I was smiling brightly as they handed me the Commissioner's Medal. Of course the award was not for me, it was for the team, but they had selected me to receive the honor from the commissioner because, as they said, I had been such an inspiration and my great ideas had made the project a success. I told the team I thought Juanita Lopez should go up to receive the award, but they insisted on me. Now there I stood, looking at the photographer's lens, grinning graciously, grasping hands with the commissioner. Juanita had not done much on this project but she had a great ass and I would have attended the ceremony just to sit there and watch her on the podium in one of her short, tight skirts.
The commissioner's hand felt like a steak that has been thawing in the refrigerator. A steak that is lined with fat, with blood dripping on the floor while you stand there for some required amount of time. He was smiling at me as the camera flashed, his teeth looking like an ad for cosmetic dentistry. It would have been funny to come up with a left hook right then, in front of the cameras and everybody, and take out a row of fake-looking ivory.
The project had been a success. Thanks to us, the world will have greatly increased supplies of toxic chemicals in the atmosphere and water, and poor people will see their salaries cut even further. Also, our executives and stockholders will get richer. We really figured out how to cut corners on this one, largely due, I admit, to my own clever thinking. I figured out how to move from development to production without actually skipping testing, but without actually testing, either. It was genius, everybody said so. You just have to know what to call things.
The photographer was in jeans. She was not really dressed for this occasion, but her outfit made it clear that she was there as a hired hand, to do a job and not mingle with these stuffy assholes. Tight, faded jeans, that is. As she pointed the camera at me I was picturing her firm tits hanging loose, I was imagining her bent over between two cars in the parking lot, those tits swinging as I rammed my dick into her until I was spent. I thought of several things I could say to her to get the ball rolling, but decided not to, not this time.
Well, not ever. I didn't do those kinds of things, not at work. If I did, somebody would find out, and here goes my easy life. But look at those knockers. I would love to hang out with that cutie, we could power down a few shots of whiskey and she could complain about the fuckheads she takes pictures of every day. I know she has some stories, and I sure do. Then I'd fuck her in the parking lot. She was just my type and I had the feeling she was tuned in to me, too.
The commissioner asked for a few words.
"I'd like to thank management for putting together a terrific team," I said. I named several people, putting the ones I hate the most first. "... Gloria Stevenson deserves special mention for all the extra hours she put in" because she is too lazy to get her work done during normal hours like the rest of us "and George Lincoln, whose talent on the computer saved us weeks of development time" when he spent about five minutes a day coding a program that he stretched out over a four month period but could have done in two days except he had figured out how to use a virtual machine to run games on his work computer for seven hours and fifty-five minutes a day.
The crowd clapped enthusiastically when I finished up, they were all smiles. All ten of them. They were smiling because they had survived another one of these terrible meetings and I had not used the platform to make sarcastic jokes about my boss or the miserable conditions we work in. They knew I wouldn't, of course, that's why they picked me. I would know what to do.
It is not hard to know what to do. I look around the room and realize these are the stupidest people in the world. They are unqualified for their jobs and think what they do is "work," and if you act like you give a fuck, like you care about their brand new, fresh insights which have been obvious to everyone since Homo Sapiens came down from the trees, they will think you're one of them and they won't fuck you over.
So everybody tries to act like they fit in with the most unsatisfying, unrewarding, dehumanizing environment every devised, the modern corporate office.. The difference between them and me is that they actually think these things matter. Doing a good job, fitting in, getting along with people, being honest but tactful, all those things are actually important to those people in their cubes and hospital-gray offices. They have been convinced that if they could only get better at being a good person, could fit in better and keep a better attitude, they might eventually win some respect. Just think: if you are a good-enough person, someday you might get a raise. Someday somebody might give you a compliment, woo. As it is, they were sitting in their cubes trying to impress their bosses and coworkers while I was getting a prize from the commissioner and thinking about what I'd like to do to the photographer.
And by the way the photographer was thinking similar things about me; I could read her mind. She knows this is bullshit, and just like I know she knows I know, I know she knows I know she knows. There's a way to tell but I'm not going to try to explain it. But it's not easy for me, either. What would I do if, after the awards, she came over and said, "Hey, why don't you come fuck me in the parking lot?" I'd have to decline, I know, I'd have to act shocked and offended. She also knows she can't really say that, because it might get back to her company and her own easy life would fall apart. So we know that won't happen. But we also know it could, or should. We both know it has crossed her mind and mine. And that in itself makes the world a tolerable place.
