The place smells like old incense, lies, and God, as do all churches and their basements and all meetings of men. He sits there in a folding chair, an anger that seems infinite bubbling within him, as some big cop prattles on with words he can’t even hear. Now it is time to view someone else’s photographs of his work. He gets to his feet and shuffles along in a herd of frightened fools toward the little exhibit—if it can be called that.
He’d gotten there early by forty-five minutes and had waited down the street in his car until he saw people start showing up. He couldn’t afford to get too close or to be inside with a sparse turnout, or possibly be asked to show ID or give his information while someone stood over him watching. He counted thirty people—it appeared the meeting would be well attended after all—before he got out and joined the stream of bodies entering. He wears khaki pants, an olive drab canvas coat, and an unmarked tan baseball cap. He may as well be cloaked in a force field of invisibility. He’s had this sensation many times before—that no one can really see him. He finds a seat at the edge of the middle, and before long other people have filled in around him and swallowed him up. He looks on as a dark-haired slutty-looking woman and large man speak to each other off to the side, and then watches the police officer when he arrives. Later on, another man, who is clearly the photographer, since he’s been busy tweaking his display along the far wall of the space, joins them. Then the cop finishes warning people about things that don’t concern them, with ways to protect themselves that won’t work, and it is time to view the pictures.
It is worse than he imagined.
He keeps his coat on and cap pulled low throughout the presentation, and still wears them as he walks past photographs that supposedly depict his work, but which actually reduce it, ruin it, turn it all to shit. It is infuriating. The pictures were shot straight on, the digital images too clean and too bright, and the colors stark and unfiltered.
It shouldn’t be like that, he thinks. The images bear no relation to what he is really doing. How can this joker call himself a photographer?
D. Quinn. That’s the name digitally burned onto the lower left-hand corner of the prints. So it must be Quinn himself who stands there showing off his camera to some girl. The young man, dressed in cargo pants, a fisherman’s sweater, and an earring, with a padded bag over his shoulder, disgusts him. He seems more concerned with playing the role of artist than the work itself.
But despite it all—despite the shooter’s limitations—just seeing anew what he has done is magnificent. It stops him in his tracks and makes his heart beat powerfully and causes his blood to surge. His works are his prayers, his testament to his own godliness and immortality, and that comes through. He almost doesn’t notice how the time has passed and that the crowd has started to break and file out. It is all ending so soon, but it won’t do to be caught alone and too interested in the display, so he bends his head, tugs the brim of his cap downward, and walks quickly toward the door along with two couples, seeming, to all outside appearances, one of their group.
He goes back to his car and waits down the street for a long while until the place has cleared out completely. The last to leave is Quinn, who walks out with two other people, the big man and the small, dark-haired woman. They get into separate cars—the woman is parked directly across from him, but seemingly unaware of his presence behind the wheel. He stays with Quinn, following him as he drives off in a silver Toyota Prius. He isn’t surprised when the photographer parks in front of a trendy-looking bar and grill he’s never heard of called Kilroy’s. He is more surprised to see the small, dark-haired woman and the large man from the church meet Quinn in front and see them enter as a group. He adjusts himself in his seat. Finishing the project in his garage can wait, this cannot.