Shooting the CEO

I hate shoots. Photoshoots, videoshoots, any activity where someone thinks they can boss me around and tell me to how to behave. When to smile. How to smile. It’s a waste of my time. Something that could be over in fifteen minutes takes the whole goddamn day.

Given these feelings, it is strange that I arrive early for the shoot, I guess. But that’s because there is one thing I hate more than shoots - traffic. It drives me insane. It would have been better if people didn’t drive like idiots, but here we are. I’ve tried taking calls, meetings, anything to be productive on the road – but I’m stuck in quicksand and I have to think for all the other drivers on the road.

Being early has other benefits as well, like getting the parking spot closest to the elevator.

As I exit the elevator Solly is ready and waiting, as always, with my newspaper. I’ll fire this entire company if I need to, but Solly will stay even after I have left. He is as much part of this building as the steel in the concrete.

“Good morning, Solly.”

“Good morning, Mr. Summers.”

“How are things here, today, Solly? Think the protests will abate?” I look tentatively through the large glass front doors towards the street.

“No telling, sir. But we are ready to lock the doors and the police are on standby. Nothing violent yesterday, though. Mostly the developers who worked here, some of their family members and so on. Not the violent types. If we had mine workers working for us it would have been a different story.”

“You can say that again, Solly. I wish they would go and look for jobs instead of making their redundancy my problem. If they were on the overly bright side, they would still have had jobs. We are only using AI for the bottom thirty percent.”

“That’s why I like my job, Mr. Summers. No AI is going to take the place of Solly anytime soon.”

“You got it, Sol!” I say, reflecting on my earlier thoughts about him. But then I think back to the videos circling social media of robotics – could it be that even security guards might not make it through this revolution? I doubt it, Solly’s salary is a far shot from what one of those talking machines must cost!

“I’m going up to the boardroom, Solly. Photoshoot today.”

He nods. “The make-up artist has already arrived, I took her there.”

I pause for just a second. It’s weird to have someone arriving earlier than I do.

She sits at the far side of the boardroom table. Phone in one hand, vape in the other, with the vape smoke hanging around. She drags on the thing.

“Good morning,” I say as I put my briefcase on table. The poor child chokes so hard she almost swallows the vape.

“Ex…excuse me,” she says, pocketing the vape and waving frantically at the evidence in front of her. “I’m so sorry.”

The guilt on her face is real. No CEO material to be found here; stick to your day job, madam. “Please,” I shrug and wave my hand towards her. “It’s no problem - been at it myself for many years.”

She blushes and giggles nervously. “My apologies again. I wasn’t expecting someone this early.”

“I’m always early,” I say.

She nods. “Me too. Absolutely hate the traffic.”

I smile. “Exactly.”

She picks up a white sheet of paper from the table, and glances at her watch. “You are Mr. Summers?”

“Yes, that’s it. Should be at the top of the list. But please call me Robin.”

She nods. “Got you. And yes, you’re at the top. If you don’t mind, we can get started.”

“Isn’t a bit early?”

“Yes,” she says. “But the sooner we are done, the sooner you can get to work. Photographer will be along in thirty minutes or so.”

I smile. Perhaps there is a flash of CEO in her, after all.

She points to the seat in front of her and I take it, while she drapes a cape around my shoulders. “Don’t want to get make-up on your fancy tie,” she says. “And I’m Tiffany, by the way.”

“Nice to meet you, Tiffany. Are you named after the popstar or the pornstar?”

Her eyebrows lift, and I see a glint of gunmetal in those eyes, the pupils like pistol barrels.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “Bad joke. In the late eighties …”

Her shoulders slump a bit and she smiles. “That’s all right, I can take a joke. And besides, it’s the popstar. Nobody names their daughter after a pornstar.”

I laugh with her and she opens her big bag of tricks on the table.

“So tell me a bit about yourself, Robin. What do you do around here?”

She covers her face with a mask. It’s like those covid things, except it seems to be on steroids.

“I’m the CEO,” I say and point at her mask. “Looks like you could survive a nuclear attack with that thing!”

She sighs. “I know, but it’s the hazard of the job, you know. Long time exposure to powder all day is not good for the lungs at all.”

“I can imagine,” I say, as the musty and mystic aromas rise from her bag.

“In other words, you’re the boss? You’re doing all the hiring and firing around here?”

“You know about all of that?”

“I read about it, yes.”

“Well, then I suppose I’m guilty as charged! It’s a complicated situation, sweetie.” I don’t have to explain anything, but those eyes somehow compel me to continue. “I’m afraid someone has to do it. You know, I don’t just earn a living over here, I have shareholders to consider.”

She nods and takes a powder brush from the bag. “Still, it seems like a brutal thing to do. I mean, doesn’t it weigh on your conscience, not knowing how those people and their families will survive?”

Blah blah blah. I’ve had enough of this topic now. It’s probably all I’m going to hear for the rest of the day, week and month. Time to move on.

I see a delicate golden ring on her finger, with a modest diamond glinting under the lights. “That’s enough about me,” I say, and point to the ring. “Tell me something about yourself. Who’s the lucky guy? Got any kids?”

She removes what looks like a powder case from the bag. It is inside a sealed plastic Ziploc bag. “Oh, I’m just engaged to be married. No kids yet, but there are definitely plans.”

“So when’s the big date?”

She chastises the powder with the brush giving rise to a mini hurricane. As the brush gets closer to me, I notice a small tattoo of a snake along her forearm, just below the palm. “Oh, there’s no date,” she says. “It was going to be in October, but Marcellus was retrenched recently, so it’s all up for discussion again.”

She dabs the brush against my cheeks. First the left side, then the right. Isn’t this powder supposed to be perfumed or something? It stinks.

Marcellus. That’s a fairly uncommon name. In fact, I know only one Marcellus, I think. He is one of the team leads over here … at least I think he was … why can’t I concentrate? I feel increasingly lightheaded as works her way around my nose.

Suddenly, the little snake on her arm starts writhing and growing, and my head flops to the side. My eyes are seeing double, but the last thing that I register, is that the piece of paper that she read my name from, is as blank as the stare in those cold, grey eyes.