A friend of mine, Bob the photographer,
did a fashion shoot in a parking lot.
La Perla had put together some string
with some tiny triangles of fabric
and was selling the things as lingerie
to women with boyfriends who could budget
three or four hundred bucks for underwear.
The French model who stretched out on asphalt
all morning got two thousand bucks an hour
plus airfare, meals and hotel expenses.
I was there on salary because Bob
was one of those photographers who liked
cameras but not darkroom work. I liked
enlargers better than cameras so
we split the chores, Bob doing the lens work
and me doing processing and printing.
We had assistants for hair and makeup
and to wrangle fill lights and run for snacks.
It was a fun shoot, everyone happy,
everyone earning plenty of money –
especially the sexy French model –
but in my memory all that sunshine
is eclipsed by the crazy bloody night
I spent with Shelby when shooting was done.
Shelby did the French girl’s hair and makeup.
The model gave Shelby some lingerie
from the shoot. Just about six hours later,
Shelby and I went out to get dinner.
The screaming had already started but
we just hadn’t heard it yet. The bleeding
started later. Then we heard the screaming.
(Tomorrow: Parking Lots At Night #2: Dinner With Shelby)