SNAP: The World Unfolds

CHAPTER FIVE

The SNAP limo picked me up at LAX.  I insisted on a quick stop at my condo.  The driver waited while I schlepped my bag upstairs and checked to see if my stuff arrived.

It had.  The foyer and living room were stacked with boxes, the furniture was crammed in and my bed had been set up against the wrong wall.  Welcome home.  I found the box marked “bathroom,” took a fast shower, dressed in clean clothes from my travel bag—glad I hadn’t taken Mira’s packing advice—and was back in the limo in under 30 minutes.

This time I knew the ropes.  I used my card key in the back elevator when the limo dropped me off in the garage.  When the doors slid open on the 18th floor, I was greeted by a dim hush. None of the bright mirrors and Ice Princesses here, it was back to the hushed gurgle of the phones, murmurs, clacking  keyboards and points of light coming from individual cubicles in the pods.

My spine tingled every time I came here.

Jazz met me and took my case and purse. 

“How was your trip, Boss?  You look a little lagged still.  I have coffee waiting.  Your first meeting is in an hour with the print art director.”

“Quick but interesting.” I shrugged my light jacket off.  “Most of the women I saw in Brazil could be in any of our issues.  Thanks for the coffee.  I’d feel a lot more stable if the movers hadn’t just dumped my stuff.”

“I didn’t want to do anything while you were gone.” Jazz sounded hesitant. “I have an organizer and a designer on tap.  They’ll start on your house as soon as you give me the word.”

The word was speechless.  I knew that taking this job would give me a lot of the richie-rich perks (beyond limos, SNAP had corporate jets and apartments) but I’d never had personal personnel at my disposal before.  This I could get used to.

“Thanks, Jazz,” I said as I went into my office.  The smell of strong French Roast came from the service on the credenza.  “Tell me about the art director. I know he’s fairly new, too, but I only saw him briefly before I flew to Rio.”

“He’s mid-thirties, very metrosexual, dishy in a glam sort of way.  Came from one of those regional magazines like Southern Living, but not that.  Book is 7 to 5 on gay but I don’t have a horse in that race.  The word is one of the corporate VPs brought him on board.  He got to bring along his own AA, but haven’t met her—or him, I guess—yet.  His name is Jean-Louis, but there’s a rumor that he was named Johnny Lew for the first 18 years.  He’s still new enough that the long knives have left him alone.  Plus, it seems that someone up there,” she raised her well-shaped and waxed eyebrows, “has his back.”

Unloading my briefcase, transferring a couple of files from my laptop and double-checking my calendar took up the time until Jazz appeared at my door with Jean-Louis in tow.  She hadn’t exaggerated, he was dishy on the hoof.  In his early-thirties, he was just under 6 feet tall and well-enough proportioned that I knew he’d worked on it for several years.  There may have been some carving included, but it was hard to tell.   I might break a cardinal rule about getting involved with a work colleague to check this out more closely.  His eyes were such a dark blue they verged on violet, his black hair was the “just out of bed” look and he had his razor set on two-day growth.

“Hello.” His voice was tenor with a hint of drawl, “I’ve heard a lot about you.  You just got back from Rio?  How did you like it?”

“I did and I did,” I caught my breath.  “Have you ever been?”

“Not yet.  I’m planning to get there for Carnival this year, though.  A good time to check on the locals and see first-hand what all the noise is about.  I thought we could go over a few things.  Let me download to your desktop so we can view it on your screen.”

Wow.  This one didn’t waste any time on the preliminaries.   I liked that he was here for work, but a few seconds of the old sex chemistry wouldn’t have been bad.  And there weren’t any clues about orientation.  No gaydar was going off, but then neither was any warmth.

We spent the next three-quarters of an hour looking over what Jean-Louis called “top and bottom,” his examples of the best and worst layouts that he’d culled from past issues of the magazine.  I was more and more sure we’d get along as our design sense and tastes were compatible, although not identical.  The studio and press conference shots were not debatable, but he was hard on the paparazzi and candids, pointing out a few that he never would have bought.

“It’s not that I don’t like paparazzi, if it weren’t for them we’d never be able to fill an issue.  And I know their job is difficult, getting chased away and hearing the verbal abuse with the hope that somebody will buy.  Or loading them up on YouTube waiting for the hit to get your name known.  It’s a precarious life.  They choose it, though so I treat them professionally and won’t buy unless it’s really good.  No odd angles, no funny shadings, no weird backgounds, no photoshopping.”

He was right and he was professional.  We were off on the right foot and had the drive to make SNAP a better product.  It also wasn’t going to hurt my eyes to work with him.

We went up to the daily content meeting together and I watched how the others acted and reacted to Jean-Louis.  I’ve always assumed that people know their own body language and control it, but it’s still interesting to watch the unspoken group dynamics.  We’re not far removed from the animals who will turn on a weakling and peck him or her to death.  I hadn’t seen a weak link so far in this group of overachievers, but noticed some coalescing around power.  Not as strong as iron filings but a certain willingness to defer to Chaz and the executive producer of the TV show.

With the nightly show blocked out, I went back to my office, made some notes about meeting with Jean-Louis to go over the Rio freelancers who had impressed me and called it a day.  Jazz said the limo was here—tomorrow I was going to try driving myself—and walked out to the murmuring and unnerving liquid sound of phones again.  Tomorrow I was for sure going to ask Jazz about that.    

 

Flames leapt from the huge oak trunk.  The massive stone fireplace covered most of the wall in the echoing room.  A table with its back to the fire anchored two tables so long that the figures at the ends felt no warmth.

That didn’t matter; demons, werewolves and shape shifters were always relegated to the outer places.

“Are you threatening me?’  Stefan Kandesky’s face was translucent with anger.  “You forget yourself.”  He faced down Felix Huszar.

Flames silhouetted the heads of the two great vampire families. Between the smoke from fire and the torches lining the walls, the followers couldn’t see the anger, but they smelled it and they tensed.

“We have hundreds of years of doing it our way.  It works.  We’re fed, clothed, safe from pursuit.  We have no reason to change.” Felix spat out. 

“You may have no reason, but the world is changing.  We are changing with it.  We now have businesses set up in all the great cities, including New York, and our way of life has benefitted us all.”  Kandesky’s voice took on a placating tone.  “We can help you make a transition.”

A chorus of yelps, grunts and howls broke out.  Chairs and benches were pushed back.  Demons began slashing around them with shining, silver knives; a werewolf was impaled as it jumped from a table top and vampires were airborne.

“As you can see,” Felix waved at the shape shifters that were becoming a mob, “we have no interest in your way.”