The young man received twenty-five dollars for the session.

The deal was to come up
with a hundred and fifty distinct emotions. He would then have to
hold deathly still for each of them. Fake stability long enough
for the photographer to crack bad caricaturist
jokes and take stunning photographs.

It was some playwright’s idea of a joke that cost less
than buying a smart pork chop hat from one of those
shadows that stutters, shrinks and grows against
old Coca-Cola signs.

The hope was to have a hundred test subjects
and a million stories to rip from the headlines
hiding under their arms and chests.

Our young man didn’t
think about it very much. He just figured twenty-five bucks
would buy him some six-packs of Ramen, some six-packs
of Blackjack Light and six good cigarettes from the trunk
of his stepfather’s car.

Monday may as well have been
six months away. He had traded in the wheels on his car
for some magic beans, and he kept forgetting what month
his birthday fell on.

Desperate times call for your favorite Springsteen bootleg
from the ‘85 tour. Or whatever the hell makes you look foolish
to the passing youngsters.

Desperate times also call for the kind of sarcasm
that turns you lonely sooner rather than later.

The young man came up with about two hundred,
but he only got through about a hundred and thirty.

It was tough work, lord have mercy. It was hell on dry toast
coming up with the kind of imagery that makes it possible
to go from one of those annoying feelings to the other.

He wanted it to look honest. That was his problem
right there. He wanted to earn that twenty-five dollars
while losing all fear and respect for those people
who probably should have killed him off,
those women who couldn’t dance a lick
or those houses where all the bad stories
looked and talked even worse over Sunday night coffee.

One hundred and thirty,
and then he just passed out.

Most people would have clocked out
after a hundred compassionate thoughts. That’s what
the photographer and playwright agreed on. Shortly before they started arguing
and descending into a fist fight.

The playwright won out in the fifth round. He gave the young man
fifty out of sheer guilt.

04/22/2010

Posted on 04/22/2010
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