I was walking Boston; my camera gripped in one hand. The other coolly stuck in the back pocket of my jeans. Clicking up, down, at odd angles, the way you can in memory card world. Yeah, a phone takes brilliant pictures, but you’re marked as a tourist, and I was a pro.
I voyeur'd into a food bank where the homeless meet. A guy sat on a bench gripping a beanie, holding a few coins. His takings for the day.
‘Norman,’ he said when I shaped to take his picture.
He turned his face away as I steadied my free hand on the melamine-chipped, nicotine-stained table. His price ‘Twenty bucks a shot,’
Needing them more than me, I sat opposite and slid a note across. I lifted my camera, and he leaned forward, sliding an elbow across the table, helpfully pushing a cracked mug out of the way. Challenging the lens.
His face was a map of his life. Dirt trapped lines as deep as scars, running in circles, occasionally meeting up, mostly ending in cul-de-sacs.
He changed his pose, making everything point up. Fingers clamping both sides of his face, the creases either side of his nose. Eyebrows with more hair than his head.
Everything except the eyes. Steel-blue, cataract-muted, they bore into the camera. One shot would capture his essence, only paid for one, but I sneaked two.
‘Thanks, Norman’. I knew I could do something with the shot. Get a lot more than the twenty bucks back.
The stubble around his mouth parted.
‘Niemand. Not Norman.’
I knew a little German; he said he was no-one.
Unless he meant me.
about the Author
Marc was born in Newcastle and has been burdened with supporting the football team since forever. Music came first but never became a career. He left the North for university. Writing developed slowly, and now, retired from lecturing, except possibly at dinner parties, takes up most of his time.
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