Christmas Eve

Sometimes we look for omens. Maybe we find them then. And maybe that is when we make the Big Mistake.

I had decided to use my old Bronica S2a to shoot photos of the old south, those things that are disappearing rapidly. The other day, I took a little road trip with nothing to do but that. I'd see something and stop the car or turn around and jump out with that big old camera and start the whole ancient process of metering, focusing, framing, and then hearing that giant mirror's "thuwump." I was driving through a small town and saw an old gas station, the kind you can't find much any longer now that all the gas is sold at Magic Markets and 7-11s and mega Speedy Racetrack places. The station was closed, but there was an old man, a real cracker, sitting on the step. I nosed the Volvo in and jumped out with the Bronica, metering from the car. I took a long shot of him on the steps with the old 1950s pumps in the foreground, a big American flag (I should have counted the number of stars on it) in the window above his head to the left, an old deco-style Coca-Cola machine to his right, and all the good old auto parts and products stickers all over the place. I walked up and we talked a bit and I asked him if I could take a couple more, closer. After I had gotten his story, I wished him good luck and walked back to the car.

The next few stops, the camera was acting funny, then it just quit. Every time I advanced the winder, the shutter would trip. I had this same problem fixed two months ago, but it was broken again. I was awfully thankful I got the photos at the gas station. They were going to be something.

I've been looking at the Nikon D700 for awhile. One of the fellows at the camera store had me play with it, and I loved the damned thing. His name, of course, is Beelzebub. Do you ever want something so badly that you feel yourself on the edge of a cliff, all rational thought pushed to that tiny prison in the far back of your brain?

When I got the film back, half of each roll was black. The photos from the gas station were not there. They were gone.

Sick with that and the romance of using old cameras, I was thinking of the D700. It is Christmas, I thought, and I am alone. I've been a good boy all year, haven't I? I work every day, and I'm no longer a kid. There comes a time in life when your friends all buy new Porsches because they say it is time, that they deserve this. Hell, all I wanted was a camera. Forget the fact that I need a car, that my house needs some important repairs, that the economy just went south and I lost a lot of money in a mutual fund.

As I was thinking, sick with loss and desire, I picked up the mail from the floor where it had fallen through the slot. And something fell out. An envelope, manila, official looking. Shit, what have I done now, I thought, a primal chill running up my spine. Internal Revenue Service, it said. Lord, lord, lord, I had been sent an omen. It was the refund check from my November return. Quick as a cat, without thinking, I went to the camera store. I could feel no ground beneath my feet as I handed over my Amex card. I was numb with sickness. I was willful. I could not tell my mother, I knew. This was wrong.

I played with the camera all day. It did everything. The shots looked lovely on the LCD screen. The damn thing makes its own light.

Downloading the images from the card, something went wrong. They were beautiful. They were gone.

I've spent the morning figuring out the problem, but those first magic things are mere chimeras, punishment for what I've done. But surely there is much more to come.