. . . sha la la, hey hey sha la la who’s gon-n-a ride your wild hors-e-e-e-s, who’s gonna drown in your . . . d-z-z-z-h-g-h-j-j-j-j-j-j-j-j-j-z-z-z . . . are born in sin . . . hey hey, sha la la, hey hey, sha la la.
I squeeze the last chords of music from the radio just before I pass the sign for Sun City (population 56,327)—I am now entirely on the preacher’s frequency.
He finishes his morning sermon with the parable about a master who, upon leaving his home to travel, calls his servants and entrusts them with his property. “Now, to one he gives five; to another, he gives two talents; and to the last, just one—to each servant, according to his ability. According to my dictionary here, one talent in those days would be between ten thousand and thirty thousand dollars now. Let’s agree on ten. It was a lot of money then. It still is. So, the first man starts a business and makes five more talents. The second also manages to double his talents. The third one decides to play it safe and buries his talent in the ground. Then, after some time, the master returns and asks to settle accounts with the servants. The first one returns ten talents. The master says “Great job, servant. Come, sit next to me, enter into the joy of your master.” The second gives the master two talents more than he had left him. The master is pleased “Well done, trustworthy servant. Enter into the joy of your master.” The third servant says “Look, master. I know you are a difficult man, reaping where you haven’t sown and gathering where you haven’t winnowed. So, I didn’t want to risk anything. I was afraid of your anger and that’s why I hid my talent in the ground. Here, you can have it back.” The master says: “You wicked and slothful slave! You know that I reap where I don’t sow and gather where I have not winnowed. If you didn’t want to use your talent, you should have at least invested it with the bankers, so I could collect it with interest when I came back.” The servant shrugs his shoulders because he doesn’t know what to say. “Now,” the master yells, “take his talent from him and give it to the one who has ten. For, to every one who has, more shall be given, and he will have abundance. But from him who does not have, even what he has, will be taken away! And throw the useless servant into the outer darkness, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth!”
The pastor quickly interprets the parable and reminds us that he’ll be expecting us in church tomorrow. Whoever has to work can purchase tomorrow’s sermon on audiotape for $29.99 or on compact disk for $39.99. God bless us. I turn off the radio.
*
After about two months of futile efforts, I let down my guard completely and started working in a small camera store called Super Photo, located in an open mall. They hired me because I lied on the application that I didn’t have the necessary education or experience but am a fast learner. The owners were a tiny Korean guy and his wife, with whom he constantly quarreled. His name was William, and his wife’s—I don’t remember. He paid only ten bucks an hour, still better than nothing. There wasn’t too much to do anyway. After the first two weeks of training, he began letting me work on my own. The most humiliating aspect of this enterprise, however, was that I had to suffer William’s attitude toward my work. The pictures I printed for my customers were scrutinized and showered with criticism. He found them either too dark or with too much yellow and blue, either the contrast was not right, or something else was off. As time passed, I realized that his disapproval had nothing to do with me or my printing but, rather, was an emotional vent for his relationship with his wicked wife. She always had her hair and nails done, she protected herself from the sun with an umbrella, and for lunch she ate food with too much onion which made her breath unbearable the second half of the day. The customers who came to the studio liked my work and complimented it in front of William. Since I worked fast, they would leave their film in the store, go shopping in the mall, return later, pay, and go home pleased, only to come back with the next finished roll. William gradually adjusted his vision to mine, and his nagging became more subdued and less irritating. His wife started buying me sandwiches for lunch and giving me some extra money at the end of the week.
Stella also found a low-paying job at a private art school, but kept looking for a position as a college teacher. During those first difficult months in California, I remember she painted light, small watercolors and left them on the balcony to dry. The warm wind blew gently on them. They sometimes flipped over, fluttering. I liked those ethereal creatures, I collected them, some of them I framed and hung on the wall.
