Chapter Eleven
Focus (n.) The point at which an object must be situated with respect to a photographic lens for an image of it to be well defined; a device on a lens which can be adjusted to produce a clear image; a centre of activity, attention, or attraction. (v.) adapt to the prevailing level of light and become able to see clearly.
31 December 2016
Hello, you’ve reached Dr Jason Andrews’s—beep
“Hi Jason, it’s Scott. Just wanted to wish you a Happy New Year. Have fun with your sister. People from work are going on a pub crawl. Meh. Olivia invited me to hers for Thai food, and maybe fireworks on the telly. So I’m off too. Have a good one. Be safe. I mean. Have fun. Is what I meant. All right. G’bye.”
1 January 2017
You have one new message and three saved messages. Received Sunday, January 1st at 12:06 a.m.
“Scott! Happy New Year! Are you already in bed? I’m shouting! I guess! I’m sorry! I’m not sure where we are, but Katie’s inside, and…I see fireworks out here and! I think we’ll stay a bit longer! Happy New Year! Right! All right, it’s loud so I’ll hang up now! All right! Hanging up! Scott! Happy New Year, all right? Hanging up now!”
Hello, you’ve reached Dr Jason Andrews’s mobile. I’m sorry—beep
“Good morning. Ha. Sounds like last night was a real banger. Don’t forget to drink your water.”
You have one new message and three saved messages. Received Sunday, January 1st at 11:40 a.m.
“Ugh. Ugghh. Scott. Please. In future. Don’t ever let me. Go out. Ugh. Drinking. With my sister. And her fiancé. I’m never. Getting. Out. Of this. Mmm. Bed.”
4 January 2017
Scott tries to find a quiet corner in the busy airport terminal where he can calm down and hear himself think. He spots an empty seat farthest from the gate door and pulls out his phone to text Jason.
I’m waiting at the gate. Flight to Bern delayed for weather. And I’m sweating like a madman. People are going to think I’m plotting something
OK, take a deep breath.
I’m tryimg. Ugh trying. A little old lady just asked me if I was all right. What am I doing?
Scott you can do this, everything is going to be fine. People fly all the time. Every day, even.
OK I know
That pilot is probably the very best pilot in the whole company.
Uh. OK
And all the mechanics, they’re sharp and talented at mechanical type things. This is the stuff I tell myself when I fly. Is it helping?
Not really
OK then, how about some music? Hold please.
Music?
The next message is a Spotify link, with no label or explanation. Scott taps it, then has to laugh at what he sees.
?? What is this??
It’s a playlist.
Whose playlist? Linkin Park? System of a Down?? Wait what
Ha!
Are you serious?
Why? What do you mean?
I thought. I don’t know what I thought. Godsmack? Incubus? I don’t know what to do with this information
Just listen to it!
OK. Jason?
?
I feel better.
Good.
16 January 2017
To: me
From: drjason.andrews@jahealthcare.co.uk
Subject: Photographers?
I think you’re still in Poland. Or are you in Turkey already?
I hate to bother you while you’re working. But I’ve got a question, and it’s kind of an emergency. You know my sister’s getting married in May. We don’t have a lot to spend, so most of the budget went to the little place in Greenwich for the reception. She skimped on other things to pay for it, like fewer flowers and a fucking idiot photographer who evidently DOESN’T KEEP A CALENDAR BECAUSE HE DOUBLE-BOOKED HER DAY AND NOW HE’S CANCELLED HER.
You can probably tell where this is going.
Everybody’s booked, and she’s panicking, as jilted brides do. We’re scrambling, and I thought maybe you’d have an idea of someone who could step in. I’ve got to try to come through for her, so any names you could throw at me? Wouldn’t have to be anyone superfamous or special, just someone you trust who’s reliable and can take good pictures. We’d owe you big.
Massive thank you for anything you might be able to do.
To: me
From: drjason.andrews@jahealthcare.co.uk
Subject: Photographers?
I didn’t even ask after your trip. Charming.
It must be freezing there. Is the coffee good? I feel like I’ve heard something somewhere about excellent Polish coffee.
