The clock ticked away the effort of Drake’s work. Three foot taps per second, and worse and worse chances of him making his 7:10 flight. Was he the only one with a sense of purpose in this office? He checked his phone again for the time. 4:46. His meeting was supposed to start sixteen minutes ago. The inconsideration of the company’s part was ruining his perfect timeline to beat the holiday travel rush.
Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap, his heel on the vinyl floor.
His phone vibrated with an incoming text. Drake checked it and saw a message from his brother: You on your way to the airport?
He shoved the phone back into his pocket.
The receptionist glanced up at him from behind her computer, her face bordering on annoyance.
Yeah, me too, he thought.
Her computer dinged with a notification alert, and she said, “They’re ready for you now.”
Drake was on his feet and jumping for the door the instant she said ‘now’. His swiftness alarmed everyone at the plastic fold-out table too many executives were using as a workspace. Charging cords were tangled up in each other, and everyone was reaching over each other to find the right printout. None of them noticed Drake coming in. He noticed their lack of attention, and how they all looked at least five years younger than him, some able to pass as high schoolers, and that none of them dressed as he would have expected for such a high-value project.
He announced himself with, “I’m here for the Molleno Campaign.”
One woman from the mix waved him down. “Yeah, yeah. Take a seat. We’re almost ready.”
There were no seats to be taken. Every inch of the table was totally used up, and the space around it full.
“I had an appointment at 4:30,” he said. “For the concept art.”
“Yeah, I know. Just a sec.” The woman’s voice carried irritation that almost made Drake want to leave the appointment altogether. But he needed this gig. And he needed to get to his flight.
Drake slid the first poster out of its envelope, deciding to just get the show started and force their attention.
“This first piece,” he began, “I was thinking would be a great jumping-off point for the overall campaign. It can be used as an opening shot in the trailer, or a social media teaser image, or, you know, just a frame of reference piece. I took the notes you gave me and really tried to get underneath and explore what ‘Molleno’ really means to the average gamer. I’ll admit, I’m not really one myself, but I tried to do some research into similar games based on how you described it, looked at the trends the community follows, and worked to subvert-”
One of the executive’s heads shot up. This one Drake thought he recognized either in voice or from an email contact avatar. Brian Wheeler, the game’s creative director. “Stop-stop-stop. Subvert what? What are we subverting?”
The interruption was rude, but Drake was at least happy they had been listening. “This is for a first-person fantasy game, right?”
All heads began to turn to Drake, like zombies realizing their next meal had presented itself. Brian closed his laptop halfway. He gave Drake a slow, drawn-out, “Yeahhhhhh?”
Precious seconds were wasted when a simple “yes” would have been totally fine. How many people had gotten in the TSA line in the time it took him to say one word?
Drake pushed his words through a throat that should have been cleared before speaking. “Yeah, okay. Fantasy games like this are so common now. I’m sure you have your gameplay hook to make it stand out, but you gotta have the visual hook that makes people want to buy it in the first place.” He pulled the next poster from the envelope and placed it over the first. “I kept the spirit of the fantasy aesthetic, but did a ton of research and cross-referencing to find something that was totally original. Here is a world that no one has ever seen before, and that’s not hyperbole.” He didn’t need that last part, and he knew it. Every talking point he let escape his lips was another thing for them to respond to, and another thing that would draw out this meeting. It was another five minutes in line at TSA, and another dollar per mile in a rideshare.
Brian Wheeler tried to force a smile, then dropped his head in his hand, giving an exhausted look at his co-worker, the woman who first addressed Drake when he came in. “Tiff, do you wanna take this one?”
She huffed. “No, but I gotta pick up my kid at some point tonight.” She, too, half-shut her laptop. Then, giving Drake proper eye contact like the strain was going to kill her, she told him, “We didn’t ask for any kind of subversion. Originality isn’t what makes things sell. Familiar does. Originality keeps people invested once they’re already in it. Whatever this is,” she flicked a limp hand in the poster’s direction like she would get a disease if she got too close to it, “I don’t know what this is. I mean, I get it. I get it. But the general consumer won’t.”