Things had just started looking up, when one day there was a complication. It showed up in the negatives of a cheery, redheaded gentleman with a mustache and hairy forearms, holding a heavy automatic rifle and stepping with his boot on the head of a dead African elephant. Several black men with rifles also were looking at the camera, smiling. I printed several pictures in disbelief until I confirmed that the elephant was real and the pictures authentic. I jumped up and showed this barbarity to William, who was sifting through the mail. The Korean narrowed his eyes, threw a reproachful look over his spectacles and, with the electric bill in hand, pointed me back to my work.
“William,” I said. “This here is an African elephant. Is it not an endangered species?”
“I don’t know,” said William, continuing to browse through the junk mail.
“William,” I insist. “We have to notify the authorities. The African elephant is in the Red Book.”
“Are the prom pictures ready?”
“William, listen, this is illegal and atrocious. To kill an animal and photograph yourself with the body, in this case, a Red Book cadaver . . .”
“Don’t meddle in things you don’t know anything about. What happened with the prom pict . . . ?”
“This man is a monster, William!”
The Korean suppressed his reaction and said, “This man is Mister Richard O’Reilly. He lives in Rancho Santa Fe and builds shopping malls just like this one.” A broad gesture with his arm followed. “For fifteen years, Mr. O’Reilly has been developing negatives from all his safaris here alone. He brings in hundreds of rolls. What do you want me to do?”
“You do whatever you want, William, but I cannot sit here and make color corrections of the negatives of a serial killer!’’
“Why do you say that?” He asks cagily.
“Don’t you see him posing with murdered animals?”
“So?” He leans closer to me. “So? Who says he was the one who killed them?”
“William,” I snapped. “You know very well he killed them. Why would he pose with them if he didn’t?”
“That might be, but how are you going to prove that he killed them himself? Huh? What are you going to do? Sue him? Who are you? You think his lawyers won’t crush you to pieces because you’ve decided to spoil the weekend of a respectable American citizen just because he decided to pose with a dead African elephant?” Pause. “And you better change the chemicals in the developer before the machine jams up again!”
“I changed the chemicals last Tuesday!”
“Change them again!”
I sat down back behind the printing machine and selected one of Mr. O’Reilly’s negatives. In the “quantity” box of the touch screen display, I typed in 1000. In “size,” I put 8x10 inches, and pressed the start button. I got up and methodically began organizing my work area. William stopped looking at his mail and, for a while, just observed me.
A group of school boys and girls entered the shop and started checking out the small digital cameras on display. I was expected to ask them if I could help. I didn’t. William threw me a murderous look, quickly got up, and went over to the kids, forcing a smile. I continued to silently and slowly clean up around myself. William was split between the group of kids and me. I gathered my things, put on my jacket, lifted the small divider, and got on the other side of the counter. William’s face tightened:
“Hey, hey, where are you going?”
I didn’t answer.
“Hey, come back here and finish your work!”
I didn’t even l
ook at him.
“Hey! Hey, wait!” The kids, sensing the conflict in the air, looked at me, then at him, then back at me. I waited to be sure the printer started spitting out the first enlarged photos of Mr. O’Reilly stepping on the big, dead animal. I left the store, lifted up my hood, and shoved my hands deep in my pockets. It was cloudy and was getting chilly.
*
The sun is high already. I turn the AC on and start thinking about the weed in the trunk. This, for sure, is the most absurd of all the schemes in my life so far. I don’t even know how to roll a joint, yet I’m on my way to sell dozens of pounds. I know I have to keep it moist and fresh so it’ll be more expensive—I know that much.
I remember, some years back somebody had brought some marijuana to a party and there were lemon peels in the zip lock bag. To keep the weed moist, they explained. In this heat, I should probably do something like that now, too. My gas level light has been blinking bright red for at least twenty minutes now. I take the next exit to Pamona.
*
—what are these feathers?
—wings
—do you have to photograph me with them?
