I was sitting on the bus, one stop away from mine on 23rd Avenue, wondering self-pityingly if maybe nobody actually wants me, but just wants someone like me. I had just come from Wallingford because I was picking up a book by a local poet for class (extremely late, mind you). It was rainy and my fingers were cold. My iPod earbuds were in they way they usually are anymore when I’m alone in public.
The bus pulled up to the stop light at the intersection with Union and next to it, a late-model sedan with a dog in the back. Clearly a friendly dog, it was at eye level with me and seemed particularly interested. We had a little bit of a staring contest: I smiled at him and considered waving, but didn’t want to seem insane. I also didn’t want the driver to turn around and see me waving at her pet.
I suddenly remembered that I had my K1000 with me and, conscious that the red light would soon be turning green, quickly and clumsily slung it around my shoulder. I advanced the film and had to adjust the exposure really quickly and focus. By the time I clicked the shutter, however, the car was in motion and the dog had moved. It was disappointing certainly, mainly because the dog had such engaging eyes and a friendly face. It probably would have been a better remnant of our little interspecies exchange through glass had he been looking.
The bus stopped and I stood and got off, thanking the driver as I left, which he didn’t notice because he was too busy looking into the rear view mirror at someone repeatedly shouting “Back door!” from the other end of the bus. Walking along the sidewalk I thought I heard something through Sufjan Stevens’ singing in my ears. A woman was trying to get my attention.
“I know this might be random, but—” I took my earbuds out. She repeated herself. ”I know this might be random, but I just really wanted to tell you how happy it made me that you took a photo of that dog. I saw him and he was really cute.”
“Oh, yeah!” I was excited that she stopped me to tell me something so mundane. I would not have the same courage. “I tried to get him while he was looking at me, but I think the car had already moved, so—” I shrugged.
“I just loved the fact that you captured that moment. That’s what life’s about.”
I thanked her again and walked home alone, grinning.
2:42pm, 23rd and Columbia
I was sitting on the bus, one stop away from mine on 23rd Avenue, wondering self-pityingly if maybe nobody actually wants me, but just wants someone like me. I had just come from Wallingford because I was picking up a book by a local poet for class (extremely late, mind you). It was rainy and my fingers were cold. My iPod earbuds were in they way they usually are anymore when I’m alone in public.
The bus pulled up to the stop light at the intersection with Union and next to it, a late-model sedan with a dog in the back. Clearly a friendly dog, it was at eye level with me and seemed particularly interested. We had a little bit of a staring contest: I smiled at him and considered waving, but didn’t want to seem insane. I also didn’t want the driver to turn around and see me waving at her pet.
I suddenly remembered that I had my K1000 with me and, conscious that the red light would soon be turning green, quickly and clumsily slung it around my shoulder. I advanced the film and had to adjust the exposure really quickly and focus. By the time I clicked the shutter, however, the car was in motion and the dog had moved. It was disappointing certainly, mainly because the dog had such engaging eyes and a friendly face. It probably would have been a better remnant of our little interspecies exchange through glass had he been looking.
The bus stopped and I stood and got off, thanking the driver as I left, which he didn’t notice because he was too busy looking into the rear view mirror at someone repeatedly shouting “Back door!” from the other end of the bus. Walking along the sidewalk I thought I heard something through Sufjan Stevens’ singing in my ears. A woman was trying to get my attention.
“I know this might be random, but—” I took my earbuds out. She repeated herself. ”I know this might be random, but I just really wanted to tell you how happy it made me that you took a photo of that dog. I saw him and he was really cute.”
“Oh, yeah!” I was excited that she stopped me to tell me something so mundane. I would not have the same courage. “I tried to get him while he was looking at me, but I think the car had already moved, so—” I shrugged.
“I just loved the fact that you captured that moment. That’s what life’s about.”
I thanked her again and walked home alone, grinning.