Personal Yummy #94
We decide to do the “photo shoot” one Saturday afternoon that I have off, around four o’clock.
We pick this time because it is usually a slower time of the day: The main dinner crowd doesn’t start arriving until around five or five thirty. Obviously, we don’t want to disturb anyone’s drink or meal; plus, we want to avoid as much embarrassment and staring as possible.
At least I know I do.
“Hi, Walter,” I say as he walks in, a large black leather bag slung over his right shoulder, carrying all of his camera equipment. I arrived a few minutes ago and have been chatting with a few people at the bar.
Honestly, I feel a bit out of place. I’m used to being dressed in a white or blue button-up, collared shirt; khaki shorts or slacks; and ugly, comfortable, black “old lady” shoes (as my brothers like to call them, teasing me), with my hair pulled back, away from my face.
Now I’m dressed in a stretchy, tight, U-neck, short-sleeve, light pink top, and my hair is down and curled. I’m also wearing bright-pink lipstick and my dangling, maroon, East Indian–style earrings that my mom bought for me. I feel as if my current persona doesn’t fit the persona I’m used to exhibiting in this place.
“You look nice,” Walter says.
“Thank you. And thank you so much for coming,” I reply.
“My pleasure,” he says, looking me directly in the eye. “So, you want to get started?”
As Walter unpacks his bag, sets up the tripod, and adjusts this and that knob on his black, old-fashioned camera, I choose a spot that I think will be ideal for taking the photos, if there is such a place in a restaurant.
Luckily, Bobby has taken the large picture of the whirling night club scene (in which a Black jazz musician—playing an oversized trumpet and surrounded by circles and circles of dancers, instruments, and other jazz musicians—is the focal point) off the wall in order to clean it. This has left the cream-colored wall in the front part of the restaurant free for the taking.
So, without a moment’s hesitation, I push to the side the two small tables and four chairs that line the wall, and set up a bar stool in their place. I take a last look at my hair and makeup in the small mirror that is conveniently located on the inside flap of my blue leather purse that I love, which I bought over a year ago at Hit or Miss around the corner on Forbes Avenue.
Your hair looks really beautiful today, I think to myself, and luckily your face isn’t very broken out… Walter should be pleased.
Satisfied with how I look, I happily jump up onto the stool, fold my hands in my lap, and sit up straight against the wall.
“Okay, Walter, I think I’m ready,” I say, grinning.
“All right. Just one more adjustment and we should be all set to go.”
Walter turns a dial slightly, looks through the camera, and moves it a bit forward.
“Okay. I think we’re ready now…. Smile!”
I smile, Walter clicks, and…
I’m being very patient, waiting for something to happen, but there wasn’t a flash, and the camera isn’t advancing.
“Uh-oh,” Walter says.
This doesn’t sound good.
“Something doesn’t seem right,” he then adds, his head completely hidden behind the camera. “Well, I, uh… Well, let’s try it one more time,” Walter suggests, adjusting a few more knobs.
“Okay. Sounds good to me,” I reply, and I get ready with another big smile.
Click!
No flash. No nothing. Once again.
“Oh gee. Something is definitely wrong,” I hear, followed by a heavy, confused sigh. And then, after a long pause, “You know what, Jenna? I’m really, really sorry. But I just don’t think this is going to happen today… I mean, gee whiz. The camera was working fine the last time I used it.”
He continues to examine the camera, his forehead a wrinkled mess. “I’ll have to take it to the shop and see what’s wrong with it.”
“Okay, Walter. Okay. That’s no problem. Thanks for trying anyway. I really appreciate it,” I say.
“You bet. I’m just so sorry to bring you in here on your day off, and then the camera doesn’t work. I mean, I should have tested it out. It’s been a while since I’ve used it,” Walter explains. “How about we try this again in a few weeks, once I figure out what’s wrong with it?”
“Sure. Of course. Thanks for going to all of the trouble anyway. Let me know what you find out, Walter.”
I jump down from the stool, disappointed—but the logical side of me realizes that these kinds of things are bound to happen sometimes.
Nonetheless, this minor event reminds me, for the umpteenth time, that this dance dream of mine isn’t going to be easy.
******
Did you enjoy this excerpt?
Read the entire headshot story, as well as more dancing and waitressing stories, via the following link: The Grill on Murray Avenue: A Story of Innocence
The Grill on Murray Avenue: A Story of Innocence is my coming-of-age novel about the inhabitants of an unassuming bar-and-grill in Squirrel Hill, a vibrant neighborhood in the east end of Pittsburgh. The story is told by Jenna, a young waitress who dreams of becoming a professional dancer.
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