—yes
—zack, i’ve seen a million pictures of naked women with wings
—yeah, me too. now please, turn around so i can figure out how to attach them
—they’re heavy
—stop complaining
—i’m not compl . . .
—stella, please!
*
Pamona is a small town ten miles from the freeway. I pass farms with tractors and combines, decaying buildings with rusting tin roofs, chicken farms, grazing cows, horses, and tall eucalyptus trees. At the first blinking red traffic light, I stop to make way for an elderly man in a cowboy hat pulling three llamas tied to a rope behind him. They glide across the zebra crosswalk. The last one stops for a second and looks me straight in the eye. I reach for my camera but the cowboy tugs at the animal. It blinks heavily and lazily moves on. At this moment, I realize that from now on the Nikon will always be loaded and within reach.
Llamas . . . I must have been seven or eight at the time. The circus would come in our town every summer. So, there we were. My mom and I were standing in front of a poster which claimed that we’d see “tigers, lions, and lamias.” I wasn’t that interested in tigers and lions; I had seen them jump through burning hoops before. My imagination was tickled by the word lamia. In my juvenile imagination, these were mythological creatures—the dragons from the illustrated fairy tales I would read over and over tirelessly. My mom bought tickets, we sat in our seats, and I waited for the performance. How intense was my disappointment when, instead of three-headed fire-breathing lamias, they pulled several scrawny, sheep-like creatures with long necks and sad eyes on stage. Llamas.
*
We ran out of money. Stella found another job at a center for mentally challenged children. I continued ironing a fresh shirt each morning and making the rounds at advertisement agencies, studios, and photo labs, with less and less success. Then I started selling my lenses one by one. In the job section of the Sunday papers my attention was inevitably drawn to “Pharmaceuticals” as it was closest to “Photography.” Then I found work in a wedding photography studio. The owner, Madam Solomon, was a five-hundred pound Jewish woman who wore a wig and crimson lipstick on her gargantuan mouth. As soon as she hired me, she began training me in her own trademark method of photographing weddings. I had to watch hours and hours of her training videos, memorize a set number of compulsory poses, and strictly adhere to her manual. Madam Solomon’s plan was to create a standard mode of photographing brides and grooms who, regardless of circumstances, were to always look the same. For this purpose, Madam Solomon had hired many photographers like me who had to shoot with the same cameras, the same settings, the same lighting, and the same printing materials. The goal was for all of us, regardless of who we were, to achieve absolutely identical results. Madam Solomon had set up shops in seven states, but her goal was, in seven years, to open seven times as many. This was just the beginning, though, because America was simply one of the markets for her wedding business. Madam Solomon was determined to become the McDonald’s of wedding photography.
I swallowed my pride and shot six weddings for her. She hated my photos and swore not to pay me because my stubbornness was “beyond belief.” Nothing of her “standard expectations” had been met. Her methods had not been applied at any of my weddings. The customers, however, loved my pictures and the monster didn’t fire me. She just held my money until “I learned how to take photographs” according to her manual. I shot five more weddings. After the last one she finally agreed to write me the check I needed so much. Just before she did, Carla Solomon suffered a massive aneurism in the restaurant of the Bellagio Hotel in Las Vegas, watching the water fountain show.
She died with her wig stuck in a plate of fried calamari.
*
The town looks deserted. I find the store I’m looking for. Its name is Orchard and it’s located on the only main street. I park in the scorched lot and enter the store. It’s cool inside. The prices are laughable compared to those in Los Angeles. I buy ten lemons for a dollar. Add a gallon of water. I move toward the register when I see the cherries. Big, red, and lots of them. I haven’t eaten cherries for years, I realize, and these look as if they have just been picked from the tree. I try one. My mouth waters from sweetness, coolness, and childhood nostalgia. I buy four pounds. The clerk is around thirty years old, pushing two hundred pounds, short, with peeled-off nail polish, a wedding ring, dark circles under her eyes, and a badge with the name “Melody” on it. She asks me what I’m going to do with so many lemons. I pause for a moment before answering:
“Lemonade.”
