The Photography Class: Act II

To fully appreciate this drama, make sure you've read Act I of The Photography Class. (Click Here)

***

The instructor introduced himself, and it was obvious there would be some distractions to overcome. He spoke with a strong accent, familiar yet unidentifiable, and wore a fashionable hat, which would have been fine if we were outside.

But we weren’t.

Two more distractions made their presence known: his personal tendency toward distraction and his quiet, quiet voice, despite the professional-grade performance microphone he was using in this tiny space.

“I must apologize for speaking so quietly today. Normally I am more bubbly, but today I am flimsy, for this morning I had to put my dog to rest.”

Flimsy?

Of the forty people, I was the only one who did the “Awww, I’m so sorry,” murmur appropriate for this type of classroom situation. Everyone else just sat there and said nothing, doing remarkably convincing wax museum impersonations.

They looked so real, and yet…

“We are here to discuss the art of photography. The kind of camera matters not,” said the instructor. What was that accent? “It is a tool. Do you read an email and wonder what type of keyboard was used during the composition of the message? Of course not. Do not be ridiculous.”

Balki Bartokomous flashed to the forefront of my mind and just as quickly faded.

The next nearly two hours were spent discussing technical aspects of cameras that the lone 2.3% of the population—me—with the bargain Canon point-and-shoot cameras wouldn’t be able to apply. I watched as the others zipped and unzipped their cooler-cases, murmuring to themselves and turning their cameras over and over in their hands.

I suspected they were searching for the power buttons.

The f-stop and aperture portion of the lesson was interesting, and memories from the high school course from PHS began to develop in my mind.

Right when I finally started warming up to the things--5:58--we dismissed for dinner, and the instructor scurried to the lobby/office area.

“SO, WHAT KIND OF DOG IS IT—I MEAN, WAS IT?” a woman hollered in the front lobby during the break.

Oh my word.

Only one thing made sense: the event that the Bible had prophesized had finally happened. Jesus had come down and collected all the good people and left all the annoying ones behind.

Even more alarming, it appeared that I was one of them.

Surpisingly, Old Yeller was not the pickle lady. She’d remained in her seat and was unscrewing the lid of the jar and pouring the contents into a plastic tumbler.

Hey! Those green things bobbing around in there weren’t pickles after all. They were limes. Limes in a pickle jar. Brilliant! 

Jealousy coursed through my veins. I wished I’d had the presence of mind to pack a flask of something.

***

Will it get better? Find out by reading The Photography Class: Act III (click here)