Page 125 of Charming Like Us
Heard it before.
Inciting jeers happen at this bar too regularly now, ever since SFO gained some fame. Locals can’t stand us even if this has always been our local spot.
We refuse to be kicked out.
Akara gives him a friendly look. “Hey, don’t give Epsilon a reason to say they’re better than us.”
Donnelly nods, but Thatcher is glaring at the bar.
South Philly guys pop off so easily when their city pride is at stake. Love Philly to death, it’s been my home, but I’m not feeding into local hecklers.
We go back to our conversation, everyone grimacing at the cold coffees, and after another fifteen minutes, Farrow stands up on his seat—he’s wedged against the wall because everyone filled the booth. And instead of asking Thatcher, Akara, and Banks to move their asses, he literally walks across the table and jumps off.
Donnelly and I applaud mockingly.
Farrow just lifts a couple fingers in goodbye. “I’m out. See you boys later.” He walks casually to the exit.
“And there he goes,” I quip.
“Gone so soon. RIP,” Donnelly says.
We all laugh, but my smile fades as I glance at my phone. Knowing, for sure, that he has to be asleep.I’ll see him tomorrow.
I hang onto that, at least.
25
JACK HIGHLAND
Greenland.
Colorful houses in bright reds, yellows, greens, and blues landscape steep mossy mountains that plunge down into a fjord, a deep inlet of water between cliffs. Icebergs jut out of the teal water, and while whales breach the sea, the sound of playful seals fills the chilly air.
The location is sostunningthat it seems fabricated. Like some pitch I’ve embellished as a location scout seeking to shoot in the Arctic Circle.
It’s real, though.
On the deck of a bright blue house, I fix my camera on a tripod. Aches and pains flare up as I move around my equipment. Underneath my winter jacket, bruises decorate my body. All over myelbows.Down my hips. I have a big welt on my thigh and knee.
These past five days trying to film Charlieandpush back paparazzi has been taxing. Physically, sometimes mentally. A little emotionally.
They shove their cameras in my face and yell,“Jack! Jack! Did you know about Oscar & Charlie before you kissed the bodyguard?!”It’s irony, right? I have a camera. I’m there tofilmCharlie, and the paparazzi are filming me while I film him.
But Charlie gave me permission to prod into his life. And I’d say I’m nowhere near as aggressive or caustic as most paparazzi. They make me look like abutterflygingerly capturing footage and not actually weighed down with fifty-pound equipment.
I have a high threshold for uncomfortable situations. I make the best, do my best. But I almost reached my limit while on a WAC shoot filming Jane, Sullivan, and Luna at a pub together. Not only did another cameraman ram an elbow in my back, but he ruined all my footage by screaming questions atme.
I had to scrap everything.
Charlie is even over the outrage. He actually gave me and Oscar a whole day’s notice before booking a flight to Greenland. A private plane and shuttle ride later, we arrived.
He literally flew to theArcticto escape it all.
I position my lens towards panoramic views of Disko Bay’s endless teal water and picturesque icebergs. It’s peaceful and calm outside. A stark contrast to what we left.
But I find myself eyeing a prettier view. Oscar rests his forearms on the deck’s railing, leaning in a nonchalant lunge, with a paperback in hand. His winter gear is worn well, a total pro at harsh climates, and as my smile rises, I shift my camera. Until he’s completely in frame.
I zoom in on his face. His curly hair warms his ears, and his eyes drift over towards the yellow cabin to the right of ours.
