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Of course, it wasn't until midnight that it was actually finally 1974, but I like to think it was the moment that Jimmy had kissed me that the new year had begun. He was still awfully stand-offish, but just the idea of having to hide our affection was enough to make my heart throb in merriment. As I sat across the dining room table from Jimmy, I couldn't suppress a smile.
"I think I'm going to become a hippie," I mumbled out of the blue as I stirred my oatmeal unappetizingly. "They have more fun."
Jimmy gave a snort of laughter. "Hippies are fake. When I was in San Francisco last year-- er, two years ago-- all of what was left over from the 60s were walked dead on the streets, babbling about Timothy Leery and the death of Hendrix and Joplin. What you should be is a transcendentalist."
"Someone who meditates?" I asked.
"I know you're an anarchist. So are they. They're into that peace and love shit, too, but they don't sit around and do nothing but complain. They go out and get the peace, you know?"
"Like John Lennon?" I pondered. He nodded and I digested his words. "I think I'm going to become a transcendentalist."
He finished up his breakfast and stood, smiling down at me. "Be whatever you want to be, just continue to be a photographer, okay? Bad Company are coming over at one, G'll be here around twelve. Stay away from Paul Rodgers, you're his type."
"Jealous much?"
He looked toward the entrance before saying, "No, just protective. Bianca's got to work at four, and the guys and I will be back from working at five. We should do something."
"Maybe!" I called after him as he left, and I smiled to myself, running my hand over my mouth to try a relax the wretched muscles causing the smile. Maybe hiding our affection wouldn't be so bad.
♫♪♫♪♫♪♫♪♫♪♫
"I want something that says, 'We're Bad Company and we just don't give a single rat's ass.'" G stood behind me, breathing down my neck as it was, impatiently watching as his new band fidgeted in the studio above some bookstore in downtown London. Jimmy had suggested me as the photographer for the promotional shoot and I knew I couldn't disappoint.
"Okay, Curly," I directed, waving a finger at the curly brown-haired man up front, "move a little to your left. Blondie, take one step forward, and you two get a little closer. Light-guy, I need a bit more on Curly. Beard, please stop laughing. Don't Give A Single Rat's Ass attitude, guys. Right, hold that."
I snapped a picture and Blondie looked away, taking a drag off the cigarette in his hand. Peter paced in frustration, pulling at his beard. When Blondie had reset himself, I snapped a few more pictures, G stopping to waddle over and examine my progress.
"You know we can't tell how they are until we get them developed," I drawled, eyeing him with slight contempt. "You can trust me."
He said nothing but went back to pacing. I rolled my eyes and Curly laughed. I glared at him and he became serious again, so I took another picture. "We really need music in here," I observed as I squinted through the view of the camera. "Could somebody turn some music on?"
There was some shuffling, then a, "We don't have a record player or a radio."
"I'm in a room of musicians and nobody owns anything musical? No guitars?" I scoffed. "Okay, Curly, sit between Beard and Dimple, and Blondie, stand off to the side like so."
"I have a guitar," Curly said innocently. "It's on the wall behind you."
Without looking away from them, I called, "Anyone know how to play? Besides the band."
Who ever had picked up the guitar was amateur, but I was grateful that we were at least serenaded in The Ballad of John and Yoko. I snapped a picture of Bad Company just as Curly was about to sing, "The way things are going, they're gonna crucify me." My frustration level was pretty high, but I figured that working with these guys was a lot easier than working with, say, Jim Morrison when he was alive. In the end, though, I was glad the so-called Paul Rodgers hadn't noticed I was "his type."
After the shoot, while I waited around for G to take me back to Henderson Collige, Blondie made his way over to me. I snacked on a piece of cheese and I swallowed quickly to reply to whatever he had to say. Slowly and deliberately, he pulled a ducktail joint from his pocket and held it out to me. "Photographers deserve credit, too."
I smiled up at him and took the marijuana without another thought. "Yeah, well, I never photographed a band before. You were my first."
"Boy, do I love that sentence," he all but moaned, slowly bringing his arms into a crossing position, hugging himself for a moment. "Make good use of that, I saved that from when I went to a Bob Dylan concert a few years back. He gave it to me because he said I looked like Neil Young."
"I don't see it," I laughed. "But thank you. You wouldn't... You guys wouldn't want to share this with me, would you?"
Blondie smiled for a second, glanced over his shoulder at his three bandmates, and replied, "I couldn't think of a better use of it."
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