Photographers Rivalry
*The following short story is a work of fiction. The characters, organisations, brands, and events portrayed are fictional. Any resemblance to reality is purely coincidental. This material does not reflect the author's opinions. It may depict highly unsuitable topics and language for sensitive demographics and should not be read by minors.
It was absurdly poetic, to see my aluminium ladder beside his—because his was substantially shorter. Nobody had begun a competition, and yet tension brooded the air. “I didn’t know you were coming!” Mario’s lips uttered; the upward, curved ends of his moustache curled. His goatee washed me with nothing but eerie vibes, though he meant no insult with his comment.
“Yeah,” I chuckled lamely.
“Well,” He paused, “this is me.” His snub finger pointed at two heavy, stainless steel pedestals, which had two slave speedlights ready to flash the museum’s stairway at the pressing of a camera’s trigger. He also pointed at the highest step of the stairs, where he placed two more speedlights to illuminate the background of the photo—the museum’s revolving doors. “Feel free to use my lights, or, do you want to use your own? What did you bring?” I spun my amber orbs at the camera my hands were clinging onto, with only one speedlight flash mounted upon it.
“Just this one…” I swallowed, feeling my chest heaving. I desperately needed to turn this situation upside down, and the perfect response struck me like an arrow. “But, this is just a backup.” Mario gulped, seemingly feeling downsized. The competition had just materialized, the worst part being that our interaction was just a product of the newspaper company—that hired us—poor management. Why would they hire two photographers for pictures outside the museum? I am supposed to take care of the south division, whereas Mario takes the north. But what if I had brought more speedlights and my own pedestals? We would look like kids playing a ridiculous game. “Well,” I cleared my throat, “I better start my test shots.” I smiled dismissively.
My legs trembled a little, but I climbed my folding stairs successfully. In the corner of my eye, I saw a hobbit—wearing suspenders—running towards me. “Hey, P. Here you go,” He extended his short arm, and I took his flash trigger from his hand while smirking courteously. “You should lower your ISO, and increase your aperture.” He advised me as if it were my first time with a camera. I pressed the shooting button, violent lights blinded me. I admired the image, and for a moment I longed for having brought more flashes although he blatantly offered me his, but accepting them seemed emasculating! I took a deep breath, turned off his fucking trigger, and continued with my own tests as I intended. Thus my ISO went up, and my aperture down. Then I clicked the shutter. I saw my picture, and grasped that it looked way better; his flashy, fancy, schmancy lights were harsh and crude—as the lightning in a sexy Hustler’s Taboo magazine. How does my picture look better with no lights? I craned my neck and glanced at the bright, blue sky, which acted as a giant light diffuser. The museum’s height was our umbrella, and the cloudless sky my lightning. “What do you think?” Mario says, smiling confidently—rolling a fine end of his moustache, like an entitled gay cunt.
“Yeah, yeah…” I murmured, scrutinizing the image closely. “I think I’ll go without the lights.” The confidence of his face fell to the floor and broke into a million shards. Ten seconds ago he could savour my praise and appreciation, and then he received a firm kick in his khakis. Mario is a grown man, and he is also my uncle. And the newspaper company is the lifelong business of my grandfather, who is also Mario’s father, who gave us this gig in the first place. I know Mario was just being awfully nice, and maybe I acted like a cunt, but I want to get my hands dirty for the first time in my life, I want to fall without someone placing a pillow on the floor to soften my blow, I want to know how does bleeding feels, even if bleeding to death is a possibility. Mario is part of my overprotecting, scared family; and he is doing what they have done for him, spoiled him to be a scared old man disguised as a generous saviour. But fuck that shit, I will go my way, and if my pictures look bad, then so be it, otherwise next year when my grandfather phones me about taking the yearly museum picture I will still be afraid, I will still be dependent, I will have anxiety eating out my intestines like a yellow worm with teeth. And all pride aside, his speedlight flashes were not even necessary in this sunny scenario; if I were the dumb one, it would be OK because I am young, but to think that he is dumber because he doesn’t need flashes was truly sad, perhaps I am biased because I know him and I know that he is a closeted gay man, but this is the last nail on his coffin—that his young nephew is prone to leave him jobless. What would Mario do? Cry in his house? Hug himself while showering? Destroy his camera? Ask his father for help? I don’t want to be part of my family, I don’t want to give in to a dynamic of dependence and power, the weak and the strong, I don’t care any of that. I just want to have a job that fulfils me, like being a photographer, and I want to do it my way, I don’t need a saviour to look out for me.
Three weeks later…
You have (1) new message.
GRANDFATHER:
“Hello, dear P. I am afraid to inform you that your museum pictures were not used in the newspaper since they were underexposed. And although my advisers advised against it, I wanted to give you a last shot since the incident of last Christmas—when you hired a black, skinny Santa Claus for the pictures at the office. I hope our relationship remains untouched by business matters; we will have to let you go.”