And I wanted to give you my personal email address: drj14andrews@gmail.com, so these don’t get mixed up with my work messages.
17 January 2017
Fwd to: drj14andrews@gmail.com
From: me
Subject: Photographers?
In Warsaw until Thursday, then Ankara. Back in London on Monday, as it stands now, if all these meetings go as planned. Got here fine. I’m staying in the tiniest hotel room ever, not even like a room, more like a cupboard. Yes, it is freezing-my-balls-off cold. But the coffee is indeed excellent. Thank you for asking.
As for the emergency, what’s the wedding date? I’d do it myself, but I’m not sure where I’ll be. I’ve got someone in mind—Jess, a friend from Golds who works for The Resident, last I knew. She takes posh pictures all the time for work. If she can’t do it, she’ll probably know someone who can.
Tell Katie not to worry, poor thing. Let me know the date, and between Jess and me, we’ll get it sorted.
Off the subject: I thought I found a place to give my camera back, but I changed my mind again. Had a weird dream about it, so I think I’ll wait on it for now.
How’s Monica’s daughter doing? Has she had the baby yet?
And is your knee any better?
To: me
From: drj14andrews@gmail.com
Subject: Photographers?
Brilliant, Scott, that’s great news!
The wedding is May 13 (Sat).
Seriously, you may have saved the day. I told Katie and she cried, she was so relieved. I can’t stand to see her so stressed. This has been tough on her, missing our mum through all this. But I keep telling her it will turn out all right (I think I’m telling myself too). She and Cory are disagreeing about what kind of tuxes for the guys, and I joked with her that I could wear my trackies. She didn’t take it well. But maybe this will get me back on her good side.
I appreciate it, mate.
You’ll know when the time is right for the camera thing. There’s no rush. (Are you carrying it with you on these trips? Is that OK with you?)
No, Hannah hasn’t had her baby—any day now. Monica might burst before Hannah does.
I think you owe me a dream, so you could tell me about the weird one you had? Or not.
Scored one at the weekend match! Long overdue. Knee feels better. I think it’s the yoga. I know you keep saying you have no time, but I wonder if there would be something in it that would help your ears at all? Couldn’t hurt.
P.S. One of my patients has a litter of kittens that need homes. I’m going to say no. Seriously. I’m going to say no.
18 January 2017
To: drj14andrews@gmail.com
From: me
Subject: Photographers?
Congrats on the goal! See? Show those youngsters how it’s done.
I like this saving the day thing! It feels good! I’m sorry that you and Katie are sad sometimes about your mum. It’s great that you have each other, though, really. Even if you don’t get along all the time. There were times Olivia and I didn’t speak for one reason or another. But we’re more careful about that now.
If there’s anything else I can do to help, I’d like to, so let me know.
As for the dream, Omran and I were together on a train, or maybe it was a bus. We were about to get off and Omran said, “You forgot this,” and he handed me my camera, which I thought I had over my shoulder, but turns out it was under the seat, and I was about to walk off without it.
And yes, I am carrying my camera with me. I thought it would be good to give it back far from home. Is that bad? Anyway, I’ll be hanging on to it a while longer.
I’ll call you when I get home about another thing I’ve been thinking about—too complicated to type out.
P.S. I’d like to float when I get back, but I checked the web, and they have no appointments for two weeks out! Busy!
P.P.S. My vote is an emphatic yes on the kitten(s).
20 January 2017
Scott and Jason aren’t able to get a window table at Pearl’s since Jason’s last appointment went a few minutes long. But the table near the bar is fine, and Jason is halfway through his lentil and avocado salad when he offers Scott his float appointment.
“No, Jason, you don’t need to do that.” Sure, Scott wants to float, badly, but not so much so that Jason should give up his spot.
“Seriously,” Jason says, “it’s no problem at all. Perks of being friends with the owner. What night do you want to go?”
Arguing with Jason seems pointless, and Scott hasn’t floated in months. “Um, Tuesday or Wednesday, I guess? Is that too soon?”
“I’ll call and see. It will be late, though, remember. Nine or so. Friends get spots after business hours.”
