The Christmas Pic

2. Jo

CHAPTER 2

JO

I’ve taken thousands of photos in my life, but the one that means the most to me isn’t nicely matted and framed and hung on a wall. It’s a tattered Polaroid of my dad and me, doubled over laughing in our snowsuits after my mom, wielding the camera, hurled a snowball at us right after we said cheese . I keep it tucked into the visor of my mobile photo studio–a hulking vintage milk truck we’ve nicknamed Chrissy–and peek at it when I’m going cross-eyed after a long day of back-to-school portraits and engagement sessions. That little 2x4 patch of cellulose reminds me why what I do matters. I’m capturing the soul of a moment with each shutter-click.

There’s what I can see and control when I’m behind the camera in my little mobile studio: proper lighting, focus, poses. And then there’s what shows up in the actual photo: its soul, that ineffable quality that separates a good photo from a bad one. When I think about what that photo of my dad means to me now that he’s gone, it reaffirms for me that my purpose is to capture other people’s moments of magic so that they, too, can double-dip in life’s fleeting joys.

“Big yikes.” Emma, sitting in the passenger seat glaring at a video on her phone, snaps me out of my reverie .

“Who’s canceled now?” I ask, expecting my assistant’s face to brighten as usual, ready to spill the tea. But she remains bleak, fiddling with her septum ring. She shoves her phone at me.

On the screen is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, and I mean that in the gayest way possible. A red-lipsticked smirk that contains a hint of knowing, striking blue eyes with a gaze that is at once razor-sharp and mysteriously distant. Sometimes I see a girl so stunning that I have to come out to myself all over again in my head to digest the fraction of a possibility that I could get to be with that person. God, I love women…

I must let slip a contented sigh because Emma shoots me an incredulous glare. I actually tune in to what the woman in the video is saying, trying to catch up in case my Gen Z peanut gallery of one decides to quiz me.

“...won’t have to sit for another time-consuming studio portrait session ever again–”

Wait. What?

“Who is that?” I ask.

Emma’s eyes widen. “What rock do you live under?”

“My celebrity knowledge consists of the Real Housewives and former members of the Detroit Shock.”

Emma rolls her eyes. “This is the AI revolution, Jo. They’re coming for us. We’re so screwed.”

I turn the phone off, needing that woman’s bewitching face out of sight so I can focus on the apparently imminent apocalypse.

“So it’s AI Christmas cards. People don’t want that. No one would pay us to composite a bunch of individual photos into a fake family card in Photoshop, they want an experience.” I gesture around to the truck, decked out in holly jolly joy. “Why would they ever pay for that ?”

Emma sighs. “They literally don’t have to pay for it. It’s free. Fueled by ad sales. Were you even listening? ”

I yank the lever to recline the driver's seat, trying to find a comfier position to wallow over life's curveballs and the current economy. But of course, my photo truck opts for irony instead. The lever splinters off in my hand, hurling me backward, and now I'm stuck lying down in a seat that refuses to snap back up.

“That is… not good, Jo.”

I’m not ready to form words yet, because they won’t be pretty ones. The Photo Truck, her name so aptly coined many moons ago by my father, is a true mechanical testament to blind faith. It’s a miracle she’s even made it this far. But for the past year, it’s been a repair every other week in a good month, which means the business’ cash flow is more like a cash hemorrhage.

Emma can sense me spiraling, and she’s been around long enough to know what’s called for. She reaches across the console and plucks out the worn Polaroid, handing it to me.

“Go on, ask Roger.”

As I've matured, I find myself combing through old memories of him, turning to them like scripture for guidance, even as the challenges of adulthood have grown increasingly complex. I’ve always been a visual thinker, something that serves me well in my line of work. To that end, it’s easier for me than most people to roam the halls of my memory palace.

I land with myself at ten years old, crouching on the stairs while my parents exchange harsh whispers in the dining room. My dad’s accounting books are spread out in front of them and my mom is wringing her hands. In an instant, he clasps both of her overactive hands in his, grounding her for a moment. Suddenly his head turns and he looks straight at me in my supposed hiding place. He winks before shifting his attention back to Mom. Worrying is borrowing trouble from the future, Care.

“Huh.” I let my father’s pragmatic wisdom sink in.

“What’s today’s fortune cookie?” Emma asks.

“We’re not gonna borrow trouble from the future, Em. We gotta focus on what’s directly in front of us and keep our heads down.”

“And that means…?”

I sit up in the driver’s seat, even though it’s still fully reclined.

“We get the seat fixed, we do the shoots on our schedule, and maybe we take that gig photographing Mrs. Lupinsky’s Christmas bobblehead collection.”

“And the artificial intelligence that’s single-handedly dismantling our very niche industry in alarmingly fast, free fashion?”

“It’s simply not of concern to us.”

What is it they say about famous last words?