Photographic Memory

Sera got Mom’s text in the middle of photography class — bombed the interview :,( definitely not hired.

The rest of class was a blur. Sera sent hug emojis, hearts, and comforting words, to no response. Mom was definitely bawling.

Suddenly everyone slammed notebooks and laptops closed and started filing out of the room. Class over. But Sera sat, dazed.

But Doc Lewis’s voice cut through the crowd.

“Sera Jameson! Come see me in my office.”

Crap, she saw me texting through class, Sera thought. She sniffled and hoped she could fake her way through a pop quiz about whatever Doc had been lecturing about, because she didn’t want to talk about the raw reality of probably having to drop out.

In the office, Doc motioned to the sofa chair, its upholstery straight out of a 1960s Christmas sweater catalog. Sera had perched on that seat countless times as she and Doc rambled about photographic techniques. But today she sank into the chair and sighed. Doc sat behind the desk, swigged from a can of Coke and kicked off her high heels.

“Bad day?” she said.

Sera shook her head.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Really?”

“Not yet.”

“Well.” Doc shrugged her shoulders slightly and opened a folder on her desk. “In that case, you recognize this photo?”

She tossed a large print toward Sera, who scooted forward on the chair.

Holy cow.

Yes, Sera recognized it. It was Sera in a plaid pencil skirt, white blouse, and a Christmas garland worn as a cravat. She stood tip-toe on a tall stool, a miniature pink umbrella balanced on one hand, zen rocks stacked on the other, a stuffed frog on her right shoulder. Behind her was the glass facade of an antique store.

Sera grinned. It was her entry into the statewide photography contest.

“Well done,” Doc said. “The committee likes it.”

Sera’s heart stopped. Or did it jump into overdrive? Maybe both.

“In fact, they selected your photo for first place.”

Sera’s mouth went dry.

First place.

Grand prize.

Forty. Stinking. Thousand. Dollars.

Her eyes started their waterworks. Sera closed them. Winning grand prize in a statewide college photo contest? That’s supposed to make you do a cartwheel on the quad. Not bawl in your professor’s office.

But since winning first place meant tuition, rent, groceries, maybe a new camera, Doc’s office felt more like a church, a sacred place of gratitude. No cartwheels.

“But there’s only one problem.”

“Problem!” Sera stammered. Her back straightened defensively.

Doc tapped the antique store window in the photo.

“Who is that?”

Sera saw the faint reflection of a red-haired man squinting into her camera.

“Some businessman on lunch break, I guess,” Sera said. “My camera timer was malfunctioning. He stopped to check me out, so I said, ‘Hey, do a girl a favor and snap this portrait.’ And he did.”

“I see,” Doc said. “Do you realize the problem now?”

“Just tell me!”

“Do you recall our lesson from the first week of class? On copyright issues?”

“Vaguely...”

“Who owns the copyright for a photograph?”

“The photographer.”

“And the photographer is whoever —”

Sera sighed.

“Whoever takes the picture.”

She remembered now — Doc Lewis had commanded them like a drill sergeant: “Don’t let a copyright lawyer take a picture of you and your friends at the beach, because he’ll sue you when you Instagram it!”

“So you’re saying this business dude just won forty grand accidentally just because he pressed a button on my camera? C’mon, Doc! It’s my shot!”

Sera thrust her shoulders back and leaned forward.

“I set it up, I set the camera, I got the props―”

“And he got the copyright!” Doc’s nose flared. “Sera, this isn’t about credit, it’s about the law and the sticklers on the prize committee who don’t want to award a prize and have it blow up! Now, I was able to convince the others to select you as the winner, but only if you find this man and offer to split the prize with him.”

“Oh, so it’s that simple!”

“We announce the prize in one week.” Doc slid the picture back into her folder. “So go hang out downtown and find the guy. Bring him to me, and we’ll chat.”

“You really expect me to—”

Doc cut her off.

“I would die if the committee went to their second choice, because that guy just got lucky with a sunset. But you’ve got creativity, and talent, and you used it. It’s just a technicality that you also used a breathing human being to hit the shutter button. So go find him for both our sakes.”

End of conversation.

Sera kicked a piece of crumpled paper across the floor on her way down the hall.

Copyright law or not, what a way to ruin a girl’s day.

But splitting the prize for twenty grand was better than nothing.

She took the bus downtown. It was Friday, so maybe the guy would get off early. Sera was there by 3:45. She leaned back against the antique shop wall and waited. She pictured the guy in her mind ― red hair, thick eyebrows, chiseled jaw. Six feet tall.

Was he the type of guy who rented a dedicated parking spot? Or did he park wherever he could find a place, meaning he might not walk past the antique shop today? What if he works from home on Fridays?

Downtown wasn’t huge, but just big enough that it would take a bit of luck to run into this stranger again. Sera went looking — she poked her head into restaurants, scanned the lines at ATMs, glanced into the art gallery where people walked around carrying cocktails and listening to a live jazz band. She felt like a jealous ex patrolling for him.

On Saturday she went back in case the guy worked on weekends or came down to bike the Riverside Trail. She wore the same outfit she’d worn for the photo in hopes that he’d recognize her.

