The Christmas Pic

4. Jo

CHAPTER 4

JO

It’s not hard for me to distract myself from impending doom, in fact I’ve probably gotten a little too good at it. When I’m on The Photo Truck, adjusting lights, switching out lenses, coaxing out genuine smiles from my clients when their faces start to freeze during a long shoot… all of it fades away. I’m in the zone, and in the zone, everything comes easily.

There are fleeting moments where the zone wavers, like when I’m bending down to rummage through my kit and my lower back twinges from driving with the broken seat all week. But I power through. Mind over matter, baby .

“Yoo-hoo!” George Bennington’s beaming face pops into the truck. He’s in his sixties, an OG fixture of Harmony Springs’ drag scene when donning his Neverland alter ego, Captain Hooker (or Captain Ho Ho Hooker at Christmas). When he’s not in eight-inch pleasers, he’s our town’s sole Uber driver.

Emma’s face lights up. George and his husband Jeffrey are two of her favorites.

“Georgie! Jeffy! Come on in!” she beckons them inside. Jeffrey blows me a kiss while George struts toward me and I happily allow him to crush me in a bear hug.

“Jojo Jolly Rancher! We haven’t seen you at drag brunch in a minute.” He turns to Emma. “You can’t let her work all the time! Even Annie Leibovitz takes vacations!”

Now it’s Emma’s turn to roll her eyes. “You say that like I’m in charge around here.”

“Speaking of who’s in charge”–I point to myself–“let’s get you divas into first looks! What’s the vision today?”

George gestures to Jeffrey. “Darling?”

George in plainclothes still has the airs of a drag queen, but Jeffrey is a little more reserved in his day-to-day life. He’s a construction contractor whose uniform is a tattered flannel and Carhartt workman cargos, so I can’t help the delighted grin that breaks out on my face as he lays out the kookiest, gayest Christmas sweaters I’ve ever seen. I’m talking rainbow reindeer, Santa in leather chaps, and a gingerbread man–nay, queen –in a sash and tiara.

“Brand new shipment from Mistletoe M*Porium,” George grins.

Emma snaps. “You’re both icons.”

Jeffrey shrugs, resigned. “George won a bet, so we’re doing Christmas cards his way this year. Conservative cousins in Appalachia be damned.”

“We live in Harmony Springs, Jeffy,” George points out, “Your extended family already knows we’re gay -gay.”

I don’t bother mentioning that they’ve been married for as long as I’ve been sentient, their playful bickering the secret sauce to their lasting love. My parents weren’t so different, preferring witty sparring to gushy platitudes. I wouldn’t mind a bit of both. I have a tough shell but there’s a timid romantic in me that hasn’t come out to play in a frustratingly long time.

You’d think that living in a historically queer enclave–despite it being in the notoriously straitlaced Midwest–a lesbian would have better luck in love. But Harmony Springs is still a small town, and living here my entire life has made it even smaller. I’ve already dated every other local lezzy who had potential, and while many of them are still my friends (sometimes stereotypes are based in truth, okay)? I’m resigned to the fact that my soulmate has probably never set foot in, much less heard of, Harmony Springs.

Perhaps labeling my sex life over the past decade as 'dating' stretches the truth. I’ve been in love once before, and the devastation of that heartbreak built walls around me that I have yet to dismantle. Even in Homoville, USA, uncertain 'straight' girls will trample your heart without a second thought. Wynnie Tatum, Harmony Springs’ Homecoming Queen and WASP cheerleader extraordinaire, toyed with my emotions for an entire year while secretly dating Taylor, the Homecoming King from our neighboring town. When Taylor proposed, Wynnie dumped me before anyone ever knew we were together, citing a jumble of family expectations and biological timelines. I should have known better than to let it drag on for so long when she wouldn’t even kiss me in public, but embarrassingly, things truly ended when Wynnie decided it was time. I’ve been reeling ever since, vowing not to go on so much as a flirty farmer’s market stroll without confirming my counterpart is a GLAAD-card-carrying, carabiner-clipping, out and proud member of the queer community.

I fiddle with my camera setup as Emma weighs in on sweater combos and touches up George and Jeffrey’s makeup.

“You need a quote for that driver’s seat, Jo?” Jeffrey asks.

“I can’t afford whatever it’ll cost, so why rush the disappointment?”

