Bad Glass

“Don’t worry, Dean,” Taylor said. I turned and found her standing in the doorway, surveying the room like a mother watching her children unwrap their gifts on Christmas morning. “Tonight’s dinner is on you, but we’ll pay you back.” Then, with a cryptic smile: “We look after our own.”

While Amanda and Mac made dinner, Charlie asked to see my camera.

“I want to see what kind of gear you’ve got,” he explained. It was the first time I had heard his voice, and it was stronger than I expected. I thought he’d have a weak, tentative little kid’s voice, but his words were deep, self-assured, and confident.

I nodded and passed him the camera. Devon surfaced from his stupor long enough to give the camera a distrustful glare.

“Nice,” Charlie said, turning it over in his hands. “Canon,” he noted. “Is it a pro model? Consumer? How many megapixels?”

“Eighteen,” I said. “Not quite pro, but close enough. It’ll do the job for magazine work … maybe not glossy advertising shots, but most people wouldn’t notice the difference.”

Just then, Sabine crawled over to Charlie and plucked the camera from his hands. She raised the viewfinder to her eye and started snapping shots.

“Careful—” I said, but she interrupted me with a shake of her head.

“I took classes,” she said with a placating smile. “I know what I’m doing.” She crawled off with the camera, taking pictures of Floyd and Devon on the other side of the room. I watched her go, anxious even after she slipped the carry strap around her neck.

“Have you had anything published?” Charlie asked.

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “Well, university publications. But nothing real.”

Suddenly Taylor appeared at my side. I hadn’t noticed her listening in the doorway. She touched my forearm tentatively and caught my eyes. It was a warm, friendly gesture. “And that’s why you’re here?” she asked. “To make your mark? To get published?” There was a note of incredulity in her voice when she said that word—published. She made it sound so trivial, so unworthy.

After a moment of silence, I nodded. “And I figure I don’t have much time. When my father found out I was getting a fine arts degree, he absolutely flipped out. ‘There’s no future there,’ he said, ‘no money.’ And he put his foot down—he actually said that: ‘I’m putting my foot down!’ He threatened to stop paying for my education if I didn’t switch degrees. So there I was, twenty-two and short on credits, returning for a fifth year to get a degree I desperately didn’t want. And once I was done with that, I could see my future laid out before me: an accounting job at my father’s firm, everything arranged neatly beneath his big thumb.

“It was terrifying, seeing it like that, and I knew I couldn’t escape just by taking pictures of fountains and trees, flowers and old buildings, people in contemplative poses. Everything was so tame—pictures I’d seen a hundred times before, and usually done better. There was no way I’d make a reputation doing that. No way I’d secure a job, a future.” Taylor and Charlie were watching me intently, their expressions curious, genuinely interested. I felt the need to explain myself—especially to Taylor—to let them know what I was trying to accomplish here, to let them know that I wasn’t just some fucking tourist. That I had goals and ambition. I struggled against the pot, trying to find the words I needed, trying to nail down the … drive buried deep down inside my chest: this powerful thing that had propelled me across three states, through a government quarantine, and into this strange wasteland. “One of my professors … he said, ‘Great photographers don’t make great photographs; great photographs make great photographers.’ And the things I’ve heard about this place, the images that have made their way out …”

I shook my head, unable to find the words. Once again, Taylor touched my arm, prodding me to continue. “There’s something great here,” I finally said, “in the unknown, the impossible. And it’s something, I think, that can make me great. Something I need. Desperately.”

After I finished, I searched their faces for understanding. Do they get it? Can they possibly understand such a vague, inscrutable drive … this thing that keeps me moving, unsatisfied?

Taylor was nodding, a gentle, sympathetic gesture.

And a sly, knowing smile slid across Charlie’s face.

God.

Sitting here, now, writing this shit down, I marvel at the depths of my stupidity.

Sneaking into the city, I wasn’t being noble. I wasn’t chasing down an elusive artistic ideal, shunning corporate anonymity for art and passion.

I was just being stupid.

That’s it. End of explanation.

For all of my romantic notions—bullshit self-betterment, reaching for my potential, making a name for myself—what I did, what I pursued—leaving my life and sprinting blindly into the dark—was nothing but death and confusion and insanity.