We All Shine On

Chapter 4: Unexpected

"You know what to do, correct?" my boss asked the client, who nodded.

Lennon spoke, "Yes, I'll tell the photographer everything that the Times wants in the shoot. Today, we'll plan, tomorrow, we'll take the pictures."

Giorgio Pirelli adjusted his tie and headed towards the door. "I suppose I've got other affairs to attend to. I'll leave you to alone, alright? I have high expectations for you, Miriam." So he walked out, without looking back.

"So, Miss," John said, taking a portfolio from his satchel. "The papers are in here. The Times needs your signature on these forms." He gave me a small stack. "Go ahead and skim these."

Wow. I still couldn't believe that I was in the same room as him. How was this real? I'd have so much to tell Debbie and Adena about. "Th... thank you sir," I stammered.

He sat in a cheap wooden chair, looking out at the city, the skyscrapers, the faint silhouette of Lady Liberty on the bay, as I wrote my full name on each of the lines. This felt important. I felt important.

"So, you're only how old?" he asked, a little condescendingly, yet gently.

"Twenty-three."

I did the math in my head. John was sixteen years older than I. Of course, when he was my age, he was already a celebrity. It was 1964 and the Beatles had just taken over America. An image of the four performing on the Ed Sullivan show on my TV set flickered in my mind.

"Wow, you're younger than I thought. Are you sure you're experienced?

Maybe someone elese should have taken the job, but I wanted to prove that I was just as good as Matt, or anyone else. I pointed to the framed certificates and photos on my wall. "Does that convince you?" A question.

"Should I be convinced?" Another question. John had been known as the Smart Beatle, with a bright and sometimes sarcastic wit.

"Do you want your pictures in the newspaper or not, sir?" I quietly but firmly asked.

He stroked his chin. "I trust you, Miss Ruben. But you really don't have to call me sir. It sounds stuffy and formal."

"What can I call you?"

"Just John," he stated.

I gently smiled. "Only if you call me Miriam and not Miss."

"Alright, Miriam."

Standing facing him made me feel dreadfully short, the same way I'd felt all my life. A good half of a foot distanced our heights. I shuffled the forms through my hands, glancing over them.

I was already on a first-name-basis with John Lennon.

"So, Miriam Hannah Ruben..." he let the name drag out. "You're Jewish-American, right? Are you from here?"

I shrugged. "Yes and no."

"Then why are you here?" If I were sensitive, it might have sounded a bit like a threat.

"I went to NYU to study photography." I anticipated his next question. "I got a scholarship. That helped me afford it," I explained.

He paced like an animal in a zoo. "Mr. Pirelli told me that today we're going to discuss. Right?"

"Yeah. You can sit down Mr. Len- John, I mean," I corrected. He was hovering over a table of my camera equipment: boxes of film, extra lenses, replacement parts. I'd done some preliminary sketches based on what my boss had told me about what was wanted for the shoot. They were quick pencil drawings of the celebrated musician in various poses, most standing, one in a white fabric armchair.

"You drew these?" he inquired. "Not bad. This is what the New York Times wants me to do?"

"Pretty much. We'll get started tomorrow."

He let his eyes come into slow contact with mine. "What should I wear?"

"I believe that you can just wear a button-down shirt, and maybe a tie with it. Nothing too casual."

"Great. I will do that, Miriam."

He talked to me about what he wanted from the photoshoot as I took notes on a Post-It. It didn't feel like I was being lectured by a teacher or a boss; it felt like I was working with him, not for him.

I talked to him about the crew that would be there, working with the lights and setting up the backdrop. I told him about the people at Snapshots and how much of a jerk Ernst was, which he willingly listened to.

"That's what war does to people. That swine's father probably taught him that every other race was inferior to the Germans. Damn Nazis." His tone was harsh and critical, but sympathetic towards me. "Don't let what he says get to you."

"I don't plan on that," I reassured.

He put his hand on my shoulder and I shuddered a little in surprise. "Tell me about yourself, Miriam," he suggested. "Everyone always wants to hear about me. I want to hear about you."

What? "There isn't much to know about me."

"Sorry if I'm being intrusive," he apologized.

"It's fine, sir- John." I was jarred to see such an interest in me.

We spent hours talking, about the photoshoot, about my life, about the city. I asked him a few questions, but not many. He seemed relieved that I wasn't just another interviewer, or someone who was trying to take advantage of him. When he left for the day, we both not only had a clear understanding of the shoot, but an understanding of each other that I knew would become clear.

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