Another of the executives jumped in. “Lemme just piggyback off of that, Tiff.” He chewed on the end of his pen between every other sentence. “Great work, man. Really great work.” He bit his pen and sat up a little straighter. “I love it, think it looks awesome, but Tiff’s right. When someone says they want a souls-like game, they wanna see a bonfire right away, you know?” He chewed his pen and stared Drake down like he was expecting a response. Then he added, “When people want fantasy, they want to see the valleys and snow-topped mountains. Some dragons flying in the background that look like dragons. Not whatever that is.”
The fear of his wait in the TSA line increasing was becoming overpowered by Drake’s contempt at the insult given to pieces of art he’d spent the last three months working day and night on. He tried to maintain professionalism in his voice, having to force himself to speak slowly. “Respectfully, this isn’t a ‘whatever’ piece. This is really good stuff. This is the human experience translated into something fantastic.”
Someone at the table scoffed.
“Something up, Kyle?” Brian jerked his head humorously toward the scoffer.
Kyle, the oldest-looking of the group, even though that wasn’t saying much, replied, “A.I. wouldn’t give pushback about the ‘human experience.’ Cheaper too.”
There was a murmur of agreement around the table. Heads bobbed and eyebrows raised.
Drake looked at them as if they were children asking to have cereal for dinner. “Are you all fucking stupid?”
The murmurs immediately ceased.
Brian Wheeler sat forward. “Excuse me?”
“I worked really hard on these.” Drake held up his posters a little higher for all to see. “I dedicated myself to this work for months. I took your downright, copy-paste, formulaic slop and turned it into something worth selling! And to add insult to injury, A-Fucking-I? Do any of you have any self-respect for the arts?”
The room remained silent, save for the crackling of Kyle hitting a vape.
“Have you worked on any other commissions in this time, Mr. Phillips?” Brian asked.
Drake stood his ground. Perhaps a sense of loyalty to this project alone would convince the game executive on some deeper, human level that Drake’s insults came from only a very pure heart and could be forgiven. “This is the only thing I’ve touched for the last three months.” Drake considered adding the sadder details, like that he’d been living off canned soup and ramen for most of that time, so that he could watch his spending with income that wasn’t coming in. But the TSA lines, and it was now 5:02.
“Riiiiiight. Okay,” Brian searched around the table for support, then offered, “we’ll take the prints you got and use them as the base for an A.I. mock-up. You’ll still get compensation for the work you did, but I don’t see this partnership moving forward”
All eyes back on Drake.
“Are you serious?”
All eyes back on Brian Wheeler.
“Yeah. And we don’t really have time to negotiate. Everyone here’s got holiday plans, so, if you could,” he shrugged. “You know. Just leave them by the door. I think, Garret…?”
The vaping executive took another hit. “Yeah, we’ve got your payment set up. It should come in next week.”
Drake wanted to snap the posters in half. That would be a waste of three months of actual human artwork, but it’d still be better than letting these fresh-out-of-college tech junkies bastardize it.
“I’ve actually got a flight, too,” he said. “I was supposed to be on the road a while ago, but you all had me waiting for a meeting that was supposed to start half an hour ago.”
“That’s fine, just leave them at the door,” Garret said again.
All eyes returned to their own computers to knock out the rest of their workload before leaving for the long weekend.
Drake slid the posters back into their protective envelope. “Yeah, no, I think I’ll just see what I can get for these elsewhere. As originals.”
All eyes rose again in a mix of confusion. Brian and Tiff were the only two in the room who did not share the rest of the room’s feelings. Their glare at Drake was unyielding. “Mr. Phillips, did you actually read the contract you signed?” Brian asked.
Without letting him answer, Tiff added, “Those pieces are already legally ours. If you take them out of this building, you will not be paid, and on top of that, sued for breach of contract.”
