And Away We Go!

  I'm shaking in my boots about shooting the wrestling match tonight. . . but we'll get to that. 

I had unusual excitement last night.  The tenant stopped by to tell me that she could smell gas outside my house.  The gas company has been working on the lines and turning off the gas to the $1.7 million house across the street which is about to be torn down to make way for a new one.  The tenant is a bit of an alarmist, so I told her she should go over with a lighter and see if she could locate the leak.  If she found it, I said, she should call the gas company.  

Then I went to my mother's.  

I decided I would cook up a steak for dinner.  I hardly ever eat beef now, but one of the gymroids had said that afternoon he was grilling a steak over a wood fire and drinking a bottle of wine.  The idea stuck with me all day and seemed a good one, so I went to Whole Foods to get their very good beef, some asparagus, and a potato.  

When I pulled into the driveway of my house, a neighborhood woman was walking by with her dog.  She had already passed my house, but she turned around and approached me.  

"There is a strong smell of gas outside your house," she said.  

"I've heard that.  I guess I'd better call the gas company."

Pain in the ass.  I pulled up their info page online and read, "If you smell gas, call 911."  That seemed odd, but. . . O.K. 

I seasoned the steak, put it in the Dutch Oven, and put it on the stovetop to sear each side before I put it in the oven to broil.  I poured a glass of wine and then heard crazy sirens, many, coming down the street.  There were four trucks in all.  They blocked off the streets, lights a-flashing.  Then the boys slowly climbed out of the trucks wearing full-on firefighting gear.  It didn't look comfortable.  As they gathered, I sauntered out, a glass of wine in hand, and explained the situation.  Many of the firemen looked at me with something between mistrust and dislike.  I grinned and took a gulp of wine.  

"O.K. boys, you don't need me, so. . . ."

But I was worried.  What if they shut off the gas line.  My dinner!

I went back inside to flip the steak.  Sizzle, sizzle.  In two minutes, I put it in the oven.  Then I poured more wine, lit a cheroot, and went out to sit on the deck. 

By then, people were showing up in the streets to see what was going on.  The tenant and the across the street retired orthodontist walked up.  

"Did you call them?" asked the tenant. 

"Yea."  I took a hit off the cheroot with smiling eyes.  "I guess I really shouldn't be smoking."

The retired orthodontist looked at me aghast.  He seemed a little jumpy.  I took another hit.

"Would you like a glass of wine?"

He really looked nervous now.  "I have some scotch in the car," he said and hurried away, but he didn't come back.  The tenant said she was going to take a walk.  I went back inside to tend to dinner.  I got the asparagus and potato started and walked back outside.  One of the firemen was walking up the drive, so I stepped out to meet him.  They had re-dug the whole in my yard where the gas people had been working.  He wanted to show me that the cap they had put on wasn't on all the way.  They had clamped it and were now waiting for the gas company to arrive.  

"They'll be here in about an hour," one of the firemen said.  

"I'm glad to know they are so responsive to the Fire Department," I laughed.  

"It always takes an hour," the fireman sneered.  

"Well. . . thanks gentlemen.  I've got to go back inside and answer my calls and texts.  All the neighbors want to know if I died."

"Not yet," said one of the fun ones.  "Not this Friday night."

We both chuckled as I shook my head in agreement.  The muscled up skinhead firemen, a tall one and a shorter stocky one, looked at me with MAGA eyes.  I raised my wine glass to them in a faux-salute and emptied the glass down my gullet.  

"Thanks again."

When my dinner was ready and plated, I took it to the deck to eat.  I figured they'd like that.  

Earlier in the day at the gym, Tennessee told me that our Black Sheep trust fund boy had called him that morning.  He was at the jetport.  

"Get your things and fly up with my to New York."

You see, Black Sheep is working for the Trump campaign and they were flying him up in a private jet for the big weekend--Joe Rogan and Madison Square Gardens.  Black Sheep doesn't know shit about politics, I'm certain.  He's no policy wonk.  But he loves to party.  

"Come on, man. . . you know what kind of women are going to be at this thing?!?!?"

He'll have plenty of stories, I am sure.  But T declined opting to stay home and go to dinner with his wife.  

"He's flying into some private jet airport in New York City.  I didn't even know it existed.  Can you imagine what this weekend will be like?  He'll be all kinds of fucked up.  You're right about his politics.  He's just doing it for the parties."

He'll do well.  It is his kind of crowd.  They'll love his monied prep school charm.  

So. . . here's what has inspired me to try to shoot the little league pro wrestling thing tonight--the photos of Elmo Tide.  This is what I have in my head to make.  But it won't be like this, I know.  

There will be no dramatic lighting, I'm positive, and I am worried.  I have never tried shooting action stuff before.  Will everything be blurry and out of focus?  Will I be able to drag the shutter and make the kinds of images I have in mind?  Will I have the chutzpah to get the angles?  

The wrestlers will not be this skilled, I'm pretty sure.  I wonder if they will let me into the dressing room.  "O.K. boys. . . I've got a camera, so if you don't want to be on the cover of this shoot, put away your cocks!"

That should win me points.  The highlight is going to be a city championship women's title fight.  I'm not kidding--citywide!  Ha.  

T is coming along.  He invited himself.  He's a real fighter, won some grappling tournaments, fought in Thailand, but he's never seen this kind of thing.  It makes me nervous, though, to have someone I know there to watch me fail.  But what the hell.  "Tits up," as they say on The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel.  I'll be learning on the job.  

I should be happy.  The roller derby people said yes to my shooting as well, so I will photograph their "championship" finale in another two weeks.  Alain said he wants to come to that.  

So yea, I can fail in front of an audience.  Whatever.  This is what I said I wanted, and I actually used my credentials in my pitch.  I NEVER do that.  But if this little league stuff works out well, I will use it as a step up.  Showing my old Lonesomeville project won't open some of these doors.  And if these turn out o.k. I may head out to Freemont Street in Vegas for a little photo fun.  

If I fail and it all goes to shit, though. . . you will be the first to know.  

O.K.  I have to start getting my photo gear ready.  Charging batteries, learning to shoot my photoflashes again, practicing dragging the shutter. . . all of it.  So. . . a little music to calm my jellied soul.