It's All in the Technique

Junior wore the smile of a prankster angel on the day of his baptism. Later, everyone discovered he poured bubblebath into the baptismal pool. Moment in time. Interviewer asks a now famous comedian to tell some of the jokes he used at his stage debut, aged sixteen. His expression brings to mind in the reporter a Christmas tree being lit that first second of the holiday season. Moment in time. There's an old woman, walking off the job into retirement after forty five years at the textile mill. She's staring at her gold plated watch, wondering how much it'll fetch toward her grandkid's college education. Moment in time. Movies, books, and paintings are one thing, but there is no art so fiercely immediate or honest as photography.
Now if you're looking to pour some quick innovation into everyday shutterbugging, allow me to pass along a few tips. Get comfortable with quirky angles, go for the too close closeup. Try black and white in lieu of color to capture wrinkles and character lines on a subject's face. And then there's the negative image, superimposed over a positive one, that offers some interesting possibilities for graphic abstractions. In other words, a new way to look at the same old bowl of fruit.

Casinos- full with lights and roaring colors- this is where the people come to lose money in Atlantic City. Most places bring in entertainment, magicians or singers to perform and dance and jump through hoops in the middle of a large lobby where the gamblers cry when the money is gone, but they won't let go of the ambiance yet. So the musician throws out there his tunes made of heartache, and David Copperfield becomes an ideal manifestation of how you had the cash and then the cash was gone. Big business, but not the only game in town. Trump draws a young executive who's just received his first substantial raise; the boardwalk pulls in vacationing families from suburbia anywhere, toting only enough extra green for tacky souvenirs. But the fire happened early Wednesday morning, and that effected everyone.
By ten, a rumor began circulating through area establishments that the fire trucks on the beach had arrived in response to a bomb threat by an extreme fundamentalist group. Actually that last part changed with each person who repeated the story. First, blame Middle Easterners. Then the lunatic fringe. Next, publicity stunt. Finally just about everybody settled on the explanation that yet another presidential indiscretion was in the process of being covered up. No one left, and no one ran home afraid. Fires, bombs? An entire situation that felt too TV movie and so much like whisper down the lane that it seemed logical to assume a well written hero would come along and clear the confusion up. So big spenders from Texas and yuppies from New York City kept hitting on nineteen or praying for lucky seven. The only further distraction to their game was a constant influx of frustrated tourists wandering across the room as their kids complained they wanted this, they needed that. The fire had taken no casinos or clubs. Rather, it burned a part of the boardwalk that catered strictly to travelers, sold souvenirs- salt water taffy, stuffed animals, anything with Atlantic City scrawled across the front. These people had nowhere to go, so they gawked at craps tables or gazed at flashing lights until mothers and fathers alike came to quiet agreement that their children might accidentally associate gambling with prosperity. Overheard on the street: "I'll have my kid stare all night long at the stars in the sky, until he sees opportunity in every one. No need for talk of insignificance. But passing by outside a business that relies on personal misfortune I say keep both hands on your wallet and one eye on the nearest cop." Folks made their way to the beach talking, speculating on the cause of the blaze. Before long, a group of gentlemen in colorful, wide brim hats began taking bets on what the fire marshal would say. Families crowded into the nearby game areas, or they went swimming. At least everybody still had their cameras.
People tried their hand at creativity, moving away from standard issue smiling pixie shots. A few took pictures of sunlight on water, or waves crashing into an inexperienced surfer. No doubt many futures were made, and we know what's in the lens on a Wednesday, 1998, isn't necessarily the same as what we'll see twenty years down the line. Hey, the tourists, who- if not them- so love the cameras? ...wearing two or three looped on the neck at a time; but it's an essential point of investigative work also, record the crime scene and all. So- with much flare, the center of attention now- a burly fellow who looked as if he enjoyed his job too much ruled the case an incidence of arson. Men in hats grinned no longer, too many people have suspicious spirits these days.
