out, not bothering to lock the tired ’92 Honda Accord that served as his sole mode of transport. And she drives a 2004 Camry. Another way she outclasses me hands down…. He slung the bag over his shoulder and began to walk.
The air was warm and sweet. He loved nature, loved being in the middle of it. He spent the first few moments just looking and touching, feeling and admiring. Then the professional side of him remembered why he had come, and he took out the camera. It was a basic model—Pentax K-1000, the camera high schools give to their Photography 101 students—but it was all he could afford. Much to his surprise, it had served him very well. It had no automatic features, but he came to love that. Having full control gave him more room to express himself, and the dependency forced him to stretch his abilities to their limits.
He brought the camera to his face and turned it sideways. All shots would be taken this way today—portrait instead of landscape. They needed covers back at the
SandPaper
. Mark’s boss, the paper’s photo editor, told him to shoot at least a hundred. The theme was spring, with a nod toward the coming summer. Mark had worked there for nearly two years now, as both a writer and photographer. The exposure had made him something of a minor local celebrity.
He spotted a prothonotary warbler atop a little shrub. It was the first one he’d seen this year. He attached a zoom lens and eased toward it.
When he felt close enough, he brought the camera up and twisted the lens into focus. Through the viewfinder he found a beautifully composed frame—the animal’s primary yellows against the burning blue of the morning sky. He was awed by the sheer austerity of it and found it impossible to click the shutter for a moment.
The bird took flight when his cell phone twittered. He tried to get the shot anyway but he knew he’d missed it. He pulled the phone from his belt and flipped it open, then closed it when a voice on the other end asked if he’d be interested in having his kitchen remodeled. So much for the National Do-Not-Call List.
As if to punish the device for disturbing his work, he turned it off.
Ricki Lake would be on first, then Sally Jessie. And then, best of all…
Jerry
.
BethAnn Mosley thought Jerry Springer was a god. He wasn’t exactly a celebrity in her mind. He wasn’t cute enough, like Tom Cruise or that hunk of all hunks, Brad Pitt. (She in fact had several pictures of Pitt stark naked, and in suggestive poses, on her computer. She’d downloaded them from the Web and wasn’t even sure it was really him—they might have been faked, with his head imposed on someone else’s body. Nevertheless they sufficiently served her purposes.) No, Jerry Springer was a god because his show had the best content, the best conflicts, the best…
hate
. Even though she would never admit it to anyone, she
loved
hate. It was as addictive as the Doritos, Coca-Cola, and Ben and Jerry’s ice cream that formed her staple diet. This was to say nothing of marijuana and, when she could afford it, a bit of ecstasy.
Sometimes she would tape Springer, and if it turned out to be a particularly violent episode, she’d watch the explosive moments over and over. She loved the enraged look on people’s faces when their resolve finally gave way and they tried to kill each other. God, how she loved that. Why didn’t that happen more often in real life? She supposed it did, but not in
her
life. She liked pushing people’s buttons, liked trying to get them to those heights of irritation, but even in her best moments she couldn’t seem to inspire the kind of rage Jerry provided. She’d heard somewhere that a lot of his shows were scripted, so maybe that was why they seemed so perfect. She didn’t care. The pleasure she harvested far outweighed any concerns over artistic integrity.
The Ricki Lake Show
paused for a commercial break, so she raised the remote and began flipping. To her right was an open