“You’re not from here.” She says, packing the fruit.
“No.”
“Huh . . . and where are you from?”
“From far away.”
“It’s probably beautiful there.”
I take the bags. “It is.” She fixes a bleached strand of hair over her forehead and hands me the change, muttering, “It’s probably nice.”
I take the dollar thirty-six. “It’s nice.” I shove the money in my pocket. “Melody, is there a coffee shop somewhere around here?”
“A coffee shop?”
“A coffee shop. Where they serve espresso?”
“They only sell donuts here.” Her face somewhat brightens. “There’s no expresso here.”
“No espresso, huh?”
“Nope.”
“How about close by somewhere?”
“There’s a fancy coffee shop in Ramona. On Main and Seventh. They make expresso there.”
“Ramona?”
“Ramona. A little town nearby.”
“Where is Ramona?”
“Go straight on Main Street until it becomes 67th, you get out of Pamona and ten miles down is Ramona.”
“So, I leave Pamona, drive down 67th, and get to Ramona.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thanks very much, Melody!”
“Sure thing!”
“Take care, Melody!” I’m just about to leave, but she points to my face.
“Does it hurt?”
“Excuse me?”
“Your face . . . the bruise . . . what’s it from?” She inquires with genuine compassion.
“Oh, this?” I touch the skin under my eye ever so slightly. “Nothing serious. I fell down the stairs.” Good girl, good person. I’d rather not think about her right now. I know that if I start thinking about her life in Pamona, about her no-fewer-than-three kids, about the husband with his wife-beater and a can of Budweiser in front of the big-ass flat screen, about her hidden bottle of vodka in the garage, about her Prozac . . . There we g-o-o-o-o . . . there goes my craziness again. I don’t care about Melody and her misery. I don’t care about Pamona and Ramona. I don’t care about any of this. I care about a double espresso. What a surprise, I’m angry again. Well, now,
let’s eat a lot of red cherries. I get in my car, open the bag, set it on my lap, and start driving down the only street in the deserted town. I don’t eat—I shove cherries into my mouth, spitting pits all over.
*
Back to the Sunday paper, back to CAREERS, where I’d find two or three ads under the PHOTO section and whole pages with “WANTED” under PHARMA. Unwillingly, I started peeking at them. The job opportunities were abundant. All one needed was an appropriate education and several years of experience. After reading the ads more closely, I started noticing that for one of the occupations—Clinical Research Associate, known also as a “monitor”—there was a far more liberal attitude toward the required education and experience.
I sold two of my four Carl-Zeiss lenses, as well as five Nikkors, in order to buy a used Toyota.
I started searching the Internet and gathering information about a monitor’s duties. I acquainted myself with their experiences and the problems they encountered. I registered in their Internet forums and joined their discussions. I learned that a big pharmaceutical or biotechnological company invests an average of five billion dollars before a new drug developed in a lab reaches the market. Once a new heartburn drug, for example, has been discovered and developed by scientists, and enough satisfactory information has been gathered on its quality and non-clinical safety, then the FDA may grant approval for a clinical trial involving humans. The company developing the drug (also called the “sponsor”) then outsources the job to a clinical research organization, also called the “investigator.” The investigator, over the next five or six years, recruits volunteers with predetermined characteristics, administers the treatment, and collects data on the patients’ health. Some of the volunteers are treated with the new drug, some are given a placebo, some are assigned randomly, some studies are blinded, some double-blinded, so even the researchers don’t know what is a placebo and what is not. Then the data is sent back to the sponsor. The sponsor analyzes it and decides to go ahead with the drug or not. The monitors work for the investigators. The monitors oversee the clinical trial. The monitors spend half their days in hospitals comparing data collected from the subjects of the study, checking if signatures are in the right places, making sure names match. Monitors have the easiest and most boring job in the CAREERS section in the paper. They also make between fifty and a hundred and fifty thousand a year.
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