Wozniak, a middle aged guy who smelled like coffee and peaches, stood amid the clamor doing his best to appear official. On paper, he's a detective. In real life, he fell away from whatever that used to mean. Gets overwhelmed easily, circumstances like this, because he hasn't been a part of anything important in a long time. Fact, he was contemplating just going back to his dusty apartment that had no furniture. Play solitaire for a couple hours, catch the end of Rush Limbaugh on the radio, fall asleep with a bowl of tomato soup boiling over in the microwave. Before the cop could slip away, a pretty blonde being walked by a poodle gestured to him. So he canceled prior plans and ambled over.
"Did you catch the 'perp' yet?" her hair leaned into her face and she had an ex model's posture, pretended that made her taller than she was.
Wozniak studied the young woman. Mother always said to relate to a person, find them in you. Not a complex puzzle, he at once concluded. Looked like she just wanted someone to talk with for awhile. Had such an eager, friendly smile. He sighed. "Any idea who might've done this?"
"Can't say I know of firebugs in this area," she shrugged, her dog yipped. "So," going on as if the previous matter was closed. "What's it like to be among 'the few and the proud?'"
Glancing round at the day, he realised it's the kind of light where you walk in double or triple shadow. The blonde wasn't wearing any shoes- her pink toes wiggling, he felt okay. "Say, isn't that the army?" Scratched his balding head, wondered if the setup of this crime matched anything he'd seen on Matlock. Gotta start some place.
She seemed nice, probably a good listener. Wanting to stay right there with her, he gave up on pretending to work. Grinned a long, toothy grin and called her Sarah- Sarah's his ex wife. Wozniak said, "Listen, if you tell me God set this fire, I swear I won't act surprised."
As her face puckered, he realised she had different colored eyes. Right blue, left green. Made the girl quite striking actually.
"Pastor Kline was very thorough. Whenever he preached, he sang a little morality and a little more verse. Always went after complete meanings. Something about another lesson we hadn't seen in 'For God so loved...' But don't you remember everywhere in the Old Testament that it says the aroma of something burning is pleasing to the Lord?"
"That makes God an arsonist? Hey, I may not look real brilliant, but Sunday morning is the one time I shine. And you... you-" the anger spilled into her mismatched eyes, angry lips, and angrily defensive body language.
"Just a thought, potential topic for conversation." This shock...
What a lousy contradiction- beauty, masking an ugly side- lets down life. "I only assumed it might make today more reasonable. The fire, for insurance. Act of God, I mean." But Sarah stalked off, muttering about a luau. He let the comment slide, saw a firefighter heading fast in his direction.
"Are you interviewing? Did you find any suspects yet?" The fella's tall, still walking around in full uniform dress. Sweat made lines down his face, he was intent on assuring everybody of his authority.
Wozniak constantly finds himself intimidated by anyone possessed of a superior attitude. As a child, he drowned in the pool often, care of an older sister who held him underwater for the amusement of her friends. Felt something like that age again, right there in what would probably be a meaningless situation. The detective explained about his exhaustive search for witnesses. -When you lose yourself, people are always saying go back to when the loss occurred. But he can't remember anything beyond always being the odd man out.
The younger man tilted his head into a cool breeze coming off the ocean. He saw Sarah, she was strolling by again with that mongrel barking pet of hers. Then the moment passed and he said, "You'll find certain people stay out here morning till midnight. One of them must know who started the fire. Get a witness, arrest the suspect, and we can forget this mess."
The cop thought of Ada, who made it from groceries to rent check each month by selling knick knacks to tourists. She stocked a thousand statues and emblazoned containers picked up at hundreds of different yard or garage sales. Most famous had been the collection of wooden wreaths that adorned an area at the front of her store. It's all gone- everything. "What about the business owners? They won't forget."
Right there, right near where they stood, 'Joe loves Jane' was scrawled inside a misshapen and oblong heart. He stared at the discolored wood. Given name's one of the Biblical prophets, so he at times feels a certain responsibility. Like 'Isaiah speaks truth, Isaiah is wisdom.' That carving nudged a part of him and he realised Wozniak was torn by the aggravated emotion inherent to his job. Wanted to tell the dumb bastard he was headed down a long and lonely road. It's clear he's got no family, nor would one tolerate him. But Isaiah the firefighter just shook inwardly and sighed. It does no good to give anyone else your opinion on their life- even when you know you're right. Most folks figure things out in their own time, on their own terms. Finally, he said "Lookit brother, I've got kids. My job's finished, the fire's out. Now it's up to you to decide who's idea this was. I gotta go watch my son's ballteam lose."
