“I hate safaris. Everything is boxy. And you know I don’t feel free to express myself in muted earth-tones. And what is this shit, leopard print? You have to be kidding me. Can I call in sick?”

“You’re already here, Anthony. Besides, you look great in leopard.”

“No, shit. I look good in everything. Where is Marcus?”

Chloe quarter-turned toward the open door and snapped her fingers. Some name-not-necessary intern belly-dragged the ancient pug along the polished concrete flooring. They were in a three story office building in the tech district that was in the middle of being remodeled. Anthony had seen the mockups of what it would eventually look like: The pedestrian-chic real wood and “industrial” juxtaposition intended to give desk-chained nerds the sense that they were doing meaningful work.

He hated that crap.

Ignoring the intern, he knelt down to give Marcus belly scritches before being suddenly annoyed again.

“Why are we even in here?”

“We’re in here because of the interplay, the mise-en-scene, Anthony. We already discussed this.”

Anthony spun around to face the only person on site that could challenge him: The photographer, Johnny Tran.

Johnny Tran.

Johnnytran.

Never just Johnny. Never just Tran. Always Johnnytran, like it was one word. The new hotness in fashion photography. The hip, sexy wunderkind who started as a model and only got better known and more famous as a photog.

Anthony hated him.

And loved him; He was a genius.

Mostly hated, though.

“It’s going to look terrible.”

“No, it won’t.”

“We’re dressed like we should be on the savannah in Africa and you insist on putting us in the middle of a half-destroyed building? It’s going to look ridiculous.”

“Fashion is ridiculous.”

Anthony stumbled, unable to find a quick enough reply in the face of unassailable logic. Instead, he turned on his heels and huffed away, throwing a snotty, “find me when you’re finally ready” over his shoulder on his way out.

Then he waited.

They always chased after him. Made promises, apologies, accommodations.

Just… had… to…

Wait?

No one was coming.

One of his power moves was to ignore, to shun, not to turn around…

He had to sneak a look.

Sonofabitch! They were all just… working. Going about their business: Setting up lighting and filters, manning the makeup table, running wires, talking with the construction managers. All the logistical stuff that a model of his status was supposed to be immune from even thinking about. Not his problem. He was supposed to show up late, mosey out of makeup when he was good and ready, complain about wardrobe until they gave in on something—“what” was irrelevant, just something—and then be gorgeous on command for twenty minutes before, spent, retiring until it was time to eat or get drunk or shop.

That was what they paid him for!

He decided to punish them, to walk through the massive building, huffing and puffing and counting how they had offended him, while hoping they’d have to work hard to find him.

Let’s see: First, his matcha was room temp, making it undrinkable, then he had to ask twice(!) for the intern to take Marcus for a poo, then he was told he had to dress like Bwana Johnny while trying to not to get tetanus in this ridiculous construction site. Now he was being ignored by the—

“Yo.”

He turned, unsure of where the voice came from, not yet ready to give in on his pout.

“Hey, bro. Can you…?”

A stranger. A construction worker of some kind, struggling with something. He wasn’t dressed in the traditional garb that Anthony now realized was largely based on some combination of the Village People and Bob the Builder. Instead, he wore dusty 501s, thick-soled work boots, and a faded neon yellow t-shirt that should have been ritually burned about three hundred washes ago.

“…can you help me out, dude?”

Anthony snapped out of the trance. He was unsure of what to do, so he just said, “sure.”

“Sweet. Grab that side. I just need to get it through this opening, but,” he struggled with the large sheet of flat, compressed chalk, “it’s proving to be a bitch.”

“Okay,” he said. Cautious. Uncertain. “What should I, um—“

“Just grab that side, yep, there you go, now lift it up just a bit and we’ll swing it around, yep, perfect, there we go. Nice. That thing was pissing me off,” he said with a charming laugh. “Good thing you came by when you did.”

“No problem. Glad I could help.” Anthony looked for somewhere to wipe the white dust from his hands. He thought momentarily of using the safari duds, but, as satisfying as it would be, ultimately, it would end up making his day longer.

“Oh, sorry, here, bro. You can use this.”

Anthony suddenly felt self-conscious of being deemed ‘unmanly’ as he pinch-grabbed the very edge of an otherwise well-used shop rag. “Um, thank you.” He did his best to wipe off the dust before handing it back.

“You going hunting?”

“What?”

The man looked down at Anthony’s getup. He blushed. “Oh, no. Hah. No. It’s, well, I’m supposed to wear this, for the shoot.”

