Last year
“Smile!”
The girl grins from her perch on Santa’s lap and I click the camera’s shutter button.
“Good job.”
While Santa’s helpers, college kids in red and green costumes, replace the girl with a boy I type the customer’s order number, 070144, under the picture and hit the send button. The parents will buy a copy – or twenty – and after doing this three thousand or so times the night will be over. All I want to do is get back to my brother’s couch and fall asleep in front of his fireplace.
Santa lets out a bold, “Ho ho ho! And what do you want for Christmas, little boy?”
I hate this job. The noise of it, the deep, fake Santa-bellows, hurts me. The din of children, their high-pitched voices giddy with greed, works its way into my head, a sharp icicle expanding in the cold.
I adjust my camera, framing the picture, and tell the boy, “Smile.” He’s three, maybe, and he stares blank-faced at the camera. Other Santa photographers might try to coax a little grin out of him, but I couldn’t give a piece of reindeer shit about it.
The line of parents and children wraps through the mall lobby and into the west wing. I can’t see the end of it. The night will never end.
Click. “Good job.” I title the picture, 070145.
I used to photograph models. That’s how I met my wife. She wore a swimsuit the size of a two ipods and sand on her legs. I fell in love with her big eyes and pointy eyebrows. She had a rough laugh, like she was hungry for joy, and she dropped the brooding-sultry-model act the second I shut down the cameras. Who wouldn’t love a warm hearted girl like that?
Another little boy takes his place on Santa. He’s about seven. His father stands nearby and he looks like he’s dying of cancer; gaunt faced and sallow. An Eddie Baur coat hangs lopsided on his shoulders. Maybe it fit him when we was well, before his disease started eating him from the inside out. He looks familiar to me…
“Smile,” I say, forcing my own lips upwards.
He does. Click. And then I label the picture, 070146, and as I’m framing the next shot, I realize who he is and why I didn’t recognize him. He lost eighty pounds in prison. At least I have that, I think and turn to watch him walk toward the purchase table, one hand on his boy’s back. At least I can see that the year he served for manslaughter was hard on him.
The sick looking man with the boy is the fat guy who ran his BMW over my wife. Upon impact, my lovely girl was caught between his car and the asphalt. He ground her into a blood smear three feet wide. After a bit, he stopped and backed up. Then he drove around her body, easing his sedan into traffic, leaving the bag of broken bones that had once been my wife behind him, forgotten road kill.
The girl grins from her perch on Santa’s lap and I click the camera’s shutter button.
“Good job.”
While Santa’s helpers, college kids in red and green costumes, replace the girl with a boy I type the customer’s order number, 070144, under the picture and hit the send button. The parents will buy a copy – or twenty – and after doing this three thousand or so times the night will be over. All I want to do is get back to my brother’s couch and fall asleep in front of his fireplace.
Santa lets out a bold, “Ho ho ho! And what do you want for Christmas, little boy?”
I hate this job. The noise of it, the deep, fake Santa-bellows, hurts me. The din of children, their high-pitched voices giddy with greed, works its way into my head, a sharp icicle expanding in the cold.
I adjust my camera, framing the picture, and tell the boy, “Smile.” He’s three, maybe, and he stares blank-faced at the camera. Other Santa photographers might try to coax a little grin out of him, but I couldn’t give a piece of reindeer shit about it.
The line of parents and children wraps through the mall lobby and into the west wing. I can’t see the end of it. The night will never end.
Click. “Good job.” I title the picture, 070145.
I used to photograph models. That’s how I met my wife. She wore a swimsuit the size of a two ipods and sand on her legs. I fell in love with her big eyes and pointy eyebrows. She had a rough laugh, like she was hungry for joy, and she dropped the brooding-sultry-model act the second I shut down the cameras. Who wouldn’t love a warm hearted girl like that?
Another little boy takes his place on Santa. He’s about seven. His father stands nearby and he looks like he’s dying of cancer; gaunt faced and sallow. An Eddie Baur coat hangs lopsided on his shoulders. Maybe it fit him when we was well, before his disease started eating him from the inside out. He looks familiar to me…
“Smile,” I say, forcing my own lips upwards.
He does. Click. And then I label the picture, 070146, and as I’m framing the next shot, I realize who he is and why I didn’t recognize him. He lost eighty pounds in prison. At least I have that, I think and turn to watch him walk toward the purchase table, one hand on his boy’s back. At least I can see that the year he served for manslaughter was hard on him.
The sick looking man with the boy is the fat guy who ran his BMW over my wife. Upon impact, my lovely girl was caught between his car and the asphalt. He ground her into a blood smear three feet wide. After a bit, he stopped and backed up. Then he drove around her body, easing his sedan into traffic, leaving the bag of broken bones that had once been my wife behind him, forgotten road kill.
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