10.08.05

chemicals

The light of the naked bulb flooded red over the dark room, posing no harm to the silver that lay hidden in the sheaves of paper. The process of exposing the silver is formulaic after a time, a small dance in the dark, praise to the gods. The developer forces the fist bloom of dark colour on the page, each wave uncovering another layer. Paper left there will curl up, darken and take on the smooth sheen of the silver grain. The stop then, fix, and for the first time your new life can be taken, dripping wet, into the light of day and admired. Finally the rinse, where the photos float and twirl in the current of cool water, waiting to be lovingly picked up and set on a rack to dry.
The ride to the city is long and through the glare of the car window the million billboards glow. The red and green lights blink on and off in perfect synchronicity. It�s just as busy now as in the day, the sky is just as bright, the roads just as crowded. The driver parks, lets me off with a smile in front of the station as I press his fare into his fleshy palm. The square whites of his teeth show over his full lip and he shuts the door behind me. There is yet another sound of a car running off into the distance.
The metro cars rattle on their way to the inevitable, jerky stop. We file out in droves to the next train out of there, to the stairs that lead to false suns and I blink as I rise into the noisy street above. On the other side of the street is my bar.
Standing on the corner I can see the owner in his black straight leg jeans, standing and smoking a cigarette with his pressed blue shirt now hanging slightly open. He nods his head a little and smiles at me. As he does so, the ash falls from the tip of his cigarette.
Inside, a sole trumpet player whines into the air and I can feel the blue notes crashing around me. They seem to crash on everyone else too because each person is slumped over in his own personal haze and the girl across from me, she plays with her fingers like they were brand new toys.
As I sit, she looks up. She speaks, telling me how long it�s been since she�s seen me here and do I live in the city? I tell her no. I intertwine her fingers in mine and tell her I live in the country. I write my address for her on a nearby napkin and her eyes light up. This and her dark hair falling against her skin makes me want to kiss each of her fingers one by one but instead I adjust my seat and order another gin and tonic.
We�d met in an arts shop. I was buying a year's worth of goods, piling the chemical bottles high in my cart. Though I only came once a year, the shopkeepers knew me well; the mysterious big spender who clears their shelves of photo paper each spring. The smile and ask nothing of me as I pass.
�Don�t drink the chemicals!�
This was the first time I�d seen her, her overgrown sweater slumping off of her shoulders and her hair a soft halo around her face.
�What?�
�That�s what my photography teacher told me the first day of class, she said, �Don�t drink the chemicals!��
She was holding a Nikon FM2 on the tips of her fingers. She held it up to take a picture of me and I blink in the brightness of the flash. She laughed.
Her teacher was right. The developer does not bloom in your stomach. There is no silver there to reveal tiny black eyeglasses curling over closed lids. The stop is only the beginning of some other kind of life inside, tearing you apart. I handle the chemicals with gloves, touching the photos though layers of latex. I press down with my tongs in the liquid and lips begin to appear before me, slightly parted and a small tongue between them.
I saw her next at an art reception. A friend of mine was showcasing his work in a small gallery and invited me to cone. He had spent months taking pictures of people getting ready in front of mirrors. He wanted to know what I though, what I really thought, he said. I told him I would go. The next day I paused for a moment while pulling on my thin white shirt, staring in the mirror and wondering what it would be like to see those familiar curls of mine plastered on the wall in 8 by 10 foot canvas.
We found each other staring at the same picture of a man brushing his teeth in chequered pyjamas. The foam had just begun to drip from his lips and one drop stood suspended in the air. We could tell from his sleepy eyes that he would not catch it in time. We told each other, he would make quite a mess.
�You should show me your darkroom.�
The glass she held in one and was full of a bright green drink and her black dress flowed open in the back to show me the peach of her skin. As I watched her I told her it was nothing special, only a little red light room lined with photos.
�What kind of photos?�
I lied. I told her I did family photos.
The rain was dripping from her hair to the waxed wooden floorboards, pooling beneath her on this russet brown grain. Behind her, the verdant green trees rustled in the breeze. She ran her fingers through the bells there, making them clamour and then slumped against the door. I could hear her breathe.
I let her in and she draped her arms over me. I could smell the conditioner in her hair. I could feel her wet bra pressing against me. We sat down on the couch and she laid her head in my lap, went to sleep there with her hair sprawled over the crotch of my jeans.
She didn�t snore.
The truth is, I don�t think I�ve ever taken a family photo. My walls are covered in photos, yes. Every eye is closed and some mouths closed too, some slack and lying open. Their faces are smooth, each muscle relaxed. It�s my great
collection

shi-ou-sama at 11:37 a.m.

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