“That’s fine. Perfect, really. Float, then straight home to bed.”
“All right. I’ll let you know when.”
“Thanks.”
“Sure. I told you, I owe you for Jess.” Jason looks at Scott curiously, then down at Scott’s bowl of soup, three-quarters full and getting cold. “Why aren’t you eating?”
“Eh, not hungry just now, I guess.”
Jason looks sideways at him for a moment, sizing him up. He leans back and takes a sip of his tea. “What was the other thing you wanted to talk to me about?”
When Scott had been far from home, jockeying for a cab on the crowded, noisy street in Warsaw city centre, it had seemed overwhelming. The ringing had grown louder in his ears, and he’d started to sweat; he’d thought for a thrilling second about telling the cab to go to the airport instead of Triple Cross Square. But now, with two more assignments done, a night’s sleep with his heated blanket warming his bed, and Jason sitting across from him, the whole thing feels dramatic and overblown.
“Oh, it turned out to be nothing. Just some nerves getting the better of me. It’s fine.”
Jason doesn’t look convinced. “You sure? You’ve been travelling so much lately. Maybe you could take some time off?”
“Nah, I like to stay busy. It helps.” Scott searches for a way to steer the topic away from himself. “How’s Katie?”
Jason tilts his head as if to say “nice try,” but when Scott raises his eyebrows, Jason doesn’t push it. “Er… She’s trying to figure out bridesmaid’s dresses, I think, which are clearly beyond my scope of expertise. Evidently, there’s a difference between baby-pink and ballet slipper–pink. Or maybe she’s changed her mind to carnation-pink. I’ve lost track.” His voice slows, and he looks down at his plate. “I thought things were better after the whole asshole photographer situation got solved, but…”
“But what?”
“I, uh, I’m just not very good at this.” Jason seems at loose ends. It’s oddly disconcerting.
“At wedding planning?”
“No, at being the brother she needs. Or the mum she needs, or whatever. I don’t know. When mum died, I was…well, I left for a while. Not literally, but. I was gone in every way that mattered. Katie needed me. But I couldn’t do it, and it was a while before I got it together. A long while. So there are…issues.”
“Oh. Wow, Jason. I’m so sorry.”
Jason pushes up his sleeves as if he’s getting ready to work, or maybe because he needs to have something to do with his hands. “Well. It’s a lot better now. I’ve been working on it.”
“I’m sure Katie can tell you are. She knows you’re doing your best, yeah?”
“I don’t know, maybe. I hope so?”
Scott hasn’t ever seen Jason lost like this before. His voice doesn’t even sound like him. “Anyway, she knows you can’t be your mum. She knows you can only be yourself. Right?”
“Um, well. Huh.”
“What?
Jason sighs, then laughs a bit. “No, she probably doesn’t know. Because I didn’t know it myself until you said it just now.”
“Okay then,” Scott says and picks up his spoon.
Jason watches him take a bite, and then another. “Thanks,” he says, and Scott smiles, though his soup is nearly cold.
14 February 2017
Scott picks up his phone to text Jason but sees a notification from him already there.
How’s Gothenburg?
Big day tomorrow, and I’m wired. Nervous. Been pacing around this hotel room for an hour
Take a shower. Or have a sit down with a cuppa.
Emilia taught me some pressure points. They’re not working either
How about yoga? We did a whole stress class a couple of weeks ago. It can help.
It’s getting late, but anything is worth a try.
Ugh. Link me please. I’m desperate
He’s got to be kidding. The link Jason sends is a balance on one foot called half-moon.
Nice try, but that pose is not possible
You just said you’d try anything! That’s the best one for stress.
But how do I get sideways and stay there? I’ll fall right over
Keep your chest open and your neck neutral. Keep your foot pointing forward. Use all your toes.
OK that’s weird of you to say “All my toes”
Follow the steps. Do it against the wall first.
Scott brings the phone to the largest open space in the room, in front of the window, and studies the pose again. Like a starfish. He balances on one foot, then leans over and puts the tip of his fingers on the floor in front of him. Starfish, starfish, but then when he raises his leg, he crumples to the side, painfully.
