You want to know the strangest thing I've ever seen in this sordid business? You ask a man who's photographed more naked senators in flagrante for the most shocking thing he's ever seen? If you're here looking for sick thrills, I'll promise you that I'm not going to play along. I don't do that line of work. Not anymore.
So at the start of my story, there's this man. You've seen his type. He's thin-shouldered. Slouches. Sniffs the air like a rat every time he's startled. Not a stiff bit in his whole body. He slips me an envelope with an old grey picture and some lunch money. "I want a photograph," he says.
I think I'm clever. I flip the picture around. "You've already got one," I say. And it's a nice one, too. Pretty girl, late teens, black hair bobbed like a flapper and a skirt hanging ever-so-nicely above the knee. Not exactly an under-the-mattress picture, but it's nice enough for a bathroom mirror on a Saturday night.
He shakes his head and says, "Not of her. I want her daughter."
It feels dirty. This is the point where I'm about to give the money back. I slide the envelope back across the desk, but this guy slaps his hand down hard. I didn't think he had it in him. "Please" is all he says. He's sincere - the most pitiful kind of desperate.
"Find someone else."
"I'll pay you twice what's in the envelope when I get the picture I want."
A man can't hold onto his values forever. I pocket the envelope, pick up the camera, and head for the door.
"They'll be in Central Park during the lunch hour today. Look for them in the Ramble."
I close the door behind me before I can give it another second thought.
The Ramble's a great place for funny business, but there's little enough of that right now. I mosey for nearly half an hour before I spot her. The girl from the photo. She's got a couple of worry lines from growing up. But it's unmistakably her.
And there's her daughter. Bright yellow dress with a white lace trim and these chubby legs that she can't quite bend sticking out the bottom. She sees some dandelions in the grass and laughs. Sounds like a string of bells.
I pull out my camera and try to take the picture - subtly, from behind a bush. I don't know how it happened, but the girl sees me first. She plucks up a flower, totters over to me, and presents it to me like I shouldn't be ashamed of what I'm doing.
I take the picture anyway.
The girl laughs again, and that catches Mother's attention. She rises to her feet and walks towards me, angry and afraid all at the same time. I step back, ready to make my retreat, but she stops. She looks me over, taking in every unpressed wrinkle of my getup. She can smell the cigarettes and bourbon, even in the open air. She looks me in the eye, folds her arms, and nods. Then she sits back down. And that's it from her.
A few days later, and the man is back in my office. I give him one thin envelope. He gives me two thick ones. No words are spoken, until:
"Was she happy?"
I don't know which one he's talking about. "I don't know."
He smiles a bit, showing two rat-like teeth. "She never did, either."
I never learned the full story, but I'll tell you this right now: That was the only time anyone ever told the unsolicited truth in my office.
So at the start of my story, there's this man. You've seen his type. He's thin-shouldered. Slouches. Sniffs the air like a rat every time he's startled. Not a stiff bit in his whole body. He slips me an envelope with an old grey picture and some lunch money. "I want a photograph," he says.
I think I'm clever. I flip the picture around. "You've already got one," I say. And it's a nice one, too. Pretty girl, late teens, black hair bobbed like a flapper and a skirt hanging ever-so-nicely above the knee. Not exactly an under-the-mattress picture, but it's nice enough for a bathroom mirror on a Saturday night.
He shakes his head and says, "Not of her. I want her daughter."
It feels dirty. This is the point where I'm about to give the money back. I slide the envelope back across the desk, but this guy slaps his hand down hard. I didn't think he had it in him. "Please" is all he says. He's sincere - the most pitiful kind of desperate.
"Find someone else."
"I'll pay you twice what's in the envelope when I get the picture I want."
A man can't hold onto his values forever. I pocket the envelope, pick up the camera, and head for the door.
"They'll be in Central Park during the lunch hour today. Look for them in the Ramble."
I close the door behind me before I can give it another second thought.
The Ramble's a great place for funny business, but there's little enough of that right now. I mosey for nearly half an hour before I spot her. The girl from the photo. She's got a couple of worry lines from growing up. But it's unmistakably her.
And there's her daughter. Bright yellow dress with a white lace trim and these chubby legs that she can't quite bend sticking out the bottom. She sees some dandelions in the grass and laughs. Sounds like a string of bells.
I pull out my camera and try to take the picture - subtly, from behind a bush. I don't know how it happened, but the girl sees me first. She plucks up a flower, totters over to me, and presents it to me like I shouldn't be ashamed of what I'm doing.
I take the picture anyway.
The girl laughs again, and that catches Mother's attention. She rises to her feet and walks towards me, angry and afraid all at the same time. I step back, ready to make my retreat, but she stops. She looks me over, taking in every unpressed wrinkle of my getup. She can smell the cigarettes and bourbon, even in the open air. She looks me in the eye, folds her arms, and nods. Then she sits back down. And that's it from her.
A few days later, and the man is back in my office. I give him one thin envelope. He gives me two thick ones. No words are spoken, until:
"Was she happy?"
I don't know which one he's talking about. "I don't know."
He smiles a bit, showing two rat-like teeth. "She never did, either."
I never learned the full story, but I'll tell you this right now: That was the only time anyone ever told the unsolicited truth in my office.
Best, funnest project I've had in a while.
My friend Jeremy pointed me to Nika Harper's "Wordplay," a Geek and Sundry vlog (Tangent: The word "vlog" is probably the only word dumber than "blog"). I checked it out once, didn't think much of it, and then kinda moved on... until it popped up again in my recommended videos on YouTube. The third installment challenged its viewers to write a short (500 word) noir story with the keyword "photographer." I was in a bit of a funk that day over my writing, and I decided that this sounded like a fun project. And I just loved it.
Admittedly, I didn't get the story down to 500 words (I'm hovering around 650), but I'm still quite pleased with the result. I did a bit of research for the story, too, about period photography and Central Park in New York City. And by "did a bit of research," I of course mean "browsed a few Wikipedia articles." Same difference.
There's actually a draft picture on my iPad of what the illustration almost was - a guy hiding in a bush trying to take a photograph of a little girl. I forgot about the sketch, though, and just drew the photograph itself later on. I had the hardest time not making this little girl utterly horrifying - the uncanny valley was just not my friend. So the final result is a picture that walks the very fine line between cute and nightmarish. Given the tone of the story above, though, I think that's a good place to be.
1 comment:
It took me a solid 1.5 paragraphs before I realized this was a piece of fiction and not some essay on previous employment. Ha!
xox
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