Bad Glass

I found the photographer seated at a mahogany desk with his back against a line of boarded-up windows. What once must have been a spectacular view of the city had been fitted with precisely cut pieces of plywood, blocking out every hint of the outside world. Day or night, I’m sure the apartment would have looked exactly the same: lit from inside, completely divorced from the weather and the sun, from the city and the world.

There was an array of camera equipment spread across the desk before him. And between his hands, Mama Cass’s football had been ripped open to reveal batteries and a cracked-open bottle of pills.

“I saw your camera,” Cob Gilles said. “You’re a photographer, right? You’re here on assignment?”

“I’m here on my own,” I said. “I want to report on what’s happening.”

The photographer smiled and nodded, and his eyes explored my face. I got the impression that he was judging me as I stood there in front of his desk, that he was looking for something in my expression. Something important. A sign, maybe. A twitch. A subtle hint of understanding.

He was trying to figure out if I was worthy. He was trying to figure out if he should take me seriously.

Finally, he leaned back in his chair and shook his head, passing judgment. “You’re just a kid. You don’t know what you’re doing.”

I took a step closer. “Fuck that,” I said. I could feel my face growing flush with blood, and this time it wasn’t just a fever making me hot. “I’m doing just fine. I’m getting my shots. I’m holding it together.” I cast an accusing look around his apartment; the place was a sty, an absolute pit. Then I looked pointedly at the constellation of pills spread out across his desk.

Who was he to judge?

He nodded and sighed. “Yeah,” he agreed. “Fuck it. Whatever. No lectures.”

He reached beneath his desk and produced a can of Budweiser. He popped the top, then spent a couple of seconds staring blankly at his desk, like he was waiting for something to happen, like he was waiting for his eyes to come into focus or for one of his photographic subjects to settle into a pose. Then he swept some pills into his hand and downed them quickly with half the can of beer.

“I guess Sharon wanted us to meet,” the photographer said. “Mama Cass, playing the motherfucking matchmaker. I wonder what she was expecting. Did she think I’d choose you as an apprentice? Or … or … fuck … is this some type of cautionary visit? ‘Watch out, photography boy, or you’ll end up like crazy old Cob Gilles’?” He closed his eyes and downed the rest of his beer. When he continued, his voice was much quieter. He sounded thoughtful now and a bit confused. I got the impression that, at this point, he was talking primarily to himself. “Or maybe that’s not it. Maybe that’s not it at all. Maybe you’re the message. To me. Some type of reminder?”

“No,” I said, and I offered him a sympathetic smile. “I’m Dean. I’m not a message. I’m not ‘photography boy.’ Just Dean.” Despite his abrupt dismissal—of me, of my talent—I couldn’t stay mad at him. The man was quite obviously damaged. He was somebody to be pitied, not hated.

The photographer laughed and shook his head. “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Dean. It’s a real motherfucking pleasure.”

Cob Gilles again offered me a beer, and this time I accepted. I sat down in front of his desk and raised my can in a wordless salute.

Then we settled into a thick silence.

The photographer’s eyes roamed about the room for nearly a minute before finally settling on an unremarkable spot halfway up the nearest wall. I studied him closely as he fixated on that spot. I watched as he slumped bonelessly into his chair. I watched as his eyes lost focus, going dull like clouded glass. He didn’t seem to mind my scrutiny. Too drugged out, I guessed.

“Which of your photos would I know?” I asked, breaking the silence. “What made you famous?”

His eyes snapped into focus. “I was—” He cleared his throat. “I was embedded with the army during the first Iraq war. Desert Storm. I was there for the start of the ground assault, and I got photographs of Iraqis surrendering. People liked those pictures. They liked them a lot.” He stood up unsteadily and made his way over to a stack of framed pictures propped up against the boarded-over windows. After shuffling through a half dozen, he came up with a three-foot-by-three-foot frame. “Here. It’s the fucking pinnacle of my career.”

The left half of the frame was taken up with a single photo: an Iraqi soldier walking toward the camera. The soldier’s arms were raised, and a white scarf fluttered from his left hand. There was an automatic rifle lying in the sand at his feet. The soldier was smiling, and there were tears running down his face. He looked positively jubilant. The entire scene was bathed in warm, golden sunlight, a slice of the world dipped in amber.

Next to the picture, mounted on the right side of the frame, was an oversized gold medallion.