The Old Codger
He resembled an old bullfrog, and the trips to the lab that involved him being the technician who printed my photos always seemed to be hastier than when any of the other white coat wearing personnel was behind the counter. I never tried too hard to mask my grimace on these occasions; after all, the first time I encountered him he remarked to Ryan that it must have been nice to have a wife who could tag along to shoots, as I was probably adept at fluffing out dresses and otherwise handling the non-photographic parts of the shoot. I have never fostered any amount of small-talk with the man, but he has always insisted on imparting what he probably perceives as insider knowledge to me before I leave. These priceless tidbits have ranged from coating the edges of a UV filter with nail polish to create a vignette, to covering a lens with pantyhose to create "dreaminess" in a portrait. Needless to say I haven't tried any of his suggestions despite the fact that without fail as I'm leaving he grills me on the subject. "Could make a world of difference," he says, shaking his great bloated head to my answer of not having enough time or a spare UV filter to subject to nail polish.
When I strode up to the counter this afternoon I was somewhat non-plussed when I saw the grey haired toad man beaming at me, as I was already on a tight schedule and definitely wouldn't have enough time to waste talking about creative ways to destroy perfectly good UV filters. I sidled up to the closest available monitor, inserted my disk, and started and ended the task of selecting the files to print in the space of three minutes. I was making proofs of the surprise party that Ryan and I had covered the previous weekend. As I looked through the proofs on the disk and simultaneously at the back of the toad's head I felt a little bit of pride rising itself in my chest; most of the shots that I felt worthy of being sent along as proofs were ones that I had taken. "Fluff out dresses," I muttered under my breath as I pressed the "submit" button on the screen. I turned back toward the door and headed out to do a few other errands as the printers worked to spit out the 60 prints.
The jingle of the bell on the door announced my reentry fifteen minutes later, but he was already standing at the counter, as if waiting for me. I wondered about the next great insight I was to have to endure as he stood there looking at me with a ludicrous smile smeared across his face, but for a few uncomfortable moments he didn't say anything. He turned to retrieve my package, and upon sliding it across the counter to me said, "You need to get yourself to a few seminars."
My ears felt hot and tiny droplets of sweat began to form just above my upper lip. I was bracing myself for the first real insult and simultaneously trying to conjure up some witty retort.
"You've got real talent, kid." He smiled, what appeared to be, a genuine smile. "These are incredible," he continued, pointing to the package now clutched between my white knuckles. "Talent like that you've got to share."
He raised his eyebrows in what appeared to be the period on the end of the sentence, knocked on the counter once, wagged his finger at me as if to drive the message home, and disappeared to the back of the shop. As I walked back out to the open air and my car I didn't even try to suppress the smile and laughter that came bubbling up out of the pit that had been rigid and angry seconds earlier. This may have been the closest thing to a compliment that the old man had ever given to a female photographer. I didn't even need to open the package to see the proofs to know that this was my best work yet. As I shut the car door and started the engine I thought to myself, looking back at the door to the shop, "wait 'til he sees the next job I bring in..."
When I strode up to the counter this afternoon I was somewhat non-plussed when I saw the grey haired toad man beaming at me, as I was already on a tight schedule and definitely wouldn't have enough time to waste talking about creative ways to destroy perfectly good UV filters. I sidled up to the closest available monitor, inserted my disk, and started and ended the task of selecting the files to print in the space of three minutes. I was making proofs of the surprise party that Ryan and I had covered the previous weekend. As I looked through the proofs on the disk and simultaneously at the back of the toad's head I felt a little bit of pride rising itself in my chest; most of the shots that I felt worthy of being sent along as proofs were ones that I had taken. "Fluff out dresses," I muttered under my breath as I pressed the "submit" button on the screen. I turned back toward the door and headed out to do a few other errands as the printers worked to spit out the 60 prints.
The jingle of the bell on the door announced my reentry fifteen minutes later, but he was already standing at the counter, as if waiting for me. I wondered about the next great insight I was to have to endure as he stood there looking at me with a ludicrous smile smeared across his face, but for a few uncomfortable moments he didn't say anything. He turned to retrieve my package, and upon sliding it across the counter to me said, "You need to get yourself to a few seminars."
My ears felt hot and tiny droplets of sweat began to form just above my upper lip. I was bracing myself for the first real insult and simultaneously trying to conjure up some witty retort.
"You've got real talent, kid." He smiled, what appeared to be, a genuine smile. "These are incredible," he continued, pointing to the package now clutched between my white knuckles. "Talent like that you've got to share."
He raised his eyebrows in what appeared to be the period on the end of the sentence, knocked on the counter once, wagged his finger at me as if to drive the message home, and disappeared to the back of the shop. As I walked back out to the open air and my car I didn't even try to suppress the smile and laughter that came bubbling up out of the pit that had been rigid and angry seconds earlier. This may have been the closest thing to a compliment that the old man had ever given to a female photographer. I didn't even need to open the package to see the proofs to know that this was my best work yet. As I shut the car door and started the engine I thought to myself, looking back at the door to the shop, "wait 'til he sees the next job I bring in..."
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