campus, saluting freedom with his thumb, hitchhiking west across the nation. The memory of that trip made him smile: He’d sold his first photograph a week after starting out. He remembered sitting at a table in a soup kitchen in downtown Cleveland. He was alone, as always; one old derelict had tried to sit next to him, rubbing a knee against his beneath the table while spooning great gobs of greasy stew into his mouth and trying to behave with an ancient, encrusted nonchalance. Jeffers had hooked the man’s leg beneath the table with his own feet and pulled suddenly back and to the side, twisting the derelict’s brittle knee angrily. The leg creaked as the man grasped the table, about to shout out in pain, but stilled by Jeffers’ quiet warning: ‘Say a word, scream, shout, anything, and I’ll break it and you’ll die out there this winter, huh?’
The man had swiftly crabbed away when Jeffers released him. A few moments later, just as he was sopping the last of his stew with a piece of doughy white bread, Jeffers had heard sirens, many of them, swoop down the street and come to a stop a block away. He’d grabbed his camera bag and jogged down to the scene of a two-alarm in a tenement. The families were passing children out the window to firemen, screaming, panicked, and Jeffers had shot all of it. But it was a picture of a fireman, icicles hanging from his coat and hat, clutching a terrified six-year-old in a blanket and carrying her to safety that he’d sold. The photo editor of the Plain Dealer had been skeptical, but had allowed Jeffers to use the darkroom. It had been a slow news day and he was anxious for a piece of art for the local break page. Jeffers remembered how careful he’d been, locked alone in the darkroom, mixing his chemicals with an abundance of caution, slowly souping the print until the image began to form. It had been the eyes that sold the picture, Jeffers thought, the benign mixture of exhaustion and exhilaration in the look on the rescuer’s face in counterpoint to the accumulated terror in the child’s. It
was a very powerful picture and the photo editor logged it for the front page.
‘Helluva shot,’ the photo editor said. ‘Fifty bucks. Where do we send the check?’
‘I’m just passing through.’
‘No address?’
‘The Y.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘California.’
‘Everyone wants to go to lotus land.’ He sighed. ‘Free speech, free love, orgies and drugs, Haight-Ashbury and acid rock.’ He laughed. ‘Hell, doesn’t sound so damn bad.’
The editor pulled out his own wallet and handed over two twenties and two fives. ‘Why don’tcha stick around a little bit, take some more shots for us? I’ll pay.’
‘How much?’
‘Ninety a week.’
He thought. Cleveland’s cold. So he said it.
‘Cleveland’s cold.’
‘So’s Detroit and Chicago. New York’s a bitch and Boston is out of the question. Kid, you want warmth, head for Miami or LA. You want to work, give it a ride right here. Hell, it’s winter. Tell you what, I’ll make it ninety-five and I’ll buy you a parka and some long Johns.’
‘What’ll I be shooting?’
‘No flower shows. No Chamber of Commerce meetings. Just more of what you did already.’
‘I’ll give it a try,’ Jeffers said.
‘Great, kid. One thing, though.’
‘What’s that?’
‘I’m gambling. This picture today, well, it turns out to be a lucky shot - I mean, I don’t get more of the same and well, bingo, you’re back on your way to California. Catch my drift?’
‘In other words, show me.’
‘You got it. You willing, still?’
‘Sure. Why not?’
‘Kid, with that attitude you’ll go far in this business. And
one other thing. Cleveland’s a blue-collar town. Get your hair cut.’
He spent eleven short-haired months in Cleveland. He remembered. An antiwar protester clubbed over the back by a hardhat carrying a two-by-four. Shot at 1/250, f-16, with a telephoto, from a block away. The
The man had swiftly crabbed away when Jeffers released him. A few moments later, just as he was sopping the last of his stew with a piece of doughy white bread, Jeffers had heard sirens, many of them, swoop down the street and come to a stop a block away. He’d grabbed his camera bag and jogged down to the scene of a two-alarm in a tenement. The families were passing children out the window to firemen, screaming, panicked, and Jeffers had shot all of it. But it was a picture of a fireman, icicles hanging from his coat and hat, clutching a terrified six-year-old in a blanket and carrying her to safety that he’d sold. The photo editor of the Plain Dealer had been skeptical, but had allowed Jeffers to use the darkroom. It had been a slow news day and he was anxious for a piece of art for the local break page. Jeffers remembered how careful he’d been, locked alone in the darkroom, mixing his chemicals with an abundance of caution, slowly souping the print until the image began to form. It had been the eyes that sold the picture, Jeffers thought, the benign mixture of exhaustion and exhilaration in the look on the rescuer’s face in counterpoint to the accumulated terror in the child’s. It
was a very powerful picture and the photo editor logged it for the front page.
‘Helluva shot,’ the photo editor said. ‘Fifty bucks. Where do we send the check?’
‘I’m just passing through.’
‘No address?’
‘The Y.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘California.’
‘Everyone wants to go to lotus land.’ He sighed. ‘Free speech, free love, orgies and drugs, Haight-Ashbury and acid rock.’ He laughed. ‘Hell, doesn’t sound so damn bad.’
The editor pulled out his own wallet and handed over two twenties and two fives. ‘Why don’tcha stick around a little bit, take some more shots for us? I’ll pay.’
‘How much?’
‘Ninety a week.’
He thought. Cleveland’s cold. So he said it.
‘Cleveland’s cold.’
‘So’s Detroit and Chicago. New York’s a bitch and Boston is out of the question. Kid, you want warmth, head for Miami or LA. You want to work, give it a ride right here. Hell, it’s winter. Tell you what, I’ll make it ninety-five and I’ll buy you a parka and some long Johns.’
‘What’ll I be shooting?’
‘No flower shows. No Chamber of Commerce meetings. Just more of what you did already.’
‘I’ll give it a try,’ Jeffers said.
‘Great, kid. One thing, though.’
‘What’s that?’
‘I’m gambling. This picture today, well, it turns out to be a lucky shot - I mean, I don’t get more of the same and well, bingo, you’re back on your way to California. Catch my drift?’
‘In other words, show me.’
‘You got it. You willing, still?’
‘Sure. Why not?’
‘Kid, with that attitude you’ll go far in this business. And
one other thing. Cleveland’s a blue-collar town. Get your hair cut.’
He spent eleven short-haired months in Cleveland. He remembered. An antiwar protester clubbed over the back by a hardhat carrying a two-by-four. Shot at 1/250, f-16, with a telephoto, from a block away. The
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