They’re hardly going to give the job to someone who barely shaves yet.”
“Well then, I’ll offer to carry the photographer’s camera,” I said.
I left Tolley in the bar at the Gadsden and went early to the town hall. Workers were still setting up chairs and arranging the podium and speaker’s table. I had brought my camera and tripod so that I might at least look the part. But I saw that another photographer was already in the process of setting up his equipment.
I went over to introduce myself. The man was an overweight, messy fellow with disheveled clothes and uncombed hair. He had a big belly hanging over his belt, and an unlit cigar butt clenched between his teeth.
“Pleased to meet you, kid,” he said, holding out a hand, fingers thick as Milwaukee bratwursts. “Wade Jackson, award-winning shutterbug for the
Douglas Daily Dispatch.
Who you shooting for?”
“I’m just a freelancer, sir,” I said. “I was hoping to get hired on with the expedition. But I guess you’ve already filled the position.”
Jackson stared at me incredulously, then bellowed a loud, delighted laugh. He pulled out a Zippo lighter, flipped it open, struck it into flame, and held it up to his cigar butt, squinting his eyes and puffing until the butt glowed a bright, even orange. He exhaled an exuberant blast of cigar smoke and raised his eyes heavenward. “Thank you, God, I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve this, but thank you.” Then to me he said: “What the fuck kind of artsy-fartsy camera is that, anyway, kid?”
“It’s a Deardorff,” I said, confused. “Eight-by-ten view camera.”
“Yeah, yeah, I
know
what it is,” the big man said. “That’s not what I’m asking. I’m asking why you have a camera like that?”
“I like the large format,” I said.
“He
likes
the large format!” he said mockingly. “That the only piece you have, kid?”
“Yes, sir, is there something wrong with it?”
“It’s a great camera for portraits and
art photography,
” Jackson said with a disparaging emphasis, “when you have all the time in the world to set up and focus. But it’s not exactly a spontaneous camera. What’s it weigh with the tripod and plate holders, anyway, forty, fifty pounds?”
“I guess so.”
“Look, kid, don’t you know that no press photographer in America shoots an eight-by-ten? I tell you what I’ll do. I’ll loan you one of my Speed Graphics. Better yet, I’ll loan you my new Leica. Ever shot one before?”
“No, sir.”
“Light and fast, it’ll be perfect up there.”
Now I was more confused than ever. “I’m not sure I understand, sir. Up where?”
“In the Sierra Madre,” he said impatiently. “Where the fuck do you think?”
“But I thought you just said you were the staff photographer for the local paper?” I asked. “Aren’t you covering the expedition yourself?”
Wade Jackson opened his arms and turned his palms up. “Kid, take a good look at me,” he said. “Do I look like the kind of fella who wants to chase Apaches on horseback in the fucking Sierra Madre? More to the point, do I look like the kind of guy who
could
chase Apaches on horseback in the fucking Sierra Madre, even if he wanted to?”
Well, no, as a matter of fact, he didn’t, but I didn’t want to be impolite about it, so I just answered: “I don’t really know, sir.”
“Cut the sir shit, kid,” he said. “Call me Big Wade. Don’t be so goddamn polite. Look, the mayor and my dumb-ass editor are insisting that I go along on this preposterous fucking expedition. They need photographs. I tell them I can’t do it, I’ll die up there; it’s what, nine-, ten-thousand-feet elevation? I can barely breathe at sea level.” Jackson took his cigar out of his mouth, looked at it sadly. “Too many of these damn things,” he said. “But do they give a shit about the fragile state of my health? They do not. They say, tough shit, get yourself in shape, Big Wade, you’re
“Well then, I’ll offer to carry the photographer’s camera,” I said.
I left Tolley in the bar at the Gadsden and went early to the town hall. Workers were still setting up chairs and arranging the podium and speaker’s table. I had brought my camera and tripod so that I might at least look the part. But I saw that another photographer was already in the process of setting up his equipment.
I went over to introduce myself. The man was an overweight, messy fellow with disheveled clothes and uncombed hair. He had a big belly hanging over his belt, and an unlit cigar butt clenched between his teeth.
“Pleased to meet you, kid,” he said, holding out a hand, fingers thick as Milwaukee bratwursts. “Wade Jackson, award-winning shutterbug for the
Douglas Daily Dispatch.
Who you shooting for?”
“I’m just a freelancer, sir,” I said. “I was hoping to get hired on with the expedition. But I guess you’ve already filled the position.”
Jackson stared at me incredulously, then bellowed a loud, delighted laugh. He pulled out a Zippo lighter, flipped it open, struck it into flame, and held it up to his cigar butt, squinting his eyes and puffing until the butt glowed a bright, even orange. He exhaled an exuberant blast of cigar smoke and raised his eyes heavenward. “Thank you, God, I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve this, but thank you.” Then to me he said: “What the fuck kind of artsy-fartsy camera is that, anyway, kid?”
“It’s a Deardorff,” I said, confused. “Eight-by-ten view camera.”
“Yeah, yeah, I
know
what it is,” the big man said. “That’s not what I’m asking. I’m asking why you have a camera like that?”
“I like the large format,” I said.
“He
likes
the large format!” he said mockingly. “That the only piece you have, kid?”
“Yes, sir, is there something wrong with it?”
“It’s a great camera for portraits and
art photography,
” Jackson said with a disparaging emphasis, “when you have all the time in the world to set up and focus. But it’s not exactly a spontaneous camera. What’s it weigh with the tripod and plate holders, anyway, forty, fifty pounds?”
“I guess so.”
“Look, kid, don’t you know that no press photographer in America shoots an eight-by-ten? I tell you what I’ll do. I’ll loan you one of my Speed Graphics. Better yet, I’ll loan you my new Leica. Ever shot one before?”
“No, sir.”
“Light and fast, it’ll be perfect up there.”
Now I was more confused than ever. “I’m not sure I understand, sir. Up where?”
“In the Sierra Madre,” he said impatiently. “Where the fuck do you think?”
“But I thought you just said you were the staff photographer for the local paper?” I asked. “Aren’t you covering the expedition yourself?”
Wade Jackson opened his arms and turned his palms up. “Kid, take a good look at me,” he said. “Do I look like the kind of fella who wants to chase Apaches on horseback in the fucking Sierra Madre? More to the point, do I look like the kind of guy who
could
chase Apaches on horseback in the fucking Sierra Madre, even if he wanted to?”
Well, no, as a matter of fact, he didn’t, but I didn’t want to be impolite about it, so I just answered: “I don’t really know, sir.”
“Cut the sir shit, kid,” he said. “Call me Big Wade. Don’t be so goddamn polite. Look, the mayor and my dumb-ass editor are insisting that I go along on this preposterous fucking expedition. They need photographs. I tell them I can’t do it, I’ll die up there; it’s what, nine-, ten-thousand-feet elevation? I can barely breathe at sea level.” Jackson took his cigar out of his mouth, looked at it sadly. “Too many of these damn things,” he said. “But do they give a shit about the fragile state of my health? They do not. They say, tough shit, get yourself in shape, Big Wade, you’re
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