Responding to the departure, the cop imagines his own homecoming later tonight. No children, his wife left him- let's see... five years ago, this August. Nothing besides Sam Pedro, his twelve year old goldfish that started turning white three weeks ago. That's beauty and the trappings of inspiration, it's fleeting. He'd be going to buy another fish, before too long. Wozniak's eyes closed, and he recalled the incredible face his father used to make when he played a Charlie Haden album. Free Jazz. Had no favorite song of his own like that.
When the brief flashback dissipated, he realised his partner Van Buren was close by. Could tell because he heard notebook pages rustle in a passing breeze. "How's this look to you?" VB motioned at the crowd gathered in a tight area past the firesite.
"Nothing better to do?" Might say the same of himself, but that would seem irresponsible. No- it wasn't disdain about the job, rather an overwhelming sense of deja vu. Been here already, done this too much. Watching his partner, the older cop recognized eager movements and anxious gestures.- Is youth bound to be sucked dry by age forty or fifty five; is there anything we can do to halt the slow descent? Magic, magicians seemed like half an answer, but the rest of the sentence never materialized.
Van Buren chewed his lip, a habit that forced him through two or three chapsticks a week. He's a deep thinker, but not overly emotional. Makes the best kind of cop actually. "Human nature. Disaster in another place causes a person to believe his own troubles aren't as insurmountable as was first presumed."
Fatherly laughter. There were cops he drank coffee with, most Sundays. Ones who'd been on the force as long as him. They know. They know that being a police officer has nothing to do with making the world safe for babies and old ladies; it's about control. A selfish job, Wozniak understood. Selflessness played little part anymore, because most guys he knew would do anything to avoid a confrontation. Not Van Buren, not right now, but wait a few years. There'll come a time when it's impossible to separate him from the job, when it's everything he thinks about. And then, overload. That's it, that's what a cop is. A stereotype all the way around.
A few seconds pass, the previous thought is not put into words. VB regains his partner's attention with another rambling monologue where the speaker thinks too fast and tends to get quite ahead of himself. "Hey, have you noticed the pretty girls with lipstick and painted fingers, the tourists, the inline skaters and everybody are all curious to see what we're doing? Maybe they hope the fire will flare up again, will ignite a fabulous evening sky around Caesar's Palace. And I wonder would these shop owners be offended if I smoke? But look out there- beyond us, on either side, there's no one. There's no life. Most of the businesses closed hours ago. People aren't shopping today, the mini event of disaster has yet to be resolved or sate their thirst for safe violence." He had this way of getting excited, used language to shout things at you most folks just said with their eyes, hands, or a whisper. Could've been like an old jazz tycoon if he just added 'yeah, Yeah, YEAH!' to the tail end of everything he said. Had a kind of strange, artistic energy.
Distraction, Wozniak realised this as he stepped out from beneath the overhang of Zelda's Psychic Center and Boutique. Specifically, the ravaged areas were every generic place given to selling coffee mugs with talking animals on one side. Above or below this section you have the theater, plus many larger chain and outlet stores. He swallowed without chewing the rest of a bagel Zelda gave him; he watched as Van Buren went off and running, collecting uniform cops and alerting them of his suspicions. "We want trucks, vans, guys who say they're with service companies." But the old man decided to check things for himself. He needed breathing room. Young people with big thoughts and plans tend to suck up all the air around them.