Scott? You still there?
OK I smacked my ankle on the desk and almost broke this lovely hotel lamp, so thanks for that
Shit, don’t hurt yourself. Or their nice things!
I’ll stick with that other one you gave me, child’s pose or whatever
Try it once on the other side though, so you’re balanced.
Um, K. Hold please
Best of luck.
The other try is a bit better; he can at least hold his leg up for a few seconds before he tilts wildly, barely avoiding a collision with another piece of furniture.
Ugh. No. Toes don’t help one bit. I have weak toes, I suppose. Ha!
Oh my God.
Right. I’ll just have a sit down with some tea I think
Excellent idea. Safer for all the furniture. And body parts.
23 February 2017
Hello, you’ve reached Dr Jason—beep
“Hi, Jason. Just got home from Emilia’s. Good news—the ringing in my left ear is down, way down, unnoticeable most of the time. Something else is going on with the right, maybe a holdover from the injuries, and it still flares up when I’m stressed. But it’s so much better. She’s actually going to use me in an article she’s putting together. A collection of case studies, she said, that she’s going to try to get published. I’m kind of proud, I guess? Oh, the Rome trip is back on, I leave the twenty-seventh. All right. Talk to you soon.”
You have one new message. Received Friday, February 24th at 5:35 p.m.
“Rome, huh? Nice. So suck-up David is staying home this time, then? Good for you. And good on you for the acupuncture! Ow! Ugh, sorry, speaking of—Robbie’s claws are like tiny needles. I’ll put you right here, babe, now stay. Right, sorry about that. Yeah, Emilia’s told me a bit about what she’s working on. It’s some fascinating stuff she’s got. I’m glad you’ll be a part of it. All right, got to get these little guys fed. Jimmy is about to chew my finger off. I’m not going to sound. I’m knackered. Talk to you soon.”
28 February 2017
To: drj14andrews@gmail.com
From: me
Subject: Rome
It’s 01:00 and I can’t sleep.
I thought this would be the place where I could give my camera back. I thought I could leave it on one of these street corners. I could leave it in a pew in the church that’s around the corner from the hotel. Or I could go to the Colosseum and leave it there with the ruins. Nobody would know or care, and it would seem kind of logical, you know? But I can’t.
I lie in bed, and I stare at the ceiling, thinking about it. A street cleaner would sweep it up, wouldn’t he? Or a tourist would find it and throw it in the bin. That’s not right.
And I think about my dreams. I had another one, where Omran was telling me not to forget it. We were in a rickshaw in India this time, and I got out and walked away without it. (I don’t know why I dream about him in India so much. He was never there with me. But that happens a lot.) He called me back and handed it to me. It was under the seat again.
These dreams are really fucking with me. Why do I keep having them? It’s maddening, trying to walk away, move on, or whatever, and to keep getting pulled back in.
Does he think I’d forget? That doesn’t even make any sense. I could never.
And then I remember what you told me, that giving my camera back isn’t forgetting or pretending that it never was, it’s letting it go to make space for something else. I get that, I really do. And I want to do that. But I can’t yet.
Sorry to dump this on you.
I’ll be home on Friday, early. I’ll probably go to sound.
1 March 2017
To: me
From: drj14andrews@gmail.com
Subject: Rome
Damn, I wish I’d seen this last night.
You can call me whenever you want. Don’t worry about waking me.
I can’t tell you what to do about this one. I do know one thing though, and that’s when you give your camera back, it’s going to feel good, not bad. It’s not going to feel like something you’re forced to do, or something that makes you feel guilty or confused. It’s going to feel right when you do it, like the next logical step. If you don’t feel like that now, which you obviously don’t, that means you’re not ready. And that’s fine.
Maybe your dreams are your mind’s way of telling you that. And it’s brilliant that it’s Omran who’s telling you in your dreams. He’s your friend. Listen to him. There’s nothing to worry about here. It’s all going to unfold how it should. That’s not doctor me talking, that’s just Jason.
And off the subject, how’s the food? I had the best pizza in Rome a few years ago, had an egg and pesto on top. (Don’t forget to eat, OK?)
