How Things Change
You’re sitting in the sun with your back against the concrete sign in front of your old high school, with your arms resting on your knees, head slightly forward so you don’t mess up your mohawk. Your clothing is down to a ratty red and black flannel shirt (open), white gonch, wool socks and 20-hole docs. A dozen feet away your girlfriend aims her camera, taking shot after shot from different angles. Beyond that is an arc of maybe a dozen counterculturish teens, afraid to come closer but too piqued to leave, radiating that unique mixture of sexuality and uncertainty that only counterculturish teens can manage; some plans to lock up in stalls in the bathroom come through as clearly as a radio station. They’ll probably blog about it too.
Your girlfriend has been dreaming about this camera for a year. She quickly grew out of the tiny point-and-shoot her parents gave her for her birthday, and started saving for this new one. She even quit smoking to save faster, only putting a bit into photography mags that she devoured like a starving man with a lamb shank, leaving a clean bone and even eating a bit of that. She cut out ads for photography schools and visits the websites of local ones compulsively. Finally she bought the camera, some shiny black thing with a couple of lenses and a flash that connected to the top with a cord. It’s a Nikon, and she’s explained why this is awesome dozens of times but you don’t really give a shit about cameras except that they make her happy. In her excitement she wanted to take every picture in the world at once and was bouncing around with an open mouth grin, completely unable to choose where to start, so you volunteered.
The location was the first decision, and the undressing part came naturally because it’s fucking hot out. On the walk over from your apartment you hashed out some details. She talked about how when you were younger and going there, you started dressing like punks so you could have an identity, and now all these years later it’s seeped into your bones so far that you don’t even need the fucking clothes, you just are punk. It’s like returning to your birthplace without your cocoon or some shit, you replied.
There is a shuffle in the outer arc, and a fat guy comes strutting up, ham legs pumping spastically, flanked by two skinny teachers in ugly sweaters. “What do you think you’re doing here?” he demands.
“I think I’m sitting in the sun, and maybe I’ll take my shirt off. Maybe have a beer later.”
He keeps walking at you. The teacher on his left breaks off to sass your girlfriend. He comes to a stop in front of you and puts his hands on his hips, pulling back his cheap sport coat to reveal his shirt straining under the sphere of his belly and glowing in the light like a terrible fuschia star. “Are you going to think about leaving?” he asks as though he’s ten seconds from ordering you to detention.
You stand up to escape the belly of authority and now your eyes are level with the hairless top of his head. You look down into his eyes and realize that he is fighting a sudden urge to shit himself. Your girlfriend swats the arm of the teacher reaching for her camera and gives him the finger. He steps back like he’s dodging a rattlesnake. Fuck, she is so hot.
“Why would I do that? It’s a lovely day. I was thinking of calling up some friends, having a picnic. Maybe getting out the ghetto blaster.”
The thought of it clearly terrifies him. You realize you’re the antithesis of his life of one hour periods, bells, and gratuitous displays of authority. He’s powerless now and he can’t handle it. You remember your high school days, with a different principal, getting busted for every little thing, sometimes for nothing but some teacher’s mood. It seems incredibly distant, like a mostly forgotten dream.
“We might have to call the police, then,” he says. Now all the kids watching have seen their principal crumble and resort to the “I have big friends” line against a man with no pants on. They’ll never look at him the same again. You win.
“That’d be a pretty fucking unsporting thing to do when you haven’t even told us to leave.”
“Well, now I’m telling you to leave.” There’s a waver in his voice when he says “telling.”
“Go ahead, tell us.”
He stammers for a second. “Please leave.”
“Sure, give us ten minutes to wrap up and put pants on.”
After a short pause he nods, turns around and starts pumping back to the school. “Get to class,” he barks at the onlookers, who start shuffling towards the school as well, looking back with a mix of admiration and awe.
Your girlfriend pokes at her camera and turns it off. “OK, that was stupid.”
You look towards the entrance, where the fat guy is turning sideways to fit through the school door and several teens are waiting behind him for the maneuver to complete. You wonder what kind of life you would have to have had to turn into such a dick. Maybe overly strict parents. Being spanked too much. You have no idea, and it feels like too much to think about.
“I’m hungry,” you say.
“Ditto.” Your girlfriend walks over and kisses you on the cheek. “Let’s go see how these turned out.”
You put your pants on, she packs up her lenses, and you leave.