George elbows Jeffrey, who glares at him, exasperated. “Don’t steal my thunder, George! I was about to tell her to talk with Mikey Stutz. He recently moved back and bought Hal’s auto body shop. Gave me a great deal on my window tinting last week!”

“Stutz?” I recognize the surname. “Is he related to Amanda? We were in Girl Scouts together. She toasted a mean marshmallow. ”

Jeffrey finger-guns me. “He’s Mikey now!”

“Send him my way. Thanks, J.” I’m still pretty sure I can’t afford the fix until after our Christmas rush is over, but I’m in no position to turn away a potentially discounted repair.

“Shall we begin? Any music requests?”

George bounces excitedly. “Mariah Christmas, please!”

Jeffrey cackles. “How do you not know the name of that album?”

“Does it matter?” George retorts. “Jo gets what I mean!”

Emma and I lock eyes in silent conversation– let’s get this show on the road .

For the next ninety minutes, we work in tandem, shuffling around the cramped photo truck, juggling the soundtrack, costume changes, and a range of poses while George and Jeffrey banter.

At one point, George whispers something to Jeffrey, who throws his head back, laughing, as I click the shutter. Emma is seated behind me, watching the big monitor to flag the best photos as we go. She clocks the blur and nudges me.

“Delete?”

I shake my head. “It’s not about the blur, it’s the energy we captured. They’re gonna love this one. As Roger always said, never delete a memory that precious.”

“Hm.” She digests this. Emma can spar as well as these clients, but when it comes to morsels of photography wisdom, she takes my guidance to heart. I appreciate her dedication to the craft and the way she listens to me. It reminds me of me and my dad back in the day, quippy but serious about the job at hand.

George gives me another bear hug as he and Jeffrey pack up their wardrobe.

“You’re a talent, Jo, just like your pop. Don’t forget to take breaks!” He kisses me on the cheek .

Jeffrey scribbles on the pad that’s always in his front pocket, tearing off a sheet and handing it to me.

“Give Mikey a shout.”

Emma and I wave them off. She shuts the door to the truck and we both take deep breaths.

“Okay. That was good. Slow start to the holiday card season, but we’re back! Shall we prep for our three p.m.?” I ask her. The zone is exhilarating, and the energy of one successful shoot always snowballs into more energy for the rest of the day.

But Emma is on her phone, worrying her lip. “The Jamesons canceled their session.”

“Did they give a reason?”

She shakes her head. “That’s our third cancellation this week, Jo.”

“Right. Fuck.”

“They could always reschedule. It stayed warm later this year, maybe people aren’t feeling… Christmassy yet?”

I appreciate her optimism, but reality is getting tough to deny. “Harmony Springs is almost as holiday-obsessed as it is gay, Emma. Pretty sure this has to do with a certain free Christmas Card Generator.”

“We’ll figure this out. We always do. You always do.”

I offer a weak smile. “Totally.”

And because the zone has now officially slipped from my fingertips and I am spiraling into masochistic misery, I snap some photos of the broken driver’s seat and text them to Mikey for a quote. I may as well know how deep the shit I’m in actually is.

As if she can sense her daughter’s wallowing, my mother’s face pops up on my phone. I attempt to bottle my frustration as I pick up.

“Ma?”

“What’s wrong?”

Dammit. Carol’s telepathy is unmatched .

“I’ll tell you later.”

There’s a long pause. My mom is not a big fan of being out of the loop and I swear I can hear the gears turning in her head as she strategizes.

“Jolene, come home for dinner tonight, okay? We’re eating early. Lena and Matt are coming.”

When she calls me Jolene, she means business. Which is exactly what I do not want to be grilled on right now. I need a buffer.

“Emma’s coming with me.”

Emma’s expression turns dubious. I mouth please and meatloaf . She acquiesces.

“She’s not a good buffer, Jolene. Her mouth will be full of meatloaf.”

I can’t get anything past this woman.

Standing on the front porch of my family home, I stop Emma from ringing the doorbell.

“Repeat the safe word to me once more, please, Emma.”

“Fruitcake.” She smirks. “Ironic.”

I sigh and gesture for her to ring the bell.

The door swings open and my sister Lena stands behind it, looking a bit like a snowman version of her former self (file that under Inside Thoughts ) . Pregnant and glowing, she wraps me in a tight hug at the front door of our family home and whispers in my ear, “Mom is on one tonight.”