And another off the subject, it’s been a rumour in my family there was some line of ancestry that comes from Italy. My mum always loved that and said it made total sense because it would explain why she talked with her hands so much. Even though nobody ever tried to trace us there, I still like to believe it because of her.
I’ll see you at sound?
(And now I guess I owe you another dream?)
2 March 2017
To: drj14andrews@gmail.com
From: me
Subject: Rome
Thanks.
What you said about my camera makes sense. I’m relieved to hear it. I knew it, I think, but I still worry. It still feels massive to me. But I’ll try to put it on the back burner for now.
Not surprisingly, the food is excellent. The spaghetti in the AP canteen is ten times better than any fancy pasta dish I’ve had at home. Simple tomato sauce with it, and a little red wine, and somehow, it’s heavenly.
That’s a sweet story about your mum. I feel connected to Italy too. They have all sorts of websites now where you can do your family trees and stuff—you could find out once and for all if the rumour is true. Are your grandparents on her side still alive?
Anyway, thank you again. See you tomorrow.
(And yes, you do)
To: me
From: drj14andrews@gmail.com
Subject: Rome
OK here’s one:
I’m with Katie at our house where we grew up. I’m probably twelve years old. We’re racing around in the garden, running in circles, laughing. My stomach actually hurts in the dream because I’m laughing so hard, and I’m making funny faces at her, and she’s squealing and tripping and stuff. I slow down so she can catch up to me, and my mum is watching out of the kitchen window, and she waves. Then my legs get really heavy, and I realise I can’t run anymore. Then I can’t walk because it’s so hard to pull my feet up from the ground to keep going. I look down at my feet, and they get stuck, actually cemented into the ground, and I can’t move. And there’s a familiar feeling about it, like, “oh not again” because it’s happened a lot.
I guess I have that dream probably once every couple of weeks.
Now we’re even, I think?
3 March 2017
More often than not, the personality of the sound sessions on Friday nights seem to match what Scott needs on any given week. When he’s exhausted and needs rest, it will be a night of large bells and bass drums. When he’s anxious or has something on his mind, the tones will be gentle and even a little playful, to pull him out of his thoughts and lift his mood. Tonight’s session was like that.
The conversation over dinner afterward is light and relaxed, with Scott happy to leave the issue of his camera off the table. Instead, Jason pulls out his phone and shows Scott a picture of a chiselled male model in a tuxedo.
“Here, take a look at this for me. I need your opinion. Cummerbunds, or no?”
“Yes to the guy. Meh on the suit. Why?”
Jason pulls his camera back and swipes the screen. “Because none of us agrees. Katie thinks morning suits.” He shows Scott a new picture, a different man, this time with a classic morning coat, waistcoat, and striped trousers.
“Nice.”
“Hold on,” Jason says and swipes again. “My stepdad thinks velvet jackets. Ew. I’m not even going to show you that one. And Cory thinks slim fit, four button.”
“Very nice.” Scott looks at the model in a suit that’s sleek and modern, but more appropriate for a music video than a wedding.
“Now I—” Jason pauses dramatically to swipe again. “—think bow ties and braces.”
This makes Scott snort before he ever sees the picture.
“What? What’s funny?” Jason says incredulously as they bend their heads together over his phone.
“You can’t be serious,” Scott says, laughing, although the man in the photo is quite handsome, with tattooed forearms showing underneath his rolled-up sleeves.
“Well, clearly you have an opinion.” Jason rolls his eyes and puts away his phone.
“Yes, I do. The bride gets what she wants.”
Jason shuts his eyes with a deep sigh. “Quite so. Thank you. And Katie thanks you.”
“You’re both welcome.”
“I think you’ll be hearing from her soon, actually,” Jason says after swallowing a bite of his salad.
“Katie?”
“She’d like you to come to the rehearsal dinner. As a thank you for the photographer fiasco. I gave her your number. I hope that’s okay.”
The thought of meeting Jason’s sister and the rest of his family makes Scott want to stand up and pace, but Jason is oblivious, poking around on his plate for croutons.
“Sure, it’s fine, but…she doesn’t have to invite me.”
