The windshield wipers of the RAV4 flopped back and forth. I was with Richie, trying to get to a photo assignment. While we waited in traffic, I imagined Cal Arts, and Los Angeles, and people running around naked in the desert. I pictured palm trees, blue skies, kids sitting in drum circles in the sand, their sunglasses gleaming in the sun. How would I do in a world like that? What would those people be like?
Richie played with the radio, then shut it off. We were doing a shoot for Portland Weekly, taking pictures of some of the new artisanal cupcake spots that were popping up around town.
“Fucking cupcakes,” said Richie, staring at the back of a stopped bus. “I did not get into this business to shoot fucking cupcakes.”
I tapped my fingers on the steering wheel.
“Passport photos are more interesting,” grumbled Richie.
“Passport photos are pretty interesting,” I said. I had taken home an entire box of rejected passport photos from Richie’s store recently. I’d scanned a bunch of them into my computer and was messing around with them. Since I was applying to art school, I was starting to have “art school ideas.”
We finally arrived at the first cupcake shop. The woman who owned it was freaking out because we were late. She got a little controlling with Richie, about how to arrange the picture. He finally told her: “Listen, lady, we got it. This is what we do.”
The next cupcake shop was run by an old hippie couple. Their cupcakes were made with special grains. They tried to explain this to Richie, but he didn’t care. Their cupcakes were lumpy and had a greenish hue. Richie asked them if they had any better-looking cupcakes. “You know, photogenic cupcakes?” Richie told the man with the gray ponytail. “Like something you’d want to eat?”
The last place we went to, Hawthorne Bakery, was owned by two women who were quite young. They looked about Richie’s age, midtwenties. They had an elaborate baking area built inside this old wood building. Everything was super clean and shiny and well lit.
One of the two owners wore an actual baker’s outfit: the white apron, the white hat, she even had a smear of white flour on her cheek. The other was more the business person. She followed us around, telling us things about the bakery. When Richie asked her where she got the money to start the business, she talked about her investors and about demographic research and business models.
“Translation: she got the money from her parents,” Richie said to me when we were outside switching lenses. We stayed at Hawthorne Bakery a long time, though. We took a lot of pictures. I realized Richie liked the other of the two owners, the one with the baker’s hat. He must have taken a hundred pictures just of her.
Later, when we got back into the RAV4, he told me not to start the car. “That bakery chick, the one with the hat,” he said. “What did you think of her?”
I shrugged.
“I wanna ask her out. What do you think?”
“With the flour on her face?” I said. “Yeah, she was cool.”
“This bakery thing. I’m into it. It smells good.”
“It looks like fun.”
“I liked her,” said Richie. “The one with the flour on her face.”
“Ask her out,” I said.
“I think I’m gonna ask her out.”
“You should.”
“Do you think she liked me?”
“Yeah,” I said. “She smiled at you.”
“Did she?” asked Richie. “Did she smile at me?”
“Well, you told her to smile. You were taking her picture.”
“Fuck it,” said Richie. “I’m gonna ask her out.” He got out of the RAV4 and slammed the door. He went inside. I sat and waited. I could see him through the big front window. He went up to her, started talking, waved his hands around, like he did when he got excited.
A minute later, Richie came striding out. He opened the car door, sat down, slammed the door shut behind him.
He slapped a piece of paper on the dashboard. “Check this out,” he said. On the top it said: HAWTHORNE BAKERY. Below that was a phone number and in female handwriting, NICOLE.
“You got balls,” I said.
“Damn right I got balls,” said Richie, rocking in his seat. “And now I’m shaking with nerves. Let’s go get a beer.”
• • •
We went to a restaurant down the street. We sat at the bar. Richie had brought the piece of paper with him. He kept looking at Nicole’s name and number. “I think I like this girl,” he said.
Richie had his beer and I had a sandwich. Meanwhile, there was something happening on the TV above the bar. Breaking news. A reporter was talking about a police shooting in Seattle. A fifteen-year-old African American girl had been shot by the police for shoplifting the day before. Now there was a protest, which judging from what we were seeing on TV, had turned into a riot.
Commentators were trying to explain what had happened, but they kept cutting away to show live footage from Elliot Square in Seattle. They showed a large angry crowd, arm in arm, shouting something at the police. They showed the police lined up in riot gear, preparing to hold them back.
“What the hell is this?” Richie said, watching the TV.
They showed a bunch of tear-gas canisters flying through the air. And people running through the smoke.
“Holy shit,” murmured Richie.
They showed a guy with a TV camera running across the street. And then a journalist with a big Pentax camera getting knocked down by the cops.
“Did they just hit that guy?” said Richie. “Did the cops just tackle the guy with the Pentax?”
We both watched the fracas. It was crazy and fascinating.
“We should be up there,” said Richie. “We should be shooting this.” He turned and yelled for the waitress. “Hey! Hey, lady! We need our check!”