Carol comes flouncing around the corner, a glass of chardonnay in one hand and a cooking mitt on the other.

“Jo, for someone who lives in my backyard, I don’t see you as often as I figured I would when you moved back in.”

My mother knows how to lay on the guilt. She means well, but if I don’t cling to my last scrap of boundaries by cooking for myself in my backhouse most nights, I will no longer be clinging to my sanity either.

“Nice to see you too, Ma.”

Emma foists a jar into my mom’s arms. Carol is delighted.

“More pickling, Emma? Oh, what do we have here?” She holds the jar up to the light.

“Greek giardiniera! Great for snacking, salads, you name it.”

My mom coos. “Exotic! Why don’t you put that by the cutting board, Em?” She turns to Lena. “And where’s that man of yours? Why isn’t he downstairs for dinner?”

Lena shoots me an I-told-you-so glance as she ventures off to find her husband Matt, leaving Mom and me alone together in the foyer. She brushes a lock of hair out of my eyes contemplatively.

“Are you happy, Jolene?”

I snort–typical Carol question. “I find pockets of joy.”

She clucks. “I saw Elise Stutz at Chandler’s picking up the filets for tonight. That truck is a money suck, dolly.”

“Mikey hasn’t even sent me a quote yet but he told his mother?!”

“Mikey is a good boy. And you’re a good girl.”

Here we go.

“You don’t need to keep your father’s legacy alive in that shabby truck! You have the talent, Jo. Why won’t you push yourself?”

I swallow back a hard lump in my throat as I try to formulate an adequate retort, but before I can, Matt, smelling of the greenery he recently partook in, waltzes out of the depths of the house followed by Lena. His shirt is pulled up to reveal the belly he lovingly refers to as his snack sack.

“Ladies, I think my water just broke,” he quips, his expectant grin faltering as he takes in the tension.

“Hi, Matt. Congrats.” I high-five him, as is our standard greeting .

His tummy rumbles and he looks at my mom expectantly. “Dinner, Ma?”

Carol sighs deeply, as if the weight of the world is on her shoulders, and she wasn’t picking apart my livelihood for sport. Lena pats my mom’s back.

“What, Mom?” she asks.

My mom lifts her arms up in exasperation. “You know how I feel about your sister and that truck.”

Lena twists her mouth, giving me an apologetic smile before saying, “I mean, Jo, she’s not wrong. You pour all your energy into Chrissy when you have so many more options than dad ever had.”

“I thought you were on my side tonight,” I tell Lena.

“I am on your side, Jo. I wish you saw that,” she says, and before I can respond, my mom summons us into the dining room.

I slide into my seat beside Emma, muttering to her, “Fruitcakefruitcakefruitcake.”

Emma speaks below her breath. “That might be record time, Jo. Can we at least eat the meatloaf first?”

I resign myself to a delicious dinner before we can make our escape. Mom doesn’t go in on me again, instead pressing Lena and Matt on their stroller options. She doesn’t mean to drive us crazy. She’s got such specific ideas about each of her children’s ultimate happiness that she can’t be entirely happy without her fingers in our business.

After ice cream sundaes, Emma loudly asks me for a ride home and we excuse ourselves before my mom can corner me about my apparent lack of ambition.

As soon as we slam Chrissy’s doors shut, I lean forward on the wheel and let out a wail. I started this day so high and mighty about my ability to dissociate from impending doom, but by the hour, my certainty in that capability has faltered more and more .

Face still pressed to the wheel, I grunt out, “Music, and please no Mariah Christmas.”

Emma flips on the radio, scanning through stations until we land on the euphoric chorus of American Teenager . Ethel Cain is the soundtrack of queer Midwestern angst.

As I’m starting to float atop her harmonies, the deep voice of the DJ cuts in over the final notes.

“Coming up next, we’ve got an exclusive live interview with the enigmatic CEO of Gramsta, here to discuss her controversial new app.”

My heart drops into my stomach. Great, the woman currently ruining my livelihood won’t even let me listen to Ethel Cain in peace.

Emma makes a move to change the station but I stop her. It’s time to borrow a little trouble from the future and face at least one of my demons head-on.

I pick up my phone.