Today's $10 Special

Today’s $10 Special

by Henry Simpson

It was early afternoon by the time I got back to my motel. I had a consulting job interview scheduled for the next day, and if it went well, my dismal mood would improve. Instead of doing anything constructive with what was left of the day, I sat in front of the TV and watched cable news channels, switching between conservative and liberal channels whenever one of the commentators became too paranoid or preachy. After a while, this became unbearable.

I put on a running outfit and took a jog along Ocean Avenue down to the beach. The scenery along the way was uplifting, the people well dressed, the canines well groomed, and the women stylish and attractive. The beach itself was lovely, a wide expanse of white sand that fell from the foot of a sidewalk at a sharp angle to an ocean boiling with breakers. People ambled along the seashore, stood in small groups in conversation, and romped with dogs. Gulls coasted a few feet above the waves. In the breakers every now and then a surfing dolphin caught my eye. Every creature seemed to be enjoying life; it occurred to me that the place itself might be affecting them as it was me.

Dogs had free run in the Village, accepted on equal terms with people. This seemed strange. I like dogs, and have had many as pets, and always felt a deep affinity with them; I view them as sweet innocents, like small children. Unfortunately, they live short lives, and the parting at their death is always painful, which may explain why I have not taken another into my home since saying the final good bye to my last one.

After sitting on the sand, watching the ocean, and walking along the shoreline, I felt much better. The town and beach had enchanted me in much the same way as the little stone house up on Renard Heights. As I was about to get up and leave, I noticed a young man talking to a couple with a large dog. After a brief conversation, he positioned them together by the shoreline with dog sitting between, then stepped back, raised his elbows, and looked down. I realized he was taking their picture with an old-fashioned twin-lens reflex camera. They stayed in place, with slight movement and repositioning, as he took additional pictures. When he finished shooting, he stood upright, handed the man a card, and the couple and dog walked away down the beach. I put together the puzzle pieces and concluded he had sold the couple some pictures with their dog.

I continued watching him in action as he approached others, pitched his services, and was hired or rejected. Good looking, with an easy smile and laugh, he seemed to attract customers. He shot people alone, people with people, people with dogs, or dogs alone. He was quick with a camera, an adept dealmaker, and as the pool of available fresh customers thinned, his eyes scoured nearby territories, eventually settling on me.

As he approached, I got a better look at him: mid-twenties, dark skin, lean and tall, height accentuated by a clownish red Lincolnesque stovepipe hat, oversized red sports jacket with matching baggy pants, wrap-around shades, and blue and white high-tops. The outfit was bright, attention-getting, and probably good for business in an artsy village. A battered old Rolleiflex camera with a large strobe light hung from a neck strap.

He walked up to me, looked down, and said, “Picture, sir?”

“How much?” I said.

He grinned. “Special today, my man. Ten dollars.”

“For what?”

“What you want, man?”

“Couple of eight-by-ten glossies would be okay.”

“That would be twenty-five,” he said.

“What do I get for ten?”

“Five by seven.”

“How many?”

“How many you want?”

“Two.”

“That would be twenty bucks.”

“How much for eight-by-tens?” I said, “Color.”

His brows knitted. “I’m vintage, man. Do mostly black and white, film and darkroom. Color’s extra.”

“It should be cheaper.”

“I’m a craftsman. I work in a lab. I make every print with my own hands. Color’s a real bitch to work with.”

“How much?”

“Fifty.”

“Twenty.”

“Twenty-five.”

“How do I know you can take good pictures?”

He reached into an enormous pocket in his jacket, pulled out a small album, and handed it to me. I opened and looked through it, a compendium of photos of people and dogs in various combinations on the beach. In a technical sense, all the pictures were well composed and properly exposed and printed. More importantly, the photographer had caught the subject—human and canine—appearing lively, candid, and seemingly unposed. He had the sharp eye and fine timing of a skilled photographer.

“Wow,” I said. “These are pretty good.”

“Thanks, man. I trained with Ansel Adams. I’m a real professional photographer.”

“You trained with Ansel Adams?”

“Sure.”

“How old are you?”

“What’s that got to do with it?”

“Because he’s been dead for a long time.”

“I was a prodigy, man. What can I tell you?”

I laughed. “That you’re not a con artist.”

“Money back guarantee.” He handed me a business card:

CAMERA OBSCURA GALLERY

Lonnie Watts

Photographer

“That’s my home base. I’m connected to a licensed business, totally up and up, professional.”

“I’m impressed,” I said.

“I come here every day. I know most of the people, but I ain’t seen you before.”

“I’m new in town.”

“What’s your name?”

“Carlos Acuna.”

He looked at me closely. “Mexican?”

“Could be.”

“So, where’s your dog, Carlos?”

“She died.”

“Chihuahua?”

“Why Chihuahua?”

“Well, you said . . . uh, Mexican.”

“That’s stereotyping. It’s like me asking if you have a Pit Bull.”

“Huh? Fighting dogs I don’t much care for, too unpredictable. Say, Carlos, I don’t know what I said, but I apologize. Look, for a truly righteous picture, you need a righteous dog. Forget Chihuahuas. What dog you fancy?”

“I don’t know. In fact, I didn’t know we’d made a deal.”

“Twenty percent discount?”

I nodded. “Sure, deal, go find me a righteous dog.”

Lonnie grinned. He turned, quickly scanned the beach, ran over to a man leading an enormous Irish Wolfhound, exchanged a few words with him, and brought man and dog over to me. The man stood and watched as Lonnie positioned the dog in a seated position beside me and then took several quick pictures. Curious to see the dog, I faced it, and it instantly looked at me, so tall we faced eye to eye. I laughed as Lonnie’s strobe flashed.