Bad Glass

“He’s clean,” the soldier at the barricade called. “No Dean Walker. No Randy Walker.” He approached, cautiously, and handed me my license. Then he once again retreated.

“Sorry, kid,” my soldier said, taking a quick step back. He cleared his throat, trying to regain his composure. “I’m sorry about your brother. If he’s still in there, he’s probably okay. There are quite a few civilians, and most of them … most of them are managing.”

I stayed silent for a moment, not sure how to proceed. The city had done something to this soldier, something powerful and terrifying. But what? And did I really want to know?

Yes. God, yes. But more than that, more than knowing, it was something I wanted to capture. That phenomenon. Whatever was going on inside the city, I wanted to distill it down to its essence; I wanted to condense it into a series of perfect images—perfectly framed, perfectly amazing images.

The city had changed this soldier in a deep and profound way. And that was the type of power I wanted. I wanted people to look at my photography, and, looking, I wanted them to change. Forever.

And I needed that to happen fast.

After all, how much more time did I have? I was a college dropout, a former fifth-year senior living on the last of my father’s tuition checks, his accounting job waiting for me down in California, looming over my head like the blade of a guillotine. That is, if he hasn’t already disowned me, I thought. And then what? Fast-food jobs? Scrambling to survive? No time for art?

“Please,” I said. “I need to get in there … Maybe money? If I paid …?” As soon as I opened my wallet, the soldier stepped forward and pushed it back against my chest.

“Fuck, no! Are you crazy?” He lowered his voice and moved even closer, until we were just inches apart. “See the poles at the side of the road?” He gestured with an angry stab of his head. “See what’s on top?”

I peered up into the gray sky, noticing for the first time the freshly driven telephone poles standing on either side of the barricade.

“Cameras,” I replied, feeling my knees weaken.

“The roads are under surveillance. We can’t let anyone in … They’d see.”

The soldier stared at me for a long moment, his deep blue eyes grabbing hold of my muddy brown ones. Then something happened to his face—a crumpling inward—and the sorrow returned, replacing that momentary burst of anger. “You need to get in there, don’t you? Your brother? Is that it?”

I nodded.

We stood that way for a couple of seconds, the soldier studying my face, trying to gauge my intentions. Then he looked away. “The cameras have a limited range, extending maybe twenty feet into that field over there.” He nodded toward the south side of the road. “Bobby and I … well, we tend to get distracted.”

I nodded my understanding, and he pointed me back toward the car.

I started to get in but stopped as soon as I noticed the backpack on the passenger seat. I could see my camera sheathed neatly within. I glanced up through the windshield and, for the first time, noticed the sign on Fort Wright Road: ENTERING SPOKANE. But the word Spokane was gone, hidden beneath midnight-black enamel.

“Wait!” I called. The soldier had already started back toward his comrade, and there was a blank, drained look on his face when he turned back my way. I reached over to the passenger seat and pulled out my camera, holding it up so he could see. “I don’t suppose I could get your picture?”

For a moment, the soldier looked confused. He glanced up toward the surveillance cameras, then back down, shaking his head in amazement.

Then, slowly, that out-of-place grin reappeared.

He was a pretty good subject.

At first, he just gave me that shit-eating grin—wearing it like a protective mask—and that just wouldn’t work. He was standing on the edge of something dark and unknowable, not posing with his family on a holiday weekend.

Finally, I had him grip his rifle in his left hand while holding his right out in front of his face, like he was trying to block my shot. I felt ridiculous moving the soldier around like a department store mannequin. I felt like an impostor.

Is this what photojournalists do?

Yes, I finally decided. Anything to get the shot. Anything to tell a story.

I didn’t stage the bunny sticker, though. The bunny sticker was already there—a bright, childish icon stuck to the butt of the soldier’s gun.