Denny fished his key to the climate-controlled storage unit out of the pocket of his faded Levi’s. He unlocked the padlock, rolled the metal door up, and slipped inside, pulling it down behind him. Then he crossed to the battery-operated bank of LED lights and clicked them on, letting his eyes adjust to the darkened area after being blasted from the morning sun on the drive over.
The pungent tang of photographic fixer still lingered on the darkroom equipment he couldn’t bear to get rid of. Its monetary worth vanished when digital technology came screaming to the market. Its sole significance now lay in sentimentality. The cracked leathery bellows of the enlarger and scratched metal easels were relics from his past, reduced to obsolete knickknacks. Metal shelves held his lenses, developing trays, and a bucket of stainless steel film reels and tongs. The storage unit had become the professional graveyard of D. Sebastian Kincaid and told the story of his meteoric rise and fall in the field of fashion photography.
Typically, being surrounded by the tools of his trade brought him peace, but instead, he was restless. To take the edge off, he opened the soft-sided cooler he’d brought and cracked his first beer, guzzling it down.
On one side of the storage unit were metal filing cabinets that housed negatives. He tugged out one drawer, the rusty tracks screeching from years of humidity. In the back of the drawer was an old copy of Luxe Mode, a European fashion magazine, the only one not too prudish to print the Carrie-inspired photographs in 1986. On the cover, a twiggy blonde, an Amazonian brunette, and a feisty redhead who appeared to be wearing nothing but blood gave him ‘come hither’ eyes. He’d known the magic happened the second he clicked the shutter, but none of the usual players were interested in the spread after the accusations.
Staring down at it, he scoffed in caustic frustration, knowing if he were to approach the same magazines today, they would probably tell him the photographs were too tame. That is if they were even in existence at all. Digital photography and the internet shuttered the lion’s share of publications, leaving only a few holdouts remaining. It was obvious that civilization was going to hell in a handbasket, and his timing was never quite right to capitalize on its descent into depravity.
Eager to relive his glory days, he pulled out a manilla folder and tugged out glossy contact sheets. A Polaroid fluttered to the ground and he bent down to pick it up. In it, he was surrounded by two models on each side, all grinning ear to ear, and on the periphery was his assistant, Ronnie.
“Asshole,” he whispered under his breath. The bitterness crept in the longer he looked at it. He scowled as he ripped the photograph in half, removing Ronnie. “There, that’s better.” He set it upright on the desk. Then he spent the next several minutes tearing the remainder into tiny bits of confetti. Shredding Ronnie’s face into indiscernible chunks was the most satisfying part of the process.
He opened another beer and studied a dusty set of trophies in the corner. They mocked him with their plaques: “Fashion Photographer of the Year” and “Hot Shot Award 1985.” Denny chugged the beer and sat down in an old director’s chair facing the corner. He’d been down this road many times, but he could never stop himself from another trip when he was surrounded by the rubble of his old life. It was masochistic in a sense. He was punishing himself but unable to stop the madness.
It started out as murmured rumors. One day, he was Sebastian Fucking Kincaid—the East Coast’s fashion photography wunderkind, living the good life. The next, he was black-balled by the biggest fashion houses, tucking his tail between his legs, and telling people to call him Denny. His fall from grace happened so fast it was almost comical. First, his phone calls went unreturned. His favorite models then began refusing to work with him, offering excuse after excuse. When he finally figured out what was happening, it was too late. His reputation had been destroyed by a man he’d thought was his friend.
His assistant, Ronnie, had taken the liberty to install hidden video cameras in the changing rooms, bathrooms, and showers at the studio, recording the models without their permission. It was such a horrific violation of privacy when the truth finally came to light, and as the studio owner, Sebastian shouldered the blame. It was simply a case of guilt by association.
