter the fray of the cold come on, usually have only one line. Through trial and error over the years, they’ve honed and perfected their pickup line until it has a greater than fifty percent chance of success. Then they’ll use it, again and again.

Come on lines are harder than you think, 'coz let’s face it, they all sound corny: “What’s a nice girl like you..?”, “Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?”, “What’s that you’re drinking?” etc. I’ve noticed lately that many guys have rejected the really smart ones, the ones that you have to think about or the more obvious pick up lines, like: “
If a thousand painters worked for a thousand years, they could not create a work of art as beautiful as you,” or “I'm not drunk, I'm just intoxicated by you” (I learned the hard way that this one only works in a bar).

Believe it or not, the most oft-used come on line used by guys these days is so innocuous and on the surface, at least, is so innocent (hence its ingeniousness), that it’s not even perceived by the recipient as a come on: “What’s your name?”

I use it a lot. If you ask the question innocently enough, you’re sure to get a name, even if the rest of the conversation is a wipeout. A few times, I’ve gotten, “mind your own business,” in response (or MYOB, if they think they’re being cute). In those cases, it’s a win-win situation for you coz now you just dodged a bullet by discovering early on that beauty and bitch sometimes do go hand in hand.

 In the cold come on, however, the name question is risky. It may be deemed
way
too forward or you might come off looking desperate, rather than the preferred, desirable “cool.” Approaching a woman on a park bench and interrupting her reading to ask her name, I may be perceived as a crazy (I’m too well dressed to be mistaken as homeless and touch wood, I’ve yet to be maced). So instead, today, I opt for my standby pick up line: “Are you a model?” This particular pickup line has about a thirty percent success rate, but that’s mainly at Hollywood parties.

I read somewhere that women know within five seconds whether they like a guy or not so I try not to stress so much about the come on line: in truth, they either like you or they don’t. I’ve used the cheesiest pick up lines on women in the past, like, I don’t know, “
If I were a stop light, I'd turn red every time you passed by, just so I could stare at you a bit longer,” and whereas some women gave me a drop dead look and walk off (in retrospect, fair enough), an equal number thought that I was adorable (my word choice, not theirs) and asked me if I had any more one-liners just like it.

Okay. I’m going in.

As I sit on the bench, close, but not close enough to scare her off, she breaks from her book long enough to give me a once-over. At this point, I can’t tell if it’s a look of interest or mere self-protection.

“Mind if I sit here?” I ask.

She smiles (what a smile!) and shakes her head, no, go ahead and sit, it’s a free country. As she returns to her book, I nervously blurt out, “I just have to ask… are you a model?”

Again, she shakes her head, no. Then she returns to her book. I really should have read the situation better and pulled out my cell phone to intimate that I didn’t just sit down because of her, but rather, I have emails to answer and tweets to send. Instead, I keep babbling like an idiot.

“I’m a photographer and work a lot with models. You could pass for one any day of the week…”

Her completely ignoring me; returning to her book, placing her earphones into her ears and turning up the volume on her iPod has a strange effect upon me. Instead of counting my losses and moving on, I continue to talk to her as if we are having a conversation.

“Want to come to a wedding in three weeks? No? You know what? Forget it. I’ve changed my mind. We’re through. Pack your things and be out before I return home…”

I then get up and casually stroll off. Weird, right? In my defense, it is well known that rejection can cause strange responses in people. Maybe the corny pick up line worked better in my father’s day, who knows?

As I get back to the apartment, I notice that the TV is on (a sure sign that Gloria is around). So I avoid being funny and shouting, “honey, I’m home,” as I sometimes do when I know only Mike is around. Instead, I walk quietly towards my room. The TV gets my attention as I pass by. Whatever cable channel the set is tuned to is showing an old
Rowen and Martin Laugh-In
sketch where an old woman sitting on a bench is approached by a geriatric male, so old and feeble that he’s barely able to walk. So he hits on her.

 Old Man: Want to go to a movie?

The Old Woman whacks him with her hand bag, hard. He nearly collapses but manages to stay upright.

Old Man: Want to go back to my place?

Again, the Old Woman whacks him, even harder. She continues to whack him until he falls to the ground. He’s too feeble to get up.

Old Man: Want to go to a funeral?

The Old Man dies.

I guess the sketch was meant to be funny but considering where I’m at right now, I find it desperately sad. A foot appears at the end of the sofa and I realize that Mike and Gloria must obviously be snuggled up on it. They mustn’t have found the sketch very funny either, as I don’t hear either of them laugh. When the foot (I can now see that it belongs to Gloria) is joined by another foot, which twists so that the toes now point downward, I realize that they haven’t exactly been paying attention to the TV. When the moaning starts, I quietly and hastily tip-toe to my room.