Searching for Isabelle | Keep your girlfriends out of my photos
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Keep your girlfriends out of my photos

Keep your girlfriends out of my photos

My camera assistant woes never end, it seems. The newest hire is basically a godsend – let’s call him Fabrizio, because he reminds me of that drummer from the Strokes, Fabrizio Whathisface. He’s a real smooth dude, but in that way that makes it seem as though he’s completely oblivious to how much pussy he’s going to get when he glides into a bar. I won’t lie, I’m a bit jealous of the guy. He’s everything I wasn’t at his age, and will probably never be, no matter how world-famous I may become (still dreamin’ the dream). You gotta be born with it. I would take solace in the fact that he’s an arrogant, self-aggrandizing asshole, and I’m a sweet, salt of the earth kind of guy, but the opposite is actually true. Whatever.

So, Fabrizio is probably my best assistant yet, truth be told. I did a set of north side neighborhood scenes for a Chicago architecture firm that shall remain nameless. Late last week Fabrizio delivers an edited set to my inbox.  And it seems he has an edgy artsy side to him too (go figure), ‘cause he added some weird, left-field shit to the photos. I didn’t even notice it at first. I’m looking at them, and the color correction was perfection, and the cropping was spot on…then I noticed that he ever so subtly inserted pictures of a woman in them. She’s very faint, like see-through ghostly. She’s looking at the camera confused. In others she’s looking out of frame, and in some she’s pointing in different directions like a road marker. And I’m thinking, what kind of bullshit is this?

So I ask Fabrizio about it. He denies doing it, but I’m not buying it. I tell him to keep his girlfriend – or Sunday night lay or whatever – out of my pictures. He holds firm and denies it. And I almost believe him, ‘cause the girl? She’s not exactly the type I’d see him with. She’s pretty, but she seems too wholesome, wearing a plain black dress, and has a deer in the headlights look, fragile. And even in post-racial America, I don’t see Fabrizio with a black chick, but what do I know?

Anyway, I can’t afford to lose him, so I just gave him a stern talk and then asked him if I could be his wingman during happy hour.

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