Ronnie was a coward and fled, fearing legal prosecution, but Sebastian was foolish enough to stay, thinking it would all be brushed under the rug after the next scandal happened. Though Sebastian was legally cleared of any wrongdoing, the damage had been done. Overnight, Sebastian Kincaid was black-balled by the fickle industry, when every model flat-out refused to work with him—even the no-name ones. Every door he knocked on was slammed shut in his face. He quickly learned the fashion industry on the East Coast was an incestuous, elite group. When you were in, you were IN, and when you were out, you were OUT.
For the next six years, he desperately tried to claw his way back to the top. He scouted the Tampa Bay area for the next big thing. Spending his time cruising the malls and boardwalks, he was desperate to find the face that would save him. Naive enough to think that was all it would take.
Denny had the talent, but his access pass had been declined. It had been a long downward spiral since then. He eventually traded the models for still-life photography, preferring florals with their universal appeal and lack of vocal opinions. Under the Sebastian Kincaid brand, he was slowly eking out a living, selling his intimate floral studies at art shows across the country and supplementing this stream of income with other portrait photography gigs. He was the prize-winning quarterback benched at the Super Bowl, never able to recapture the magic of his heyday.
For the next several hours, Denny went through his inventory of abstract florals. They were oddly erotic yet innocent at the same time, and he thrived on the attention docents of the area museums lavished on them. They called the images groundbreaking and a burst of fresh air. He just wished they’d put their money where their mouth was. He was tired of piecing together a meager existence. He deserved better.
With a heavy sigh, Denny wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand and opened up another drawer of negatives and contact sheets from 1989. One folder labeled Candice Wright caught his eye. She was the pious wife of a newly elected conservative senator from Pensacola.
“Holy shit,” he whispered under his breath. He’d completely forgotten he’d photographed her. After being punished for Ronnie's misdeeds for years, he began to think Why not? If he was going to do the time, he might as well have done the crime.
Denny studied the contact sheets, hearing a cash register cha-ching! in his mind. Thanks to 1_bad_influence, he now saw the collection with fresh eyes. It had the potential to be a literal treasure trove, and he made a plan to mine the collection for all potential golden nuggets.
He whistled while he got to work, indulging in a hearty jaunt down memory lane. He’d forgotten how many girls he’d approached and won over at the mall. The younger ones were easy pickings, eager in their desire to believe they could be models. Wielding their broken self-worth like a weapon against them, his flattery often won them over instantly. With their naivety and innocence, it was easy to love-bomb them with compliments and then dangle the prize. Over the years, it had evolved into a game. How much farther could he push their boundaries? How far could he go?
Denny wasn’t an idiot like Ronnie. He was careful, targeting only the girls who cruised the mall alone. The ones who dashed outside to smoke a cigarette in between laps around the food court or dared to give themself a five-finger discount at Claire’s Boutique while the sales girl was busy re-stocking shelves. Denny used these actions as a qualifying barometer and often spent up to a month surveilling potential candidates. Then, only when a girl met the criteria, would he pounce.
Denny pulled out his phone and checked his email, looking to see if Adrienne Thorne had responded to his request. Still nothing. Her lack of acknowledgement made him stiffen and his anger formed into a pit of self-righteous rage. The tension mounted as he sought a lever that would instill enough terror in her to ensure compliance. He was running out of time. Denny needed that money. He deserved that money. It was his ticket back to the lifestyle he wanted to live, and he would do anything to cash it in.
He glanced at his watch, annoyed by the passing of time. Unfortunately, he had back-to-back family portraits scheduled at the beach that evening. He hated debasing his art, but it kept his skills honed, and he’d promised himself when his other endeavors proved more profitable, he would leave it behind. It was just so tedious to be surrounded by all those happy families on vacation, recording their stupid, perfect lives.
Denny indulged in one final lingering gaze at the trophies before he pulled the accordion door down the tracks and locked it with the padlock. He had to find a way to turn up the heat and get Adrienne Thorne to pay. On his way home, he stopped at McDonald’s to connect to the Wi-Fi and fired off another email. He would not be ignored.