THE PRESIDENT of Sparkle Snapshot was not yet finished with his accolades:
Enclosed you will find a sixteen-by-twenty-inch mounted reproduction of your winning picture, he wrote, a check representing your prize money, and a document for you to sign and return granting Sparkle Snapshot Service permission to publicize your photograph through the professional art and photography community in the United States, its territories and possessions, and sovereign and emerging nations abroad.
With sincere admiration,
Lance L. Leiberman
President
Sparkle Snapshot Service
P.S. Your regular processing order follows by U.S. mail.
P.P.S. Again, congratulations. This is extraordinary work.
Inside, mounted on heavy art board, was a big color kaleidoscopic photograph of Merilee Rowling and me in what appeared to be a lovers' embrace as seen through the multifaceted eye of a hovering honeybee.
The color was intense; the design, repeated over and over in nearly identical fragments, like wallpaper, only intensified the feeling that the viewer had accidentally stumbled into an intensely private world.
If you looked closely, you could see the ghost image of Chief Leopard Frog repeated as well in the form of a portrait hanging on the wall in the background. I could also make out my peach-colored ball cap hung on the doorknob and Mr. Riley's dead dog Flag watching over us like a hundred tiny sentries.
I had to admit, it was a remarkable piece of art—and the greatest achievement of the ghost camera to date. The only problem with it was that I didn't take the picture.
Chief Leopard Frog did.
But the check for one hundred thousand dollars was payable to me. There were also a dozen half-price coupons for additional film processing, which I thought was a nice gesture, and there was a handsome walnut and brass wall plaque, too.
Well, I thought to myself, you just never know when your luck is going to change.
I just wish it had been Maureen Balderson in the photo instead of Merilee Rowling. Something told me there would be trouble later on.
"Mom," I asked my mother, as we dined on chicken-fried steak at the table with Dwight Earl, who, I noticed, kept his FedEx uniform cap on even when inside the house, "have you ever considered putting our house on log rollers and moving it about two hundred and fifty miles to Kansas City?"
"No, I can't say that I ever have," she replied, sopping a biscuit into the white gravy. "How about you, Dwight Earl? That thought ever cross your mind?"
"Not even once," he answered. "Not even back when I was a drinking man."
"Well, it's good that you saw the light," my mother concluded approvingly.
"I'll be in my room," I announced, taking my plate to the sink.
First, I wrote a formal thank-you note to Lance L. Leiberman, in appreciation of the outstanding honor and award as well as the many useful half-price certificates.
I assured him I would tell everybody in town about the fine quality of his film services.
That wouldn't take long.
Then I began a letter to the only worldly-wise adult I knew, Milton Swartzman, president and publisher of Uncle Milton's Thousand Things You Thought You'd Never Find. In it, I told him about how my camera had gotten broken and how it had resulted in my winning a snapshot prize. I didn't mention how much money was involved. No point in getting Uncle Milton all worked up.
I held on to the letter for a couple of days until the regular mail brought the packet from Sparkle Snapshot that had all the new kaleidoscopic work in it. It was truly a treasure trove of surprises. I enclosed one sample for Milton Swartzman to help him understand the new technique.
As for the packet of pictures, it held my attention for hours. There was an entire roll devoted to Merilee Rowling prancing around like a glamour model, prior to the damage to the lens. I had to admit that even though she was a swindler and a liar and a hat thief and a con artist and a tease, she was a good-looking young woman. Eventually, somebody would settle down to make a life with her just because of her looks.
Boy, would he ever be sorry!
To demonstrate that I'm a good sport, I picked out half a dozen of the best shots and sent them to her in care of Poetry Week magazine. Maybe my gesture would encourage her to write something nice about Paisley.
The second roll of film was like being inside the Dali Museum for the first time in your life or discovering the mind and drawings of M. C. Escher or possibly seeing your first painting by Henri Matisse or Gustav Klimt.
It was an unexpected immersion into a mini-collection of truly original startling art, if I do say so myself.
Nothing in life could have adequately prepared me for what I now witnessed.