First, he saw a couple kneeling near and gazing sadly at the loss of their summer livelihood. "A seashell shop?" Strange days, in the words of Jim Morrison. But it's the tired places, every block or street in town, that reminds him of a job he held twenty five or thirty years ago. Clown at the opening of a chicken parts store, he was still wearing the wig and red nose the night his first girlfriend dumped him. For his brother. "You're better off without me," she'd insisted. Later, Wozniak worked as a gas station attendant on the edge of the city. Sometime after noon on a Friday, he finished full service for a blue Chevy, and watched his best friend died. Car accident. Happened exactly thirty feet from where he stood, holding two dollars of change in his left hand. Andy Keegan was this gawky twenty three year old kid who just wanted a wife and dreamt of the chance to play his plastic alto for a living. Ended up with neither a chance nor a lover. And it happened that the day Phil Wozniak married his future ex wife, he felt guilty about the non presence of his best friend and whatever woman who would've ended up as his best friend's wife. Guilt, to open a marriage, should've been a dead giveaway. But thank you, experience, that I should know so much diversity in my youth and come away from it yet as confused as anyone just going in- he's often thought this, and he's often wondered about the meaning of words like power. You decide stuff shouldn't get you down, and then you pretend like it doesn't because everyone will readily agree optimism is a soul sustaining force to the daily chore of keeping at it. But in his cynicism, he's sure it's faked more times than realised.
Once memory lane intersected back at the boardwalk, with the problems of today close at hand, the cop found himself infront of a giant playhouse. When Van Buren read through a rundown earlier, he said four brothers called Alderfer were in charge. The theater couldn't sustain itself but for the grace loans and grants- nobody paid for what they were selling. Cornerstone says 1989, which means not enough time for good atmosphere to develop, and the ornate architecture makes it one of those places trying too hard for yesterday. So he's a jaded purist. That just means he comes at everything a tad askew, and from a side angle. This would be no different. He went down an alley, toward the theater's back entrance. A steel door was wide open, and there were stacks of appliance boxes beside a grey van.
I'm not a cop, he says to himself.
Just a Pole from Pennsylvania.
My life starts here, now.
Least it could find a purpose, if I accidentally do something great.
Worth a shot? he wonders.
I hope so, he decides.
Exhaling roughly, he's shocked to realise he's alone.
Feels good, invigorating.
Gun drawn, he walked down a narrow, underlit hall. Stale air, muggy. At the end of the corridor came the stage, so Wozniak wandered out underneath white hot lights and gazed in awe at the set design. Magnificent backdrop, it struck something like familiarity in his memory. The house was white Victorian, complete with wrap around porch and swing. Silence, for a time, because he just stared. Then... certain girls he knew used to fantasize about the parties that went on, very Dickensian. Everyone else wanted the mysteriously sinister stories you see everywhere on foggy nights. The owner of the house, named Meredith, published a local newspaper. His son Charlie brought friends home from school every afternoon. In winter, they skated on the pond, once or twice before it had completely frozen over. He remembered the warnings, "Watch out for black ice!" Or was it white? Anyway, the willow trees poured down over children twirling around. There were flurries, mittens, and days that by each evening's end no one believed the next could ever top. But new and old interests continued to develop or evolve. He fell in love, he fell apart, he came back to his senses and ran away from them a thousand times on those afternoons. (pause) Embarrassed or ashamed to not've taken a nostalgia trip sooner, Wozniak chuckled under the influence of pictures from a long neglected past. As mother said, "It's always something." If not angst about what's yet to be accomplished, there's anxiety over past mistakes. But today, the memories call up something nice.
Deep "ahem."
He turned, expecting to see Van Buren. Instead, a smiley young woman and her shining red hair stood behind him- she burned in those brilliant stage lights. "It's funny, isn't it?" pointing to the backdrop. "Odd, how something simple can strike up something so great within you." Petite but not thin, this girl wasn't unlike the younger sister you'd die to protect. "Two people can interpret one thing very differently. Or a person may read a single thing two different ways at two different times. It's about getting where you need to go, knowing what you need to get there."
A few seconds pass. "I'm a detective."
Nod. "The suit gave you away. It is a beach, after all."
When he mentioned the fire, she averted his gaze. Told him she'd been upstairs the entire day, working on a mural. Heard the trucks very early this morning, but when no one told her to evacuate, all was assumed well and good.
"Okay," he said, and asked about the boxes outside.
She studied the floor and patterns on her paint spattered jeans for awhile. Finally said, "Can you come back tomorrow? Eddie will be here then."