“You should come! It’ll be pretty simple, dinner and pints. And my family. A little nutty, but harmless, I promise.”
Jason continues to eat, not realising that Scott has put his own fork down with a nervous rattle. It’s not the occasion that makes him anxious, or meeting Jason’s sister, but Jason will be there, too, with his boyfriend. Scott will be able to put a real human to the image of Jason’s partner that he’s worked up in his head. He’s handsome, of course; Scott clearly remembers that from the picture of them on Jason’s shelf. But he must be smart, and funny, too, and open-minded, and strong enough to hold all the powerful ideas Jason thinks and talks about. What will it be like to see them so close, to watch them together? Scott wipes his damp hands on his napkin. Jesus, this could really happen.
He takes a sip of water. “So, your boyfriend will be there, too, right? I’ll get a chance to meet him, finally?”
“My boyfriend?” Jason asks with a confused look that makes his eyebrows crease.
“The guy in the picture with you at your office, on the bookshelf.”
“Who…oh, uh, Ian? Wow, that was…” It’s Jason’s turn to put down his fork. He shakes his head with a little grunt and wipes his mouth with his napkin. “Uh, no, we’re not together anymore. We broke up a long time ago. Last summer.”
Scott cringes. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realise.” Shit. Last summer?
Jason doesn’t look at him but seems to be studying woodgrain on the table instead. He stumbles over his words, which is very much unlike him. “That’s all right, he…well, I was…you know, he did things, but really it wasn’t all his fault, I mean. It just…didn’t work out.”
“Oh. I thought, this whole time, that you were with him. I guess. Sorry,” Scott says again, this time meaning sorry that he hurt you. But underneath it, he can’t help but feel a tiny flutter of relief that he’s not sure what to do with. He takes another sip of water. “And you’ve been single since then?”
“Eh, I’ve had a few dates here and there.” A small smile comes back to Jason’s face. “There was one very sympathetic but very needy veterinarian.”
“Oh my God, the veterinarian? The one with Bitsy?”
“Yeah. That one was over quick. There is one guy I met at yoga though. Seems promising. He’s a doctor too.”
“Oh. Nice.” Scott picks up his fork and pokes a few chips around his plate.
“But you know, I’m busy, with work and the footie league and my family, so.”
“Yeah. You’ve got a lot on your plate, don’t you? Me too,” Scott says slowly. He’s agreeing, though it feels like some of that isn’t all the way true. He doesn’t know how to do this, really, how to be friends with someone who used to be his doctor, but who isn’t anymore. Actually, the friends part seems to be working well. It’s whatever the other feelings are that tend to sneak up on him—attraction, excitement, intimacy—that Scott isn’t sure how to handle.
Their footing feels slippery suddenly, and Scott looks to change the subject back to something more solid. Like Jason’s terrible taste in clothes.
“Bow tie and braces. How dare you?” he says, shaking his head, and Jason chuckles, pulling out his phone again.
“No seriously, take a look at this one. Purple polka dots. Subtle. I bet you’ll change your mind.”
They ease back into their light conversation, and Scott can forget all the rest for a bit. Jason is here with him, and that is enough.
17 March 2017
Two weeks and two business trips later, Scott looks at the digital images on his computer as his editor looks over his shoulder. They say nothing, but the air is prickly with stress and frustration. When Rich takes a break, Scott picks up his phone.
“Sorry, Jason. I can’t make it to Luke’s. Have to work late.”
“Uh-oh.”
“Yeah, all night, most likely. It’s not looking good.”
“What happened?”
Scott sighs and rubs his eyes. Leave it to Jason to ask the simple, excellent questions.
Scott could say it was all his interpreter’s fault, but that would be a lie. She’d been focused, efficient, and quite helpful. He swallows. “I thought I had the shots. But I rushed, didn’t listen, said it would be fine. I just wanted to get out of there, and now Rich and I have to cobble something together out of this stinking shitpile. Have to submit by midnight tomorrow.”
“Damn. I’m sorry.”
“My own fault.”
“Are you all right?”
“Will be.” Scott scrolls through the images again, each picture worse than the last, already determined he’ll make up for this, if they give him another chance.