Garret seemingly felt the need once again to join in on the conversation. “You can just leave those by the door, man.”
* * *
Lulu had no Thanksgiving plans. Marsha was up in New York until the New Year, and would probably hang around up there for some time after that. The upside to that was, even though she’d have to spend the next two holidays alone, at least she would have a place to crash for the foreseeable future. And Marsha’s apartment wasn’t bad by any means. It was small, but it was a short walk from Miami Beach, and Marsha didn’t charge her for utilities. She just asked Lulu to clean the place up before she got back from her trips and to be ready to clear out if Marsha’s daughter ever made trips down.
So, while on the other side of the city Drake was tapping his foot nervously, waiting to get into a meeting that chanced to ruin his professional career in this town, Lulu was getting a fall tan, only concerned with figuring out what to do for dinner that night.
The thought came as a one-two punch, reminding her that she didn’t have anything ready to make back at Marsha’s apartment, and she was back to a negative balance in her checking account.
“Fuck!” she shouted and sat up on her beach towel, getting the attention of two of her friends playing volleyball nearby.
Distracted, Tyler missed the incoming ball, and it bounced by Lulu’s face.
“Wanna watch yourself next time?” she called to them with a laugh. It could have been a rock hitting her upside the head, and she’d’ve laughed it off, too, for being an honest mistake.
Tyler ran across to retrieve the ball. “Sorry, forgot you were there,” he said. “All good?”
Lulu double-checked her bank app for the balance. Yep, negative.
“Yeah, I’m just dumb.”
“Eh, kinda,” Tyler teased. “But that’s why God made you hot. So you don’t have to be smart.”
Lulu kicked at him. “You’re a dick,” she laughed. “No, I just gotta figure out something to do tonight.”
From the other side of the volleyball net, Tyler’s roommate called him back over. Of the two of them, he was much more serious about an unscored match.
“Could come out with us tonight if you want,” Tyler offered, squatting down next to her in the sand. “We’re probably gonna do a crawl, then you can crash with me.”
It wasn’t a daily thing, but any time they hung out it was inevitable that Tyler would invite her over. Once in a while, she’d take him up on it. Sometimes they even had a good time. But it was only ever at the beach or at his apartment. Any time she threw out the idea of dinner and a movie or any other kind of outing, then came the excuses. “Thanks, but I don’t know if I’m in the mood tonight. Besides, a bar crawl probably isn’t the best idea for me tonight unless you’re paying.” She flashed him her phone screen and the red numbers that followed the dash.
“Come on, not even for your top subscriber?” Tyler reached up and squeezed her thigh.
She didn’t push him away, but did pull her legs in a little closer. “You’ve got the pics. Those’ll get you by for another day.”
Tyler rolled his eyes and got back to his feet, taking the volleyball with him.
“Unless you want to sweeten the pot a little,” she blurted. “How about that diner across from your building?”
It was Tyler’s roommate who shouted back. “Nope. Plans. He’s busy. Come on, man! Serve!”
Tyler shrugged. “My offer’s out there. Just let me know if you plan on coming out.”
Lulu’s stomach grumbled. Maybe if she ended up going with them, she could at least get pretzel sticks and the first drink out of Tyler, but from there she’d either have to practice ultimate self-control or go home with him again.
She ended up taking the safe option. Lulu rolled up her towel and gathered her things back into her beach bag, then donned her cropped jean jacket and ripped jean shorts back over her bathing suit. Even though Tyler’s back was to her, he knew what she’d decided on and didn’t let her goodbye distract him from the volley that he and his roommate had going.
Still, she waved and called “Goodbye!” to no response.
Lulu made the short, two-mile walk back to Marsha’s apartment by herself. She greeted the transients who always hung out around the building and was polite when they asked how business was or if they could get a sample. Lulu took no offense.