“You’re going shooting?”

“Hah. No… oh my. It seems, well, silly, considering. For the photo shoot.”

“Oh, shit. Sorry. Yeah. The thing today. Dale told us about that, said we should just clear out of the area. Said some models are coming by. Any hot ones?”

Anthony smiled.

“Oh, shit again. Sorry, bro. So, you? You’re the model or whatever?”

“Guilty.”

“No kidding?”

“Hey, what’s that supposed to mean?”

Now it was the man’s turn to blush. “I’m just doing great here, aren’t I?” He laughed with a genuine confidence of which Anthony felt suddenly envious. “I didn’t mean, I mean, you’re, you know, a good lookin’ dude and all that, I was just—“

“It’s fine. I’m just messing with you. Sorry. Just me. No hot babes.” He laughed. “So, is this what you do here? Are these, like, the walls or something?”

The man turned to his workspace, a small conference room. “Oh, yeah, exactly that. These big panels are sheet rock. They sort of make the shell of the rooms, keep the insulation from falling out, all that stuff. It’s not rocket surgery, but it pays the bills, you know what I mean?”

“You enjoy it?”

“Most days. I like being inside. I started as a framer, but that can suck when it’s cold or raining or whatever.”

“I can imagine.” Anthony looked at the room. It was about half complete, with exposed 2x4s and pink insulation and wiring in all the sections still waiting to be covered. “You need anymore help?”

“Nah. I’m good, thanks, man.”

“You sure? I have time.”

The man paused, before, “Sure, yeah. Okay. I’ll show you how we put them up, in case you, you know, decide to flip a house or something.”

“Hah. Okay. My new career!”

“Okay, just grab that side, we’ll set it up here on top of this one, and—“

“Oh, sorry. I hit the edge on this thing in the wall.”

“That’s just a j-box. For electrical. No worries, sheet rock is super-forgiving. Believe me, I’ve had to fix a lot of mistakes with a little paste and tape. Okay, so just set it here, yep, perfect, now we’ll screw into the stud—“

“Ummm…?”

“Behave,” he laughed. “Now, the trick here is that we want to have enough pressure to countersink a little, but not tear up the paper. You want to try the next one?”

Anthony hesitated before, “Ok, yeah. Let’s do it.”

The man helped him set up the drill, place it. “Okay, give it a—whoops. Nope.” They both laughed. “No worries. We can fix that, too.”

“Sorry. Guess I don’t know my own strength,” Anthony said with a giggle.

“Done the same thing a million times; Let’s just try it again. Perfect. Well, done.”

The two men worked together, getting a system down to where they could wordlessly get a sheet up in a matter of seconds. Soon, the room was nearly complete.

“The more detailed areas will take me a while. I have to make bunch of cuts, get things tightened up, all that. But thanks for your help. That made things go much faster. I might just get out of here early today.”

“It was my pleasure.” He meant it.

“Coke?”

“Ummm…?”

“Behave,” the man said, taking two bottles of coke from his cooler and handing one to Anthony.

Anthony tried to twist off the top, but nothing doing.

“Oh, sorry. These are from Mexico. Real sugar, but not twist-offs.” Anthony watched as the man deftly put the edge of the cap on the side of a metal tool box and popped the top off with one well-placed smack. “Cheers.”

They clinked bottles and took a well-earned sip; The sugary nectar he’d had since childhood had never tasted quite as good.

The pair sat on a rolling tool chest, silently sipping their drinks.

“I found him!” Chloe said into a walkie-talkie. “Oh, dammit, what did, the clothes are all, what even is this?”

“Looks like I’m in trouble,” he said to the man, adding a wink for good measure.

“Been there. Thanks for your help, brother. You decide to start that house-flipping business you look me up.”

“Deal,” Anthony said, taking a long pull of Coke before handing the bottle back to the man. “Back to the grind.”

Chloe, walking the balance between anger and wanting to keep her job, escorted Anthony back to the set up.

“Sorry, Johnny Tran, looks like we’ll need to get him into something diff—“

Johnny Tran looked at Anthony: The safari wear covered in chalk dust, the sweat, the construction site background. “No, this is perfect. I love it. You’re the best at what you do, Anthony. Everyone ready?”

Anthony, back in his element, did what he did best: He looked interesting.

He’d done it so many times that he didn’t have to even think about it, leaving his mind open to wander, to think about the man, the work, how amazing it felt to see the small conference room they had sheet-rocked nearly completed.

“No smiles, Anthony.”

“Sorry.”