Author’s Assortment #6 – Spidermania Pt. 3

Posted: December 29, 2018 in Uncategorized

By G.N. Jacobs

The shoot ended early given that the director hired by the singer’s people actually had enough creativity sometimes called having the Eye, a blended skill set where a great photographer could catch the light to make America lust the mythical woman and a dramatist would create the illusion of love. In practice, a Steadi-Cam shot had caught all the emotional beats playing on MJ’s face without need for very many cut-ins and shaved the last three hours off the schedule for the expensive rental of Wrigley Field.

Peter learned these things because the 800-pound gorilla had made a point of touching him on the arm while holding the iPad with the proof copies. “Hey, Mister Parker, take a look.”

Peter caught his breath. He’d photographed MJ more than he could count on his fingers finding all the good moments. Still, these images found even more surprising depths to make the boyfriend jealous until MJ swore with the absolute sincerity of a child that hadn’t discovered lying she thought of her Tigger every moment. He needed to rent a vintage Cubs uniform, despite his hometown loyalties.

“Beautiful, Calvin,” Peter said after a long breath.

“Yeah, why I wanted her for this when her agent said she had this window for doing a gig in Chicago,” Calvin Short said. “But, I do my homework, you shoot a lot of stills of her and…”

“I should set stiffer filters on my Facebook,” Peter said realizing the awkward two seconds after saying the words.

For his part, Calvin enjoyed seeing Peter’s face play out the I Didn’t Mean to Say That tango. The man touched Peter’s arm all being right with the universe.

“Yeah, you and me both Mis…Pete,” Calvin said. “Anyway, you shoot MJ and while it’s visually different from how my guy sees her, there’s a lot of wow to how…”

“Thank you,” Peter said.

“You’re welcome,” Calvin said. “But, I’m not stupid, all resources that make my deal go better I tap. Especially, since we’re moving to the interiors tomorrow.”

“I’ll talk with your guy,” Peter agreed.

They shook hands sealing the deal. MJ sipped the last free macchiato of the day enjoying the view of her man expanding his professional horizons while the costume lady watched her like a hawk. It was, in strict point of fact, the kind of dress that most actress/models might steal off the set. She put up her hands and moved directly to the dressing room.

Peter and MJ enjoyed what passed for walking weather in Chicago dressed in jeans, but with just enough sweater to split the difference. They’d found a pizza man on a Southside street with thin slices that exceeded the Bronx and almost matched Queens. The man smiled behind his mustache providing cheesy triangles.

The museums provided a few hours of entertainment in the form of sketching MJ into all the classic pictures with women in them. MJ did the same but with far less output because she only wanted to see how Peter looked as the musketeer painted by contemporary of Rembrandt. His stance leaning on the sword made the sketch.

Wherever they went, recognition followed. Half wanted to gush over meeting a modestly famous model for many reasons. And fanboys and a few fangirls just wanted Peter to talk about last night’s bout with Tarantula Hawk, surprised that the couple hooked elbows in real life.

“Really, Mister Parker,” said a five-year-old boy with big eyes. “Why would you let the westlin’ witers do that to your girl?”

MJ stifled her laugh with a finger. “Young Man, it gets worse. Our writers don’t like what our bosses are doing and Pete and Henry made the whole thing up on the fly and…”

The boy didn’t like this answer having a brief moment where maybe the tyke would kick Peter in the shins for endangering his sweetie like that. It passed when MJ read the moment and patted his head.

“It was all pretend,” MJ said. “Henry and Peter are sort of good friends out of the ring.”

“No, Miss Watson,” the boy said doubling down. “You really like him and pretend is all untrue.”

Peter shrugged letting MJ lean in on this particular shovel.

“I do really like Peter,” MJ said. “That’s why it played so well last night. People who are really great at pretend mix the untrue with the true so it feels real…”

“But isn’t that lying?”

MJ raised an eyebrow at Peter at the curious balanced reality working behind this fan’s eyes. How to explain storytelling to a tyke that understood the choreography in wrestling but not the underlying narrative theory? Peter shrugged, just because he could fire off good notes and ideas to the writers didn’t mean he could fully explain things.

“A storyteller does that because if he pretends all the time, the person hearing or reading decides that it isn’t a fun story,” MJ said. “If he tells the real all the time, it still isn’t a fun story. The storyteller balances the two. What makes it not a lie is that the storyteller doesn’t use his words to hurt people and a liar does.”

The boy cocked his head only partially assimilating this new information from the advanced class. Peter promised the boy that he would always stick up for MJ in the story and that was enough for the boy. A pinky-swear upon the most holy of things, a list including a puppy, a Crackerjack decoder ring and his copy of the White Album. And then Peter had a wrong idea.

“Son, you seem remarkably well informed about wrestling…”

MJ caught the undercurrent and glared at Peter to no avail.

“…I wonder how you knew we have writers?” Peter asked.

“My budder told me.”

“I see, as long as you don’t listen to him about Santa Claus,” Peter said.

MJ pinched her boyfriend. The boy stuck his fingers in his ears and hummed loudly. Obviously, St. Nick was a true line in the sand.

The boys’ parents and the offending older brother appeared out of the crowd revealed in the distorted mirrored blobby thing installed as public art. The mother was worried about the boy slipping away from the family to explore shiny new things, until she saw a happy couple occupying her son’s time. Quizzical stares went around.

“Folks, Google the Green Spider,” Peter suggested.

Many selfies and autographs passed between them. The mother waited until they went a few steps before laying into the boy about wandering off. Peter created eye contact with the older brother and made the I’m Watching You gesture.

“Our future, MJ?” Peter asked.

“I hope so, Tigger,” MJ said as she leaned into his body using the kind of voice that expressed boundless hope. “But, haven’t you learned yet, Blockhead, that you absolutely don’t tell little kids about Santa?”

“I didn’t,” Peter said with mock defensiveness. “I told him not to listen when his douchebag older brother does.”

“Which is backhandedly the same thing, Dummy,” MJ asserted. “If you tell the boy not to listen, then subconsciously you also just told him that his brother might have something and…”

Peter kissed MJ’s forehead getting the first stages of melting the metaphorical butter. She kissed back to the cheers of the crowd.

“Okay, maybe, I’m using too much relationship jujitsu here…”

“Jujitsu being something I’m good at…”

“Maybe, Tigger,” MJ said. “I want a good hot dog instead of the nice place you have lined up tonight.”

“Inscribed on the corner of my eye with a needle as a lesson to the circumspect and faithful,” Peter said hand to his heart.

Arm in arm the happy couple strolled occasionally stopping people dressed for work for the 411 on a good hot dog cart. Peter’s spider senses kicked in as an unspecified reason for his arm hairs to stand on end despite his coat. MJ felt it too holding onto her man.

A beetle made of iridescent blue steel flew behind the happy couple. An aperture widened on the robo-bug’s right eye. It took a proper following distance about twenty feet.

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