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| FUCK YOU, TOO! |
I’m a photographer.
Don’t take a picture of me.
No prob. I’m trying to get a shot of the neon sign.
Why?
I’m trying to take pictures of all the dive bars, ahh, I mean old school bars in town.
The drunk next to her says you’re not gonna take a picture of me are you?
Not unless you’re sitting on top of the sign.
He lights a smoke.
Two guys walk out of the bar.
Sounds like a the opening line for a bad joke.
What are you doing?
I’m taking pictures.
Why?
I’m a photographer.
We’re the headliners, you should take pictures of us!
Okay.
They light up some butts and start mugging for the camera. I start to shoot.
They laugh and walk back into the bar.
The pictures are out of focus. I don’t care.
I take a fair amount of non-pictures to humor people.
Another guy staggers over.
What are you doing?
I’m taking pictures.
Why?
I’m a photographer.
I’M the photographer around here.
I just look at him. He doesn’t have a camera, just a butt hanging on his lower lip.
It’s white and crusty. His lip.
I’m the photographer. I’ve been all over the world taking pictures.
Cool.
And you are WHO?
I’m Jim.
I mean WHO are you?
Oh.
Nobody. I’m just taking some pics.
Do you know so and so? He mumbles some name I don’t hear.
No.
Do you know so and so? He slurs out another name.
No. I’ve been out of the loop, sorry.
You’re not a photographer.
Hey, I don’t know, I’m just out here with my camera.
FUCK YOU!
I’m the photographer!
Okay man, it’s cool.
I think he sounds like an old queen but who cares, really? Just a thought.
He is moving closer. I stand still.
Somebody from the bar- I think somebody he knows, maybe somebody who knows him, is moving towards us.
Great.
FUCK YOU FUCK YOU!
The other guy puts his hands on his shoulders and tells him it’s okay.
I take a pic from the hip. It’s out of focus. Crap.
I guess he’s right. I’m not a photographer.
FUCK YOU!
The other guys pulls him away and gets him walking down the street, away from the bar.
I think they are roomies. They seem to know each other but who cares, really? Just a thought.
He is walking backwards while his friend keeps him from falling over.
FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU!
He is giving me the double barreled finger.
FUCK YOU!
Man. . .
I turn back to the building to shoot. Two guys are getting out of a pick-up.
They stand on the curb and fire up some butts.
Don’t worry about the drunks.
I’m not worried about the drunks, I’m worried about me.
Actually, I’ve been drunk before, if the truth be know, and I’ve been drunk in this bar.
They look at me.
You know, happy minute, dogs cooked in beer..?
They give me an if you say so smile, and go back to smoking.
I’m close enough to hear most their conversation, something I’m not good at because my hearing aids totally suck. Apparently they’re into explosives- they make bombs. There are pros and cons to the various formulations one can use and, as one might expect, there have been difficulties in finding the raw material since 9/11.
I turn back to the building again. I’m trying to get both the front window and the sign on the roof in the shot.
It’s a wide angle shot. Really wide.
I keep backing up, but there is a pick-up parked exactly where I need to be.
I’d climb into the bed of the truck but something tells me it’s not a good idea, at least today.
I wish I had a 10mm.
The woman I talked to earlier comes out for another smoke.
When she starts to head back in she turns and says, don’t take my picture.
I won’t. I already said I wouldn’t.
I don’t think she remembers.
Out of the corner of my eye The Real Photographer is coming in from the right.
He’s calmed down a bit.
He walks past, says fuck you once or twice, and heads to the couch, which is a pick-up truck seat in the parking lot, to fire up a butt.
Now there are about 10 people outside leaning against the front of the building.
Happy minute is over. It’s time to light up.
They are looking at me, through the cloud of smoke, like if I take their picture they’ll try to hurt as best they can. They are totally trashed, though. Maybe I’m misreading their expressions.
Somebody on the sidewalk starts to tell me about the historic neon sign salvation project the neighborhood association is trying to get the city to fund. Another tells me the Buffet serves more Coors than any other bar in the state. Yet another tells me if I come in on my birthday, I can order anything I want and they’ll give it to me for free.
The sun is getting low fast. The last of the winter light falls off the sign at 5:56 pm. I think using a flash will only aggravate the locals. Time to go. At least nobody puked on me.
Maybe I’ll come back when the place opens, at 6 am, and see how it looks back-lit.
Next time I shoot the Buffet, I’m gonna need a drink.
