of impending dark made him head to a local pub or grab a bowl of soup at some diner. But given the state of his finances, he’d decided to spend his last night in his tent reading, doing a little yoga and meditating on the fact he was gainfully employed.
Starting Monday, he’d work five ten-hour days for a flat fee that seemed ridiculously low.
As he rolled his shoulders to stretch away some of his tension, he recalled the interview Louise had arranged for him in the parking lot of the discount motel on the edge of town.
“So, you know your way around a camera, huh?” Bob Raines asked after wiping a dab of mustard from the corner of his mouth.
He polished off the last bite of a polish sausage sandwich while Ryker gave him a brief history of his credits. “Fallujah 2004. Embedded with a squadron of Marines. Sixteen hundred enemy soldiers killed. We lost fourteen. Two weren’t much older than I was at the time. Twenty.”
“Lost your cherry, huh?”
“Lost my taste for war.”
Bob sucked on the straw of a twenty-eight ounce soda for a few seconds then asked, “Ever shoot school kids?”
Ryker shrugged. He’d shot kids too sick to beg for water, dead kids staring sightless at the sky, starving kids with rickets and distended bellies, scared kids armed with machine guns. “Not for yearbooks. How long have you been doing this?”
Bob burped. “Going on a hundred years.”
Since Bob appeared to be in his early fifties, Ryker guessed that exaggeration was one of his temporary employer’s traits. Everything was bigger with Bob…including Bob, who had three or four inches on Ryker and probably weighed close to four hundred pounds.
But the man didn’t let his weight slow him down. While they talked, Bob showed Ryker his operation, all neatly stowed in a commercial van with the company’s logo and a page from a yearbook displayed as a vinyl wrap advertisement.
“The Marietta High student body got to vote—traditional headshots with hair light or landscape with natural lighting. This year, the kids want to be outdoors. More work for us, but what the hell, it’s their yearbook.”
Bob pointed to Ryker’s backpack. “You got a camera?”
Ryker handed him his Nikon.
Bob checked out a few of the shots on the back screen then returned it. “Best resumée I’ve ever seen. You’re hired.” Then he walked to the front seat of the van and pulled out a clipboard. He tugged a couple of sheets free and gave them to Ryker. “You still have to fill out this paperwork for the home office. You’re not a registered sex offender, are you?”
“No.”
“Good. But the Sheriff’s Department will need to confirm that before you can set foot on school grounds, and you’ll have to get a TB test—unless you have one that’s current.”
Ryker thought a moment. “I might. I know I’m up-to-date on Meningococcal meningitis and hepatitis-A.”
Most people would have used that segue to ask about Ryker’s travels, but not Bob. He added a few more sheets to Ryker’s employment package. “Here’s the schedule. As long as the weather holds, we’ll either set up beneath the big tree on campus or there’s a brick wall I’ve used before. The dull red color gives a nice autumnal feel.”
“What will I be doing?”
“You’ll start by assisting me in the lower grades. You haven’t lived until you’ve photographed fifth-graders.” He took another suck from his soda. “Once we’re done with all the grades, we start group shots. In the gym. I got tripods and lights in the back. Everything you’ll need. Your goal is to try for at least one shot that doesn’t have somebody blinking or some other a-hole giving his buddy bunny ears. I hate group shots. But you know what they say…shit rolls downhill, so lucky you.”
As Ryker stuffed the application into his backpack, Bob pulled his suitcase from the van and locked the doors. Apparently, that concluded the interview.
“I once took a money shot of a charging
Starting Monday, he’d work five ten-hour days for a flat fee that seemed ridiculously low.
As he rolled his shoulders to stretch away some of his tension, he recalled the interview Louise had arranged for him in the parking lot of the discount motel on the edge of town.
“So, you know your way around a camera, huh?” Bob Raines asked after wiping a dab of mustard from the corner of his mouth.
He polished off the last bite of a polish sausage sandwich while Ryker gave him a brief history of his credits. “Fallujah 2004. Embedded with a squadron of Marines. Sixteen hundred enemy soldiers killed. We lost fourteen. Two weren’t much older than I was at the time. Twenty.”
“Lost your cherry, huh?”
“Lost my taste for war.”
Bob sucked on the straw of a twenty-eight ounce soda for a few seconds then asked, “Ever shoot school kids?”
Ryker shrugged. He’d shot kids too sick to beg for water, dead kids staring sightless at the sky, starving kids with rickets and distended bellies, scared kids armed with machine guns. “Not for yearbooks. How long have you been doing this?”
Bob burped. “Going on a hundred years.”
Since Bob appeared to be in his early fifties, Ryker guessed that exaggeration was one of his temporary employer’s traits. Everything was bigger with Bob…including Bob, who had three or four inches on Ryker and probably weighed close to four hundred pounds.
But the man didn’t let his weight slow him down. While they talked, Bob showed Ryker his operation, all neatly stowed in a commercial van with the company’s logo and a page from a yearbook displayed as a vinyl wrap advertisement.
“The Marietta High student body got to vote—traditional headshots with hair light or landscape with natural lighting. This year, the kids want to be outdoors. More work for us, but what the hell, it’s their yearbook.”
Bob pointed to Ryker’s backpack. “You got a camera?”
Ryker handed him his Nikon.
Bob checked out a few of the shots on the back screen then returned it. “Best resumée I’ve ever seen. You’re hired.” Then he walked to the front seat of the van and pulled out a clipboard. He tugged a couple of sheets free and gave them to Ryker. “You still have to fill out this paperwork for the home office. You’re not a registered sex offender, are you?”
“No.”
“Good. But the Sheriff’s Department will need to confirm that before you can set foot on school grounds, and you’ll have to get a TB test—unless you have one that’s current.”
Ryker thought a moment. “I might. I know I’m up-to-date on Meningococcal meningitis and hepatitis-A.”
Most people would have used that segue to ask about Ryker’s travels, but not Bob. He added a few more sheets to Ryker’s employment package. “Here’s the schedule. As long as the weather holds, we’ll either set up beneath the big tree on campus or there’s a brick wall I’ve used before. The dull red color gives a nice autumnal feel.”
“What will I be doing?”
“You’ll start by assisting me in the lower grades. You haven’t lived until you’ve photographed fifth-graders.” He took another suck from his soda. “Once we’re done with all the grades, we start group shots. In the gym. I got tripods and lights in the back. Everything you’ll need. Your goal is to try for at least one shot that doesn’t have somebody blinking or some other a-hole giving his buddy bunny ears. I hate group shots. But you know what they say…shit rolls downhill, so lucky you.”
As Ryker stuffed the application into his backpack, Bob pulled his suitcase from the van and locked the doors. Apparently, that concluded the interview.
“I once took a money shot of a charging
Similar Books
