My favorite thing about working in a coffee shop was the free coffee. Obviously. My second favorite thing was that once I learned how to make the drinks, my brain was free to do other things, like make mental portraits of customers. The guy who’d just ordered an extra hot, half-caf, nonfat milk, sugar-free almond syrup extra large, for example.
I made his coffee with a fraction of my mindshare while I used the rest of my mental energy to imagine how I’d photograph him. I landed on black and white, in profile. His eyelashes alone would warrant the side view, but his nose would also be fantastic outlined against a stark background. Noses don’t get enough attention in portrait photography. I’ve always thought so.
I kept the ideas to myself. Nobody wants an artistic treatise from their barista. It was true I had an insightful, sparkling, unique portfolio… but it was made entirely of imaginary photographs. It wasn’t satisfying, and it wasn’t enough, but it I told myself I was keeping my creative muscles limber—so it was better than nothing.
More importantly, I had a brother to take care of. Maybe this wasn’t a dream job, but it was a job that kept me close to home and helped me stay on top of our bills.
My phone vibrated in my pocket—the alarm announcing it was time to leave my second job of the day and head to the third.
My jobs were scheduled in order of preference, least to most. First job: computer lab at the community college. Boring. My only responsibility was to make sure the kids surfing porn didn’t hog the computers.
Second job: coffee shop.
The third job was the best one—working in the photo lab at my Uncle Ken’s music magazine, Offstage. It was the closest I was going to get to doing my own photography any time soon.
I pulled out my phone to silence the alarm but instead found an urgent text from Hope Harper: Willa! I have the world’s most flamboyant rock star crashed on my couch. We’re HOURS behind schedule, I can’t reach any of our photographers, and I can’t let him leave town without pictures. Help meeeeeee.
I slid off the stool and called Hope, holding my phone to my ear with one hand and wiping the counters with the other. She started talking as soon as she answered. “I’m off schedule, and all our photographers are booked. Your uncle-slash-my-editor is breathing down my neck. I need a break today, kid. If I don’t get pictures, I’ll have to use his press kit material, and it’s boring.”
I hesitated. I didn’t want to disappoint her, but there was a ton of work I needed to get to in the photo lab, and—
“If you nail this, it could be the feature story, Willa,” she said in a sing-song voice. “Those pay well.”
I was sold. Paying bills before they were past due would be a joy I was unaccustomed to. Maybe I could even pay extra on Toby’s medical bills to chip away at those faster.
I couldn’t deny it would be a good “career” move, such as my career was. Uncle Ken said I could leave the lab and begin work with the magazine as a junior staff photographer. If I was going to take a job with the magazine, though, I wanted it to be because I earned it. I wanted to be sure Uncle Ken would have hired me off the street if I walked into his office. Not because I was his niece, not because he pitied Toby and me. It was stupid to be proud when I couldn’t afford it, but I was proud. I’d work in the coffee shop and the lab before I’d take a handout—even if that handout was my dream job.
This was an opportunity I couldn’t afford to pass up.
I gave the counters a last swipe before I tossed the washrag in the sink behind me. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” I told Hope. How lucky for both of us my camera was with me—because it always was. It was locked, lonely and impotent, in the trunk of my car. It was finally going to see some action.
I’d call Toby on the way to Hope’s to tell him I’d be late, and I’d make up the darkroom time later. I poured three coffees to go, shoved them in a carrier, and shouldered my way out the door.
I was halfway to Hope’s before I realized I hadn’t even asked her who it was.