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Ыоуве Been Warned :: Patterson James
Страница: 39 из 138I want a full roll to develop when I get home later.
After snapping a few shots of a meticulously groomed Lhasa apso being walked by a woman who looks like Nancy Reagan, I head north and come upon two block-shaped movers struggling to load a huge armoire onto their truck. Both their faces twist and contort so horribly that it’s absolutely beautiful.
Click, click, click.
I smile to myself. I never feel more comfortable, more at home, than I do behind a camera. It’s so relaxing and yet, at the same time, so empowering. You see people in an entirely different light. Sure, they say the eyes are the windows to the soul, but for my money it’s the camera eye that gives you the real glimpse of what’s inside a person.
I’ve got a few more shots left on the roll as I’m aiming at the stream of people crossing the street up at the next “Walk” sign. They move in almost perfect unison and yet remain oblivious to one another, all looking directly ahead at the coming sidewalk.
All, that is, except for one.
It’s a man standing still at the corner. He’s caught my eye.
I focus on his face, watching in the viewfinder as the image slowly transforms from blurry to -
Holy shit!
Staring back at me, clear as day, is something I can’t believe. Not even after what’s happened during the last few days.
Something impossible.
Something that makes me feel that I must be crazy.
Only it’s worse than that, because I know I’m not crazy.
But what I’m looking at sure is.
Chapter 30
I’M SHIVERING UNCONTROLLABLY and that burning smell is in the air again, but my lens remains focused straight ahead. On him.
He’s standing on the far corner, wearing a long single-button gray coat that looks as if it came from one of those vintage clothing stores over on Bleecker Street.
Only I know it didn’t come from some shop on Bleecker or anywhere else in New York. Actually, it’s from Concord, Massachusetts.
Suspicious, I lower my camera as if somehow this piece of metal and molded plastic in my hands is the culprit, the cause of all this.
It’s not.
I can see clearly with my own eyes. The square jaw, the bullet-shaped head, the thick glasses, even the narrow, hunched shoulders. It’s him.
My father is standing there on that street corner.
Don’t think, just shoot.
Quickly, I snap a few shots, even though my hands are jiggling the camera insanely. Then I call out.
My father sees me, I know he sees me, but he doesn’t answer.
After snapping a few shots of a meticulously groomed Lhasa apso being walked by a woman who looks like Nancy Reagan, I head north and come upon two block-shaped movers struggling to load a huge armoire onto their truck. Both their faces twist and contort so horribly that it’s absolutely beautiful.
Click, click, click.
I smile to myself. I never feel more comfortable, more at home, than I do behind a camera. It’s so relaxing and yet, at the same time, so empowering. You see people in an entirely different light. Sure, they say the eyes are the windows to the soul, but for my money it’s the camera eye that gives you the real glimpse of what’s inside a person.
I’ve got a few more shots left on the roll as I’m aiming at the stream of people crossing the street up at the next “Walk” sign. They move in almost perfect unison and yet remain oblivious to one another, all looking directly ahead at the coming sidewalk.
All, that is, except for one.
It’s a man standing still at the corner. He’s caught my eye.
I focus on his face, watching in the viewfinder as the image slowly transforms from blurry to -
Holy shit!
Staring back at me, clear as day, is something I can’t believe. Not even after what’s happened during the last few days.
Something impossible.
Something that makes me feel that I must be crazy.
Only it’s worse than that, because I know I’m not crazy.
But what I’m looking at sure is.
Chapter 30
I’M SHIVERING UNCONTROLLABLY and that burning smell is in the air again, but my lens remains focused straight ahead. On him.
He’s standing on the far corner, wearing a long single-button gray coat that looks as if it came from one of those vintage clothing stores over on Bleecker Street.
Only I know it didn’t come from some shop on Bleecker or anywhere else in New York. Actually, it’s from Concord, Massachusetts.
Suspicious, I lower my camera as if somehow this piece of metal and molded plastic in my hands is the culprit, the cause of all this.
It’s not.
I can see clearly with my own eyes. The square jaw, the bullet-shaped head, the thick glasses, even the narrow, hunched shoulders. It’s him.
My father is standing there on that street corner.
Don’t think, just shoot.
Quickly, I snap a few shots, even though my hands are jiggling the camera insanely. Then I call out.
My father sees me, I know he sees me, but he doesn’t answer.