“Trade you for the 300 mm.” I held out the smaller lens. It had been good for getting close-up content on the beach, but the competition was underway now, and I needed something that would clearly capture the action through the waves.
“You got it.”
We made the lens switch just in time for me to capture a rainbow-bearded Santa in a jockstrap catch a ten-foot wave.
This was my second time photographing the Surfing Santa Monica competition, an annual contest that drew in dozens of surfers from across West Los Angeles as well as parts of Orange County. Per the contest rules, all surfers were required to don some kind of gay apparel, hence the beach packed full of Santas, elves, and reindeer of all shapes and sizes.
“You should learn to surf by next year so you can compete.”
I shot her a lock from behind the tripod, one that said, “Sure, when reindeer fly.”
“C’mon,” she said, goading me. “You’ve already got the suit. The rest is just a board and some water.”
“As easy as that?”
“You bet.”
I shook my head. “We both know I’m more of a land mammal. Remember the swan boats?”
She tilted her head back and cackled. “Boy, do I.”
Sloane moonlighted as a makeup artist in her spare time, so when she’d heard that one of her regular clients was planning to propose to her partner, she’d recommended me to document the proposal, a job which I’d happily accepted. Photographing local happenings and holiday events were my passion, but private events—weddings, proposals, corporate retreats—paid the bills. Camera equipment wasn’t cheap.
Little had I known that the proposal would take place in a swan boat on Echo Park Lake. I’d capsized halfway through and I’d had to abandon . . . swan.
I’d still gotten the shot, though. And Sloane’s client had gotten the girl.
“By the way,” I said, changing the subject. “I talked to my neighbor again.”
“The cute one you ran down?”
“That’s the one.” I had given her a bare bones account of what had happened on Thanksgiving during the Ho-Ho-HotDog Eating Competition we’d photographed this weekend. “I brought over an apology care package with some tea, magazines, and comfort snacks.”
“Well, that was sweet of you.” She twisted her lips. “I don’t know why you haven’t asked her out yet. It’s clear that you’re hard up for her.”
Hard was an understatement.
“We don’t really talk much.” I hesitated before reluctantly adding, “Anymore.”
“Anymore?”
I zoomed in on the next surfer, a woman old enough to be my grandmother decked out head-to-toe in full icy-blue body paint. A pair of snowflake nipple pasties completed her Jack Frost-inspired look.
Hang ten, Granny Frost.
“I’m waiting, Texas.”
I rolled my eyes.Smartass.Sloane insisted on her silly nickname for me, despite knowing that I—an Italian, bisexual boy from Cleveland—had never set foot in the Lone Star State. My parents, though, in their infinite corniness, had named my sisters and I after the cities we’d been conceived in—Charlotte, Savannah, Madison, and Austin. Talk about a fun and uncomfortable factoid to learn as a child.
“She might have . . . asked me out earlier this year.”
Intrigue colored her eyes. “And?”
“And I might have . . . turned her down.” She tilted her head to one side and blinked back at me. “Don’t look at me like that. You’ve seen her. She’s so . . .” I bit down on my bottom lip, thinking about the brilliant beauty who lived across the courtyard. “And I’m so . . .”
“Wow,” Sloane drawled. “That explains it.”
“C’mon, you know exactly what I’m saying.”
