Operation: Hero
Getting a picture of the Gianni in one of his elusive, heroic moments is going to be a challenge. I can tell already. Ooh, I’ve got goose bumps . This is gonna be fun.
Cue: Idiot Lasca.
Now, normally, I wouldn’t welcome her silly airhead into my precious Gianni-time, but in order for the Gianni to show his heroic side, he’s gotta have someone to rescue and, as it just so happens, I’m well acquainted with the one person on the planet he’d do pretty much anything to save.
But let’s not get carried away here. I’m not going to, like, tie myself to a railroad track, dial him up on my cell phone with my nose and beg him to find me before the next Amtrack. Which is really too bad, because that sounds really epic. No, I’m going to have to settle for something far more mundane.
Although I don’t like to admit to it, I can do mundane stupidity.
I dump my backpack on the puke-orange sofa in my office and rummage around for my cell phone. I listen to the sounds of life (or, more likely, blind panic) in the photo lab across the hall. There’s always someone printing up until the very last minute. Well, the student portfolios are due at 2:00 p.m. today, so may the photo gods be with that hapless soul…
I select Gianni’s number from the phone’s menu. He answers on the second ring.
“Hey, ‘Anni…” I begin in a rushed tone that’s trying to sound contrite.
“You forgot your portfolio case,” he anticipates in a warm, indulgent tone. Truly, I don’t deserve him. “I’m bringing it to the college as we speak.”
“Wow. I am officially impressed,” I tell him truthfully. “How did you know I needed it today?”
“You’re kidding right? You’ve been telling me that today is the big day.”
Ah, right. The quick-and-dirty history of photography lecture that I’m supposed to deliver. I guess he’d been paying attention to all my disjointed rambling after all. My heart melts. “What’s your ETA?”
“Walking up to the college doors now.”
“Seriously?” I squeak, scrambling for my camera. He must have taken a cab right after I’d gotten on the bus. The man is going to turn Bay Bridge Taxi into a Fortune 500 Company single-handedly. Or, rather, single-wallet-edly. Well, if that’s how he wants to spend his money, who am I to criticize?
“Would I joke about something this important?” he replies, sounding a tiny bit miffed.
“Knowing how dangerous I can be when enraged? You’d have to be suicidal.”
He chuckles at the thought of a marshmallow like me being the least bit threatening to someone like him. Yeah, well, he hasn’t gotten a whiff of my shoes yet. When I beat him over the head with one of them, he’ll know the meaning of terror. Oh yes, he will.
But, that’s for later. At the moment, I’m busy being impressed and grateful. And juggling a camera and a cell phone.
“I’m gonna owe you for this, aren’t I?” I guess as the lens cap pops off and clatters mutinously behind the sofa. Dang it.
“You bet you will.”
“Will a free photo sitting square us up?” I try.
His chuckle this time is dark. “Not a chance.”
I hear footsteps echoing down the art building hallway, approaching. “Ah, the sound of my doom,” I grumble. I hang up on his bark of laughter which rebounds off the student-artwork-lined walls. Clutching the camera, I climb onto the sofa, and brace myself for The Shot. I’m only going to get one chance here, so I’d better take it.
A moment later, Gianni steps into my office, portfolio case in hand, looking all manly and heroic with a strong chin and the glint of purpose in his eyes. Perfect.
Click!
He turns at the sound and gives me a speculative look. “Lasca?” he asks, his tone seeming to form an entire question from the single word.
I grin. “Thanks for the rush delivery,” I tell him, picking the camera up off of the sofa arm where I’d braced it for stability and rolling off the cushions (upon which I’d been lying on my stomach… but seriously, how else was I supposed to get the magical Majestic angle right? No way was I gonna lie down on that carpet. The last time it saw a vacuum cleaner was… well, no one knows, actually, which is pretty scary).
“Was that a propaganda shot?” he demands, referring to the angle at which I’d snapped his photo. Many a tyrannical dictator has taken advantage of the low-angle shot to make them look scarier, stronger… taller.
“You,” I inform him as I reclaim my portfolio case, “do not need propaganda that makes you look good.” There is not a thing in the world that could make him look “better,” not in my opinion. He is dangerously tall, dark and handsome.
He nods toward the camera still clutched in my grasp. “So what was that all about?”
I give him a sweet smile, open my mouth as if to confess All, and then I glance past his shoulder at the clock. “Oh, holy cow pattie. Is that the time? Gotta run!” I inform him in a rush. “Slide projectors don’t set themselves up. Thanks for the portfolio case. You’re a lifesaver!”
I skedaddle. If I’m very lucky, later tonight I’ll be able to distract Gianni from the question I hadn’t answered with a little help from Victoria’s Secret.
I cackle to myself. Only two more items on my To Photograph List.
I am a very happy woman.