“How was the photo class?” Katie asked. She’s a fellow
Groupon-junkie with a secret passion for photography. I wasn’t sure how to
respond. Too much had happened to express it all in one conversation.
The photography class came about after I finally got the bimbo-settings straightened out and convinced Groupon that spray tans and botox weren’t my idea of fun or necessary. I’d purchased the class in January and then promptly forgot about it until Groupon sent an email about its upcoming expiration. Thankfully, I managed to register for the last available class before the voucher expired.
Four and a half hours on a Tuesday evening seemed like a big commitment, but the studio was a mere three miles away, and I was secretly eager for a break from the family. Summer’s lack of alone time can be very overwhelming.
The directions said to arrive 15 minutes early to get settled, so I left at 3:15 to play it safe. It’s true I could have walked the three miles in the minutes before the class would begin, but it was already over 100 degrees outside. Besides, crosstown traffic is highly unpredictable, and I do not like surprises.
I wasn’t sure what to make of the studio, which was twice the depth of a standard garage and not quite wide enough to park two cars. Despite the high ceiling, it was already making me feel a little claustrophobic. How many people would be in the class? Six? Twelve?
I stepped out of the lobby toward the classroom area, where I counted forty folding chairs set up in neat rows.
Oh, brother.
As I scoped out the seating options, I quickly identified the folks I would not be sitting near. There was a timid teenager with her tank-top tag sticking out. I may not get out as often as I used to, but I knew it would not be appropriate to lean over and tuck it into her shirt for her. There was no way I could resist that for four and a half hours if I sat within arm’s reach.
Nearby sat an unusually confrontational yet impeccably dressed woman with a big glass jar of pickles at her feet.
Nope. Not going to be a part of that disaster-in-the-making.
The remaining class members seemed harmless enough. There were even a few I vaguely recognized, although the possibilities in this Metroplex of 6.6 million made it seem improbable.
Still, I was certain I knew the man in the front row—the cross between Richard Simmons and Pauly Shore with the deep voice.
I chose a seat where the tag-teen would be out of view, but the pickle-lady was still in focus. I just had to see what was going to happen with that jar.
While I waited for the class to begin, I continued to wonder about the man in the front row. Who was the Simmons-Shore fellow, and from where did I know him? Instinctively, I reached for my phone, but really—how could I google that? The recognition persisted, and the memory continued to tug at me.
Was it that creative writing course 14 years ago?
Who was he?
Not Bobby Corbett, whose writing brought me to my knees.
The photography class came about after I finally got the bimbo-settings straightened out and convinced Groupon that spray tans and botox weren’t my idea of fun or necessary. I’d purchased the class in January and then promptly forgot about it until Groupon sent an email about its upcoming expiration. Thankfully, I managed to register for the last available class before the voucher expired.
Four and a half hours on a Tuesday evening seemed like a big commitment, but the studio was a mere three miles away, and I was secretly eager for a break from the family. Summer’s lack of alone time can be very overwhelming.
The directions said to arrive 15 minutes early to get settled, so I left at 3:15 to play it safe. It’s true I could have walked the three miles in the minutes before the class would begin, but it was already over 100 degrees outside. Besides, crosstown traffic is highly unpredictable, and I do not like surprises.
I wasn’t sure what to make of the studio, which was twice the depth of a standard garage and not quite wide enough to park two cars. Despite the high ceiling, it was already making me feel a little claustrophobic. How many people would be in the class? Six? Twelve?
I stepped out of the lobby toward the classroom area, where I counted forty folding chairs set up in neat rows.
Oh, brother.
As I scoped out the seating options, I quickly identified the folks I would not be sitting near. There was a timid teenager with her tank-top tag sticking out. I may not get out as often as I used to, but I knew it would not be appropriate to lean over and tuck it into her shirt for her. There was no way I could resist that for four and a half hours if I sat within arm’s reach.
Nearby sat an unusually confrontational yet impeccably dressed woman with a big glass jar of pickles at her feet.
Nope. Not going to be a part of that disaster-in-the-making.
The remaining class members seemed harmless enough. There were even a few I vaguely recognized, although the possibilities in this Metroplex of 6.6 million made it seem improbable.
Still, I was certain I knew the man in the front row—the cross between Richard Simmons and Pauly Shore with the deep voice.
I chose a seat where the tag-teen would be out of view, but the pickle-lady was still in focus. I just had to see what was going to happen with that jar.
While I waited for the class to begin, I continued to wonder about the man in the front row. Who was the Simmons-Shore fellow, and from where did I know him? Instinctively, I reached for my phone, but really—how could I google that? The recognition persisted, and the memory continued to tug at me.
Was it that creative writing course 14 years ago?
Who was he?
Not Bobby Corbett, whose writing brought me to my knees.
Not Devout David, who introduced me to the kolaches at Czech Stop in West, TX, fourteen years before this past April’s heartbreaking explosion.
Not Silent Sam, the lacrosse-playing poet by day and techno-rave dj by night, whose roommate and team captain later became my boyfriend for the duration of that year.
I smiled, remembering their most-excellently named cat, Ferrari. Boy, could that cat purr.
The other class members filled in, each arriving with a camera in a cooler-sized padded bag. It was immediately evident that 60% of them had no clue how to use them. The other 38% appeared to have just enough knowledge to be dangerous.
To themselves and others.
Every seat was now occupied.
I could not decide whether to allow my body to go on full-blown high-alert mode or tune this out and count down the minutes until it’s all over mode.
I wanted to do the latter, but I was forced into the former because everything I had witnessed so far had been just too unsettling.
As deeply unsettling as a driving class for geriatrics with cataracts and Maseratis or a course in target shooting aimed for the blind...
Ready for Act II of The Photography Class? (Click Here)
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