say cheese

“Who’s that whore you’re giving my orange juice to?” That whore meaning the blond in the next room. That orange juice meaning the carton he had in his hand.

I don’t know if he laughed. Answered. Ignored her. His mom standing in a “I lost my ass in Vegas” sweatshirt. Her words coming out not in English but Tagalog, her native tongue. Mike could understand her but not answer back. Passively fluent. Her words hitting him in a part of the brain that understood but was mute. There he was, silent, standing barefoot on the cold tile in their San Francisco home. On the cul-de-sac. With the manicured yard. With his spit fire of a mother making jokes at 7am.

He had moved back home after his engagement ended. Packed up and did the grown up thing of taking up residence in his boyhood room. Posters on the wall. Trophies on the bookshelf. Pictures of his friends from 10 years ago push pinned to the bulletin board above his desk. I don’t know for sure, but I bet the bedspread had trains on it.

The night before he had gone out with friends. Drinking his weight in mixed drinks, he met a girl and took her home. Charming enough to joke away the big house full of parents and school pictures as they pulled up the driveway. Smooth enough to get her laughing at his twin bed.

So there he was. Whip smart. Complex. Whirling from a breakup he didn’t see coming but needed just the same. On the verge of taking off and being a nomad for a while. He’s about 3 months away from meeting a Swedish girl in Europe. One who he’ll fly half way around the world to see on a regular basis. 4 years later he still has frequent flyer miles left to spend. But in his pajamas, with the orange juice in hand, all he knows is there is a beautiful girl who wants something to drink sitting on the sofa.

He told me this story at lunch. To illustrate his mother. His family. His home on the cul-de-sac. I immediately fell in love with his mom. “Who is that whore you’re giving my orange juice to?” In her native tongue? In her Vegas sweatshirt? Absolutely classic. This was a woman I wanted a photo of on a t-shirt. An immigrant from the Philippines, she was self made. Put herself through school while raising two kids. Her husband doing the same. A somewhat common story until you know that one of those kids was Mike. A hooligan. Full of bad ideas. Enough magnetism to talk people into executing them. He was fucking girls in middle school and growing pot plants in their back yard. To her credit, he turned out all right. The montessori and private schools and family lawyer paid off. He’s grown up, good job, grad school now.

Sometimes I wish I had known him then. The chaos of his teen years and the ups and downs that followed make for good stories shared over plates of fried food and beer drinks any night of the week. We call each other “partners in crime ‘ and plot our very grown up versions of mischief. Spray painting. Street art. Getting high. We’re soft now. Not undertaking anything we aren’t confident we couldn’t buy our way out of. He still has a family lawyer. I just have a phone book. But together we’re worth nearly 200k a year. That’ll get us pretty far.

How far?

Polaroid competitions far.

See, Mike is my one of my bestest buddies. We pinky swear. We eat lunch together almost every day. We tease each other incessantly. We concoct crazy plans. The latest being a photo duel involving me, him and two Polaroid cameras. We started a blog to chronicle the adventure.

www.hesawshesaw.blogspot.com

So think of this as a formal introduction to him. He’s good people. But remember, my photos are better.