The Christmas Pic

10. Jo

CHAPTER 10

JO

I can’t decide whether I’m more pissed off or triumphant. Sure, my vintage Strokes tee is permanently stained, but oh, the sweet, sweet schadenfreude of watching Ava Garcia-Greene’s perfect poreless face contort in realization was so delicious I could skip lunch.

Emma, in the passenger seat, seems unsure of what stance to take at the present moment, probably picking up on my own flip-flopping emotions. But I can’t rant internally, so she’s getting the full monty of my inner monologue.

“And her face , like, is she using a real-life AI filter? Where are her pores? Is she wearing fake skin? It’s insane.”

Emma snorts. “I think you’re deviating a bit.”

“And I think she deserves more pores, morally speaking. That’s all.”

“Uh-huh.” Emma side-eyes me. “I’m impressed you can cop to her attractiveness when you’re seeing red.”

“I’m a pissed off lesbian , I still have eyes,” I retort. “But listen, just because she’s… you know… etched by the golden ratio, it doesn’t mean I would go there .”

Emma leans forward in her seat. “Hmm. Do you think she’s ever been to Ladyland? ”

Growing up in Harmony Springs, surrounded by every subgenre of gay person imaginable, has actually overwhelmed my gaydar. It's like a circuit overloaded with too much data, ultimately frying the delicate wiring that fine-tunes one’s ability to discern sexuality. Nevertheless, I sit with Emma’s musing question. Not because I’d ever date Ava Garcia-Greene, but as a totally neutral, inconsequential thought experiment.

“I get the sense she doesn’t like anyone , even platonically. She’s as much of a corporate robot as her AI Hate My Family Generator.”

“I mean, there are people dating chatbots these days, I’m sure there are gay robots out there by now.”

“Well, I’m not robosexual, so it’s a moot point.” I say. “Em, why did I ever agree to this?”

“You’re stubborn as an ox but you’re not a complete fool.”

“Thanks for setting such a high bar, person who works for me.”

“No problem, person who can’t afford to give me a raise.”

“I would if I could!” I insist.

Emma folds her arms. “And I’m not complaining, I’m making a point about why you agreed to this. Chrissy needs help. Your ego will survive, this business might not.”

“But can Ava even do anything? It’s pure hubris that she thinks she can save a business that is literally suffering because of the app that she made!”

“I’ve been thinking about it, and I think you can use that to your advantage.”

My curiosity is sparked. “Oh?”

“Well, it was her hubris that led her to make that promise on a national radio program. Everyone is watching. She doesn’t have any choice but to help us; her job at the app that’s ruining our business is on the line.”

“Where are you going with this?”

“Let her fail. ”

“What?”

“Let Ava swing her big fat ego around until even she’s exhausted by how impossible the task at hand is, and then, right before Christmas, you can convince her to write us a big blank check to make up for how much she botched it. At the end of the day we need a cash infusion, right?”

“Why don’t we ask for a blank check now, so she can go home?”

“Her pride could never.”

Emma’s not wrong.

“Okay, so we let Ava flail, prove to her that her big corporate strategies don’t apply to The Photo Truck, and once she’s desperate to have anything to show for all her big talk, we corner her and demand money?”

“Egos are like Chinese finger traps. The more you try to go against the grain, the more stuck you’ll get. Let her be hoisted with her own petard or whatever.”

“Hoisted..? What?”

Emma is defiant. “I read Shakespeare, okay? I love language!”

They say a photo speaks a thousand words, so I’m a reader in a sense, too, but whatever mumbo-jumbo Emma is spouting is not actually English. That being said, Emma is also spouting pretty high-level strategy at the moment.

“I’m on board. I guess. Let’s hose the bastard.”

I can feel her eyes roll without even looking over.

I pull up to Emma’s place and park.

“Jo, come inside for a second. Duke hasn’t seen you in ages and he’s devastated.”

Well, that’s one individual who has never failed to make a good impression on me. Or, I should say, a great impression. Duke is Emma’s Great Dane mix rescue, a hulking himbo of a dog whose heart and soul far outsizes his already massive body .

“I can’t be responsible for ruining my father’s legacy and devastating Duke in the same week. Let’s go.”

As soon as Emma unlocks her apartment door, a tornado of affection and slobber tackles me to the ground. I’m not exaggerating in the slightest. But I’m not only unbothered, I am thriving. I said the murals were my sanctuary, but in some ways, being pinned beneath a 180-lb breathing weighted blanket has a similar effect on my overstimulated psyche. I am the recipient of pure, unadulterated, unconditional love and I can’t help but be hyper-present in the moment.

“This is definitely what the doctor ordered,” I say from beneath the beast, my stomach rumbling.

“The doctor hasn’t ordered us food, unfortunately, but we should.”

“Gulab Jolly?” Yes, even our favorite Indian place in Harmony Springs is still Christmas-themed. Anjali and Nisha could serve their korma sauce in wine glasses and I’d drink it, that’s how good their spot is.

“You know the drill.”

“I’m on it.” I re-order our usual online.

Emma and I definitely like our routines. We get coffee together every morning, even when we don’t have a shoot, like today. And since we both live alone, we always text good night as a little check-in at the end of each day.

Lena and I haven’t always been the closest, so in many ways, even though we aren’t blood relatives, Emma often feels more like a sister. At least in the way I always wanted one.

Emma’s dad and my dad were best friends since birth. I was raised calling her father Uncle Gene, and to her, my dad was Uncle Roger. They both grew up in Harmony Springs, next door neighbors, and they were inseparable up until my dad died. When he passed, Emma was still in high school, and she leaned on me emotionally. It gave me a sense of purpose, somehow, to set aside my own grief and work to assuage hers. It’s probably not healthy, but it’s the truth.

Because I’d inherited the truck, she started hanging around, fiddling with cameras and lenses, learning the ropes while unofficially shadowing me. Once she got to college, she worked out a way to get credits toward her film degree by interning at The Photo Truck, and the rest is history. She’s the reason the truck even half-exists today, and that’s part of why I’m taking her plea to entertain Ava’s charitable bid to heart.

We sit on the floor beside her coffee table, our Indian feast laid out before us, Duke resting his giant head on my foot. I scoop up a mouthful of aloo gobi and moan. Food is awesome and also, I forgot to eat breakfast and have been awake since god knows when.

Emma picks up the remote. “Bravo?”

“Bravo, Bravo, fucking Bravo.”

I’m grateful we have each other to share in these small but perfect moments amidst all of the hullabaloo. Would that it could last for longer than midday Real Housewives and curry.

The next morning, after our coffees–and mutual bitching about the carbohydrate stupor we landed ourselves in yesterday–we drive the truck over to the North side of town for one of the few shoots that hasn’t yet canceled on us. I’m savoring this booking for multiple reasons–namely, it’s a booking, but also, this is my final day of work before the Ava train comes hurtling into the station.

The Olafson clan pile into the truck and I start my usual holiday photoshoot spiel while Emma makes last-minute tweaks to the lighting setup. I’m flipping through my book of poses when I glance up and see that Karl, the father, is fully across the studio, his nose pressed to the glass window.

“...Karl?”

“Wow, she’s… wow! ”

Either Mrs. Claus and Santa’s flying reindeer blessed Harmony Springs with a cameo, or the Wicked Witch of the West just landed.