The camera is very old, and just barely qualifies as digital. I check for pictures that he's done, but he's either wiped the card or never used it. Either way, it's exciting, and I put on shoes and my coat and a pair of deelywoppers that I found in a back corner of his closet. I say "a" because there are two corners back there, and one of them has been filled up with a shoebox of condoms and sundry sex-related items. I didn�t have much of a reaction, in case you were wondering.
I take a key for myself off of a hook in that same closet, and lock the door behind me like a good law-abiding citizen. The camera swings loosely around my neck, like the most majestic necklace I could create, like a silver doorknocker.
I walk down his street, past a pretty fruit stand where I am sure he bought our breakfast. I pretend that I can see the spaces in the neat rows where I ate an apple, or dissected a pineapple. It�s homey and yet unnatural�I pose for a confirmation photo with the produce man. He is small and excited.
I continue to move, and I put my arms out and spin around, and I hit a woman walking by. I can't help but laugh--she looks so ridiculous, puffed up in her down vest. She doesn't say anything but stops me a few minutes later while I take a picture of some parked cars outside the strip mall. She has harsh eyes and pointed tan boots.
"Excuse me, ma�am,� she says. Her voice breaks something in me, deflates me like a children�s toy. �Ma�am?� I am younger than she is.
�Ma�am, I have to ask if you are in the right place. Is there someone I should call?�
It strikes me that I have forgotten his name, if I had even known it. But then the woman snatches my hand and peers into my eyes with strange, blank blue ones. She points to Jon�s number. �How about this one?�
I sound out the words for �No, not that one.� In my head. Slowly. I do this slowly so I won�t mess up and she won�t think I�m retarded. I�m not.
For some reason, I put the camera to my eye. She looks smaller, and more frightened through the lens. I push the shutter and I trap her inside, stamped on film forever. Suddenly, I am not stupid, or even silent. I tell her that I am fully within my rights to walk here. She isn�t by anyone�s standards mollified, and stomps off in her cowboots, but I feel much better. I get a shot of her ass, which is large and well-fed, which works even better (if pettily).
I carry on with the pictures, wandering from street to street looking for beauty and humor, and coming close on several occasions to both.
An old man with a basket of flowers puts one in each mailbox he passes. He does not leave a note.
A young girl with brightly colored socks and small, distinct eyelashes is bawling because her birthday balloon has floated off. Her mother gives me a scared, angry look, so I move on.
There�s a note caught between the planks of a park bench. I get a good picture of it, don�t read it, and move on.
I climb to the top of the water tower and I close my eyes and take a picture of it. Everything�the town spread out below me like a picnic blanket, the tiny eddies of smoke in the wind. It doesn�t come out too good, but that�s not why I came here.
I imagine floating, frilled like a cupcake, down to the bottom. Imagine your wings spread out, dying and gliding on late-autumn wind. It�s beautiful.