“Well. If there’s anything I can do, just—”
“Nah, thanks though.”
“Uh, okay, well, maybe next week then.”
“Next week.” Scott bites his lip so he doesn’t say any more.
22 March 2017
3:05 p.m.
Scott is hanging up the call with his boss when his phone buzzes with a text notification. It’s Jason.
I just saw the news. Are you going to Westminster?
Yes
Damn.
I’m on my way now.
I’m sorry. Call me if you need to.
It’s too hard, Jason, he thought. It’s too hard to talk to you when I’m on the job. Especially this kind of job.
Scott’s ringtone makes him jump. He taps the speakerphone. “Hey, Liv, just a second.”
OK. Have to go. Olivia’s calling
Even if it’s late or whatever, OK?
10:40 p.m.
To: drj14andrews@gmail.com
From: me
Subject: Westminster
I know you said I could call you, even if it was late, but it’s easier to write this down than say it.
I don’t know what to do. I work, going where they tell me to go, taking pictures of what I’m supposed to take pictures of. But today it was our very own city. I was on the bridge, but I wasn’t. I don’t know any other way to describe it.
I watch myself from the outside, looking at these places as composition problems. How to fit this rubble into the frame, how to get that twisted piece of rebar with the police tape across it in the same shot as a crashed car so I end up with a good photo. Lighting. F-stop. Depth of field. There are people in uniforms wandering around, marking up the place with chalk. Cleaning up. And I’m trying to find an expressive enough face or a scene that tells the story of what and how. And why. And I can’t, it’s impossible.
What the fuck am I doing?
My press tags feel so heavy. Every morning I dread putting them on. I wait until the last possible second before someone checks me. Tonight when I took them off I felt free. Like myself again.
I don’t think I want to do this anymore.
To: me
From: drj14andrews@gmail.com
Subject: Westminster
Please call me.
You don’t have to do it anymore. You don’t. You can quit if you want. You don’t owe anybody anything.
Call me please.
23 March 2017
To: me
From: drj14andrews@gmail.com
Subject: Westminster
Maybe it’s easier for me to write this than say it too.
I can’t imagine how hard it must be for you, being there.
You’re probably seeing all the same sights and hearing the same sounds that you did in Kabul.
You went through that once, and I don’t think you should do it again. That’s just me. It’s your call. It always is. Taking pictures is what you do. And you can still do that, somewhere else, for someone else, couldn’t you? You want to tell a story. But I think a part of you might also think you have to make up for something, or even some score, or be brave or something. Or keep telling stories for Omran because he can’t anymore?
It’s not wrong to turn away from all of that now, Scott. The story will get told. It doesn’t have to be you who tells it.
You’re going to say I’m biased. Yes, I am.
You said you feel like yourself when you take your press tags off. What if you could take pictures and feel like yourself at the same time? What kinds of pictures would those be? Would they be like the water blessing? Or the kids at school in New Delhi? You took an excellent photo of an orange flower once, without even trying. And the pictures you took of the gongs at sound are beautiful. And I know you loved taking them.
Just think about it, please.
I’ll talk to you tomorrow.
24 March 2017
Scott unlocks his flat door. He shuffles to the bed—jacket, camera bag and all—and falls into it with his shoes on. He loves the arnica smell of his sheets; he closes his eyes and turns his face into the mattress so he can breathe deep. Home.
He might fall asleep for a minute, though it’s four in the afternoon. There is a wisp of a dream where Omran and Scott are sitting in the library at Scott’s primary school, in small chairs meant for kids. Omran slides Scott’s broken camera across the table to him.
When he opens his eyes, he’s sweating a bit, and thirsty. He eases his feet out of his boots and takes off his jacket. He feels for his phone in his back pocket and calls Jason.
“Hey, Scott.”
“Hey.”
“You’re home?”
“Yeah.”
“Are you all right?”
“It was like you said. The sounds and…the sights. But this time, it was right here at home.”
“I’m sorry.”
They are silent for long moments. With Jason listening, there is no need to add on or fix, nothing to defend or explain.