Over the next few weeks, with the project finished, I experienced a long period of profound boredom. I felt severely constrained by the expectations of my work environment, the unimaginative people I worked with. Even the ones who used to have a sparkle in their eye know what the deal is. You behave yourself, you act like a sexless, humorless robot and even if you're unproductive, if you don't offend somebody, like by mentioning how you actually feel about something, you do your years, you get your pension for a while and then you die.
And I kept thinking about that photographer.
It wasn't hard to find out what company she worked for, and after that it wasn't very hard to figure out her name. Ann Sarducci. Good enough, better than not knowing. I thought about hanging around outside her office and blindsiding her on the sidewalk as she left at the end of the day, "Hey weren't you taking pictures at that award ceremony?" Yeah well that would be lame. She would know what was going on and I would freak her out. I could see her getting a restraining order and my career being destroyed, you know what I mean.
I wondered if I could hire her to take some pictures. Right, Jonathan Connally, world-famous process analyst for AMBIA LLC, lots of people want to see what he looks like, he needs professional photographs. Nope.
It came to me in a flash of lightning.
I have a kind of drinking buddy named Terry who works for a magazine of some sort. He's a reporter, writes local stories about restaurants and night-life stuff. The magazine isn't very good but it's legit and gets enough advertising to keep going. What if he hired a photographer to take pictures of me, as if there was going to be a story about me?
I called him. He thought it was a hoot. "Man, Jonathan, I knew you were a no-good scoundrel but I didn't think you would sink this low. Of course I'll do it." I suggested he offer to pay her in cash, to get a better deal and also he wouldn't have to explain why there was no company paperwork. And of course I'd reimburse him immediately. He was going to tell her they are doing a story on a powerful low-profile business guy who was supporting the nightclub industry, or something.
He called me back. It was set up for seven o'clock Thursday night. I was to meet her outside Jerrison's, which is a hipster dance place on MacArthur Street and one that I visit regularly.
I spotted her from across the street, in her tight jeans, carrying a tripod over her shoulder. Yes, my instincts were good, she was definitely full of potential. And yes those were some great tits. I eased across the street and walked up to her. "Hello, you wouldn't happen to be Miss Sarducci, the photographer, would you? I'm supposed to meet her here."
She recognized me immediately but stayed cool. "Yes, that's me," she said. "Mister Ranton has sent me over to get some shots. You're Jonathan Connally? He suggested shooting you in the nightclub environment."
"Good idea," I said. "Terry's a great guy. And do they let you drink on the job? If you're getting some shots I could get us some shots too, if you'd like."
"Sounds good to me," she said. "They're paying cash so I'm basically on my own tonight. No boss to report to."
"Excellent," I said, touching the small of her back lightly as I ushered her toward the door.
"Hello Mister Connally," the doorman said. "Miss, do you have some ID?"
"She's with me, Freddy." He waved us through. Man, I am smooth.
I found us a place at the end of the bar and found out a little bit about her job, her hometown, found out she doesn't have a boyfriend and isn't a lesbian. She did not find out much about me; I kept her on the receiving end of the questions. I ordered two shots of Makers Mark while she set up her tripod and screwed a lens onto her camera. There wasn't much of a crowd, but enough for atmosphere and background for some photos.
"This is great scenery," she was saying. "The light's going to be tough because it keeps changing, but this is a great old bar." She squeezed off a couple of shots and looked at them in the viewer. "Oh, this is going to be good."
During a pause in the photography she picked up her glass and waved it toward me, I clinked mine against it, and down the hatch they went. I ordered another round -- this thing of acting like you have money is fucking expensive, but you know, you do what you gotta do.
I asked her to dance, thinking she would turn me down, but she didn't. "I gotta stay where I can see my equipment," she said, so we danced on the nearer edge of the dancefloor. It was a kind of reggaeton beat, good to dance to but the lyrics were in Spanish so I don't know what it was about. Then there was another good one, then a slow one, and she didn't head back to the bar so I took her in my arms and we stood under the reflecting ball swaying back and forth. When that song ended she said, "We ought get some more shots while we're here."
I felt like somebody special standing at the bar looking at the crowd or smiling into the camera while she took pictures, and Ann had a way of relaxing me, joking a little, shooting from different angles. A few people I knew stopped by and could see I was busy. I think some of them just wanted to get a look at the chick.
"I keep thinking I've seen you before," I said. I wanted her to say it.
"Yeah," she said. "I think you were at an award thing I shot, at AMBIA. You got some kind of award."