"Eddie?"
"Alderfer. He kind of runs things, should be able to help you. I'm just a part timer."
"Hey, what's your name?" he called after her. She's about to pull a disappearing act, heading back into the wings.
"Alison" -and she was gone.

Wozniak left the theater by the same dark hall he'd come in. Outside, he looked around momentarily for Van Buren, before deciding to wait and see who came for the boxes. He settled for a crouching space behind a rusty dumpster that smelled like Benjamin Williams.
When the quiet set in, when he calmed his nerves about the 'stakeout,' he thought of VB. His partner would be of no use here, the kid was happiest running around in circles, stopping people, questioning them and demanding answers. But youth and good intention cause the older cop to think back on his first days with a badge. Being a police officer is either all good or all bad, there is no in between. Solve the case and win, lose the fight and it's forgotten. Feels wrong to look at anything for only one of two extremes. Feels wrong, (silence)- but then again, maybe it's the only way.
And Alison. She reminded him of a daughter who might've been. Sarah wanted children, but he never did. They argued about it for months till at last, the insulting began. Marked the beginning of truth, and the end of a marriage. He pointed out every demand she ever made, the unrealistic requests that were levied to him and everybody else. One day, she just didn't come back for their customary fight. (a tear, he doesn't notice). Yet who was the one that would never compromise? Asking to be loved isn't a heavy demand, only too much for the one who can't make a way on his own, lest with somebody by his side. But he needed her- God, that second it was true- more feeling than in all the time since their divorce. He missed things he hadn't thought of in years, tried to ride the joy without choking on the melancholy. Then... oh, then you settle back into the cool shadows, done with wanting to conquer and define. Just enjoy, enjoy an unnamed sensation. Never before had he thought of her with anything but bitterness and regret. Profound emotion, thanks for all the smiles and love she gave him had to be a big leap up.
Two men emerged from the building then, betraying his thoughts. Both fifty five or so, they wore expressions of guilt or fear or sadness- all three. Each began, with much difficulty, loading the van. Wozniak saw while lost with his inner discussion, many more boxes had piled by the door.
"Levi Alderfer, I'll be damned." He recognized one of the men from a photograph, then knew he must've read seen an article about the theater at some point. Could the other be Eddie Alderfer? And, if memory serves, there was mention of a set designer, Levi's daughter Alison. Everything fit then, but he felt a strangeness working within him; questions of his worth. He didn't know whether to like it or not.
Leaving the alley quietly, Wozniak knew they were robbing themselves. He glanced back at the brothers, still huffing and puffing, still loading the van. An insurance scam to counteract a bad investment. On the one hand, dreams can inspire you. But the other side is, they may let you down. Hard. He felt their fear and guilt and sadness.
Out of the shadows, he was back in the sunlight with a good view of the beach. People swam, watched their kids, took pictures. Weather ideal. Kicking the heel of his shoe into the wood beneath him, he decided he should find out what the cornerstone of Atlantic City's center said. Everybody knows about the boardwalk.
VB caught up with him then. "I've got a lead. Folks round here have been whispering for awhile. Apparently, these past several weeks, the theater has been trying everything to draw customers in. If the hard reality came crashing yesterday, and tomorrow the creditors pull the roof off their heads, what better day than today for a little inferno? I'm about to put a call through to the insurance company and see what they can tell me about the Alderfer policy."
"Nice dramatics." He loved the happy excitement always there in his partner's words. You're flying then, you're flying. Sarah's face and the list of baby names she tried using to convince him were there, crystal clear in that second. And Charlie. And Andy Keegan, tooting on his plastic alto. And all the rest. Shaking his head, he said, "I just talked with them, they're not suspects."
"Oh? Really? Um, okay... It was just a thought."
"I've had them too." He mentioned, could God have set this fire? Ah, well. Laying a hand on Van Buren's shoulder, he felt very fatherly and said "I could use a cup of coffee, how 'bout you?" It was a statement, not a question. That's just how these cops are, with their undeniable moments in time.


















least pretend?" she mumbled.
"Onstage- when they pay me- I'll recite the