Her content on FanGirlz was an open secret around the apartment complex. And all things considered, with the things that went on in the area, she justified to herself that it wasn’t the worst thing she could be doing. She stayed away from drugs – dealing, using, or selling – never got overly intoxicated when using the public areas, didn’t promote her stuff when kids were around, and on a handful of occasions, participated in the complex community lunch as a server.
Lulu was like everyone else; she got through the day.
Her way of getting through the day just happened to be a bit of a taboo.
Once back in Marsha’s apartment, she checked the FanGirlz app for new requests. Her terms were clear and simple. There was only one subscription tier she offered: a dollar a month for weekly uploads of underwear pictures and dirty-talk ASMRs. Personal requests were open to all app users for personalized pictures, ASMRs, or simulation videos, and the offers she received over fifty dollars, she would accept, as long as there was no full nudity or illegal acts required. Most requests did not respect the no full-nudity rule. Rejection was often followed up with some mean-spirited direct messages, but the positive comments her subscribers left helped balance out the energy the app brought into her life.
Lulu lay on her bed, cuddling with her orange cat-shaped heating pad and scrolling through her requests.
“What do you think we should do tonight?” she asked the plushy. “This one doesn’t sound bad. Only thirty-five bucks, but a sixty-second video of squishing whipped cream between my toes?”
“That’s not really a whole heck of a lot,” she replied as the cat.
“I know, but it’s quick. We’ll table it.”
“Ask them if they want you to name-drop them,” the cat said. “Another 30 bucks for that will get you through tomorrow.”
“That’s not a bad idea, Tabby.” Lulu opened the DM and texted back the counteroffer. “There’s also a request for an ass pic. Fifty just to fill the frame and have a hand squeezing it.”
“I don’t know,” Tabby said. “Let’s just see what the whipped cream guy says.”
“Shit, do we even have any?” Lulu jumped out of bed to check the refrigerator. “Great. All out.” She checked the freezer and called to Tabby. “There is ice cream, though! Think they’ll be okay with that?”
She called back to herself in Tabby’s voice, “It’s worth asking!”
Lulu took Tabby’s advice, and DM’d the potential client again, backing down from her counteroffer of sixty-five dollars to a flat fifty for the inconvenience. It only took a few seconds for the client to text back, and the message was followed up immediately with a notification that fifty dollars was ready to be deposited to her account.
“Oh, let’s gooo.” Lulu took the chocolate chip ice cream from the freezer and put it in the microwave for ten seconds to soften. As it spun and beeped its finish, Lulu set up her light ring low to the floor for an eye-level angle of her feet. She stripped down her underwear, then leaned against the kitchen cabinets.
The lighting and framing looked good. She readied herself and practiced her ‘innocent’ voice. “Want some ice cream, baby? You like that? You like how it tastes on my toes?”
Even though it was quiet in the apartment and no one was actually there to say anything, Lulu shouted into the bedroom, “Don’t judge me, Tabby!”
Tabby “called” back Lulu’s mantra. “Everybody’s gotta get to tomorr’a.”
“That’s right,” Lulu agreed and hit record.
The shot was entirely focused on her feet, cutting off the image about midway up her calf. She lowered the half-pint carton into the frame and poured it slowly.
“Mmmm, you wanna try some of this?” she asked her client. “Wanna clean up this mess I made? Oh, no…it’s such a mess. But you’ll lick it up for me, won’t you, Mikey?” There. She’d said his name at least once. Thirty extra dollars well earned.
“I want you to taste it. Oh, Mikey,” she moaned, hoping it’d get her an extra tip at the end. “I wanna feel your tongue between my toes so bad.”
Just another fifteen seconds, and she could actually get herself cleaned up and order dinner.
Lulu poured a little more of the half-melted ice cream into the frame. “Oh no! I spilled so much! Better come over fast and eat all of this off me.”
Her phone vibrated with an incoming video call, rattling against the constraints of the ringlight. Lulu dropped the carton and rushed to answer it. The recording had only made it to fifty-three seconds and was now unusable. But it was Marsha calling. And if Marsha called, Lulu had to answer.