“I want to quit.” It is what it is. He’s not sad anymore. It’s just a fact.
“All right. When?”
Scott looks at his calendar, for no reason really, because he knows the answer already. “Monday.” The end of one thing. The beginning of something else.
“Okay then. A good decision, well made. This calls for a celebration, yeah?”
“Nah, I’m knackered.”
“I mean tomorrow. Get some rest tonight, and we can meet up for brunch?”
Scott runs his hand through his hair. It feels strange and wrong to celebrate after what’s happened. He says nothing but a noncommittal groan.
“Come on. I’ll come to Camden. Do you have a favourite spot?”
“Always with the persistence,” Scott says, but he can’t say no. It’s been too long since they’ve seen each other, and he knows a meal with Jason will help set his mind right. “Okay, I know a good place. I’ll send you the address.”
25 March 2017
It had taken Scott a long while after the accident to want to come to Blues Kitchen again; the energy of the night-time bar crowd along with the loud wails of blues music kept him away. But on the weekends, it’s relaxed, but not sleepy, and the music’s festive, but not loud. It’s the perfect place for Scott to introduce Jason to his neighbourhood. And he can’t wait to see what Jason thinks of the cornbread.
They walk through the crowded front room to a corner table by the bar, and after they’ve ordered an enormous-but-still-polite quantity of food, Scott notices that Jason’s body hasn’t stopped moving. He sways sometimes, his shoulders rocking to the music, and his thigh rises up and down as if he’s tapping his foot on the floor.
“You like this music, huh?” Scott asks.
“Absolutely! You know what would be the best job of all time?”
“What?”
“Background singer.”
Now, Jason adds a finger snap to the mix, and Scott is charmed.
“A background singer. Why?”
“Think about it. You get to travel all over. You get to listen to excellent music every night, from the stage, sing a few oooh oooh oooh’s every once in a while, and get paid. And if it’s a proper band, you’d have it all—huge horn section, a couple guitars, piano, the whole bit. And you’re right there, part of it, but not the main attraction, right? No heavy lifting.”
“And you get to dance too,” Scott suggests, moving his arms like he’s seen background singers do.
“That’s right. My dream gig,” Jason says, staring off wistfully.
Scott remembers the lifetime of singing that still lives inside him somewhere, where he and his best friend sang for royalty. That day in the treatment room, he’d felt the closeness of those boys, and there’d been a hint of feeling after that Jason somehow was that boy, his Georgie’s John. Scott had been confused and tired, but he’d felt it.
He looks at Jason, dancing a little clumsily and humming off-key. “But you can’t sing.”
“Quite so. That’s why it’s called a dream gig. And anyway, don’t burst my bubble.”
Scott laughs. “Fine. Keep the dream alive.”
“Let’s talk about your dream job.” Jason squares up in his seat and leans in, clinks his glass brightly against Scott’s. “Since you’re going to be looking.”
“Hold on, give me a minute. I haven’t even quit yet.” But Scott smiles anyway, anticipating the thought of putting his press pass down and being free.
Jason looks at him, a bit of the playfulness still in his eyes, but his tone utterly serious. “It doesn’t hurt to dream. Does it?”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“So what’ll it be? What would you do if you could do anything?”
“My dream gig?”
“Dream gig.”
Scott knows what it is already. “You’re going to laugh.”
“No, I won’t. I promise.” Jason leans closer.
“Okay.” Scott takes a breath. “So…I want to be a photographer.”
Jason’s eyes get wide, but as promised, he doesn’t laugh. “A photographer, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“Wow, I hear that’s a hard job. You have to have a lot of talent. Some people are so good at it that they actually get awards.”
Scott looks down with a smile. “So they say.”
Jason’s voice gets softer. “So, what kind of pictures are you going to take?”
“Beautiful ones. Complicated ones. Pictures that don’t hurt to look at. I did that already. I’ve had enough of it.”
Jason nods. Everything else fades into the background. The music, the restaurant, the other people, the bustle of the Camden Saturday morning. For this moment, it’s just the two of them, still doing what they’ve done since the beginning: trusting each other with their dreams.