No luck.

Sunday was no better.

On Monday, when she gave up, she strolled down to the river to skip rocks.

Lots of people have to quit college, she told herself. What’s one more?

“Achoo!”

Sera whipped around in the direction of the sneeze. There was a homeless guy. Sera had seen him before, hanging out under the Sixth Street bridge when she and her friends came to the river bank for photo shoots.

He sat on a rock, scratching his beard with a pen. A black notebook was in his lap.

Sera had an idea.

She knelt beside him, rocks pressing through the rips in her blue jeans’ knees.

“Hey!”

“Yo.” The guy stashed the notebook under his arm, which made Sera wonder what he was writing. But she stuck to business.

“This may sound crazy, but would you like to win a photo contest?”

***

His name was Dave.

The barber downtown squeezed them in for a cut and dye job before closing.

By the end, Dave looked like a natural, clean-shaven redhead. Sera pulled out her wallet, but Dave insisted on paying.

“Panhandling was good today,” he said.

He also insisted on paying for the $15 suit they found at Goodwill. He must see it as an investment.

He did let Sera pay for dinner at Carmichael’s, where they still gave her the employee discount even though she hadn’t worked there since starting college. While they ate, Sera gave Dave all the details on the photo ― her clothes, the stool, the props, what was sitting in the antique store window display ― until he could describe it back.

“I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this.”

“Anything to help,” Dave said. “I remember when my Mama lost her job.”

He wrapped up his leftovers and went to stuff them in his backpack. Sera saw the black notebook, which looked nice for a guy on the streets.

“So, what were you writing earlier?”

Dave thought a moment, shrugged, and slid the notebook across the table to Sera.

She opened it randomly. There was a poem. Sera read it twice. It was funny, with unexpected rhymes.

“You wrote this?”

“It’s a hobby.”

Sera turned the pages and read more poems: a somber one about a family burying their first cat. A manifesto against NASA from the perspective of an abandoned astronaut on the moon. A dogcatcher’s lullaby.

“You’re good!” Sera said. “I could never write this.”

“Hey, anything’s possible,” Dave said. “Six hours ago, I’d never say I could win a photography contest!”

***

Tuesday morning, Sera drove Mom’s car downtown to get Dave. He was waiting on the bridge, suited up and ready to impersonate a businessman. He didn’t even need the deodorant Sera brought for him — he smelled nice. Sera figured the shelter downtown must let him shower there.

On the way to campus, Dave ran through his script, describing the photo as best as he could to verify he’d taken it.

Sera’s hands shook. Surely her philosophy professor would say this was unethical. But surely her business professor could justify it.

Sera knocked on Doc’s door.

“Come in!”

Sera nodded at Dave.

He was frozen, biting his lip, his eyes locked on Doc’s nameplate by the door.

“Come on,” Sera whispered, and she opened the door.

“Sera!”

“Doc, I found him.”

Dave sulked in. Was he losing his guts? Would he blab?

Sera cleared her throat.

“This is Dave,” she said, her voice shaking. “He took the photo for me. I finally bumped into him—”

“Sera!” Doc Lewis said. “You didn’t tell him who your photography professor is, did you?”

Sera’s knees knocked together.

“You honestly expect me to believe that my brother the bum was the ‘businessman’ who took your photo on his way home from the office?

Brother?

“Hey sis,” Dave said. “I thought you still taught across town.”

“My brother lives under a bridge! And if you’d handed your camera to him, he would have run to the nearest pawn shop!”

Sera’s eyes blurred.

“I’m ashamed of your dishonesty! Both of you!”

“Sis!” Dave cut in. “Spare me the lecture. Sera, a moment?”

Sera collapsed on a bench down the hall. Doc’s and Dave’s voices carried through the hall, arguing about life choices, law, ethics and honesty.

“It’s a technicality!”

“But to them, it’s the law!”

“That guy probably forgot he ever took that picture!”

Eventually the topic turned to Sera.

“Her mama lost her job!” Dave said, firmly. “Sera’s worried about losing everything! That remind you of anyone?”

Their talk turned to low rumbles.

“It’s what Mama would’ve done,” Dave pronounced.

Another two minutes, and Dave walked out. He sat next to Sera, balled up on the bench, and tucked a lock of hair behind her left ear.

“Done deal. She’s going for it. You just earned forty grand.”

Sera sat bolt upright.

“Twenty,” she sputtered, wiping a tear. “I’m only expecting twenty. You get half.”

“No way. It’s all yours.”

“But you need it more than I do!”

“Listen,” Dave whispered. “Don’t you dare tell my sis, but I’m not homeless. I got lucky on the stock market so I retired when I hit 30. But I don’t want her to know how much money I got socked away, so I spend my days writing poetry under a bridge.”

Sera felt dizzy with the revelation.

“Now,” Dave said. “I’m going to catch the bus home so you can go tell some good news to your mama. But first—”

He opened his book bag and handed the smooth, black journal to Sera.

“You’re the first person to read my poems,” he said. “So I want you to have this. And if you ever use one of these to win a poetry contest, come let me know. You know where to find me.”