“Hey! Marsha! How’s New York? Oh my god, is it snowing? It’s so pretty!”
On the other end, Marsha was rushing through the city streets, looking much less enthusiastic about the weather than Lulu was. “It’s fucking freezing, is what it is,” she replied. “Were you in the middle of filming something?”
“Yeah, but I can talk,” she lied. It was killing her having to know she’d have to start over again. A second take never has the same level of energy as the first, and every subsequent take just gets worse. Goodbye tips at that point.
“No, I’m sorry. You’re doing the goddess’s work over there. DM request?” No one hyped up Lulu’s work like Marsha did. Whenever relevant to the conversation, or sometimes even when it wasn’t, Marsha would solicit the best advice to improve Lulu’s profile. More often than not the advice was, “lose the underwear,” but otherwise her compositional, acting, and marketing advice came in handy.
“Foot stuff again,” Lulu told her. “They wanted whipped cream, but we only had ice cream. I hope that’s okay.”
“You used my ice cream? That’s fine, but you owe me.”
Lulu rolled her eyes at what was slowly becoming Marsha’s oh so endearing catch phrase. “I know. I’ll have the kitchen restocked by the time you come back down.”
“You better,” Marsha teased in a singsong voice. The background of her video shifted from a cloudy New York skyline to the inside of a building. “Look, I can’t talk long, I’m doing a live tonight. But I wanted to tell you, there’s a party going on Thursday and this agent I know will be there.”
“That’s so exciting! Are you getting a gig? Like a real one?”
“Sweetie, I have a real one. But this isn’t for me, I’m telling you. And I’ve been telling him about you!”
Lulu’s legs became weak. “Me? What are you talking about?”
“You wanted legitimate modeling work, right?”
Lulu’s voice stuck in her throat. It was the whole reason she came down to Miami. The real modeling jobs for small companies and advertising agencies had dried up a while ago, and if it wasn’t for Marsha taking her in, she would’ve been spending a lot more time with the transients who hung around outside the building. FanGirlz was never her Plan A, but it was adjacent to it.
In a way.
The words finally came out. “Yes! Yes! Oh my god, yes!”
“Smart girl,” Marsha said with substantially less enthusiasm. “Just be in New York by Thursday night, okay? I’ll introduce you to him, but I’ve talked you up a lot already, so it’s basically a done deal. Just be your perfect little self. And be open-minded, okay?”
“Wait, Marsha, I don’t know how I’m gonna get up there.” Already, Lulu could clearly envision it falling apart. There would be no modeling in her future, just the continued day-to-day of trying to get by with whoever let her crash.
“Fly up. I’m sure you can catch a plane tonight.”
Lulu managed to pull herself to her feet and paced around the kitchen, almost slipping in the puddle of melted ice cream. “Yeah, I could. If I had any money.”
“Still?” The irritation in her voice was apparent. “What have you been doing all week?”
Her cheeks went red. “I’m sorry, I just wasn’t feeling it so much lately. You know, just burn out.”
Marsha stepped into an elevator. The signal spazzed in and out, but her voice still came through just fine. “You can’t really claim burnout as an excuse when you’re broke, sweetie.”
Lulu didn’t have a response for this.
With a huff, Marsha griped, “Look, I’ll spot your ticket. But you owe me.”
A light from the heavens shone down on Lulu. Her ticket. No more ice cream on toes. No more arguing with internet pervs. No more one-day-to-the-next mentality.
“Okay! Yes! I’ll pay you back and then some. I promise! Oh my god, you’re the best!”
“Yeah, I know. Okay, I’m looking at flights now from Miami to JFK. There’s one at 7:10. Can you make it to the airport for that?”
Lulu checked the time on her phone. 4:37 p.m. There was no time for a shower or to pack, but she could wash her feet, and she didn’t have more than a to-go bag's worth of possessions anyway. “Let me clean up, and I’ll be on my way. I won’t let you down, Marsha.”