Bad Glass

“Sorry, kid,” my soldier said, taking a quick step back. He cleared his throat, trying to regain his composure. “I’m sorry about your brother. If he’s still in there, he’s probably okay. There are quite a few civilians, and most of them … most of them are managing.”

I stayed silent for a moment, not sure how to proceed. The city had done something to this soldier, something powerful and terrifying. But what? And did I really want to know?

Yes. God, yes. But more than that, more than knowing, it was something I wanted to capture. That phenomenon. Whatever was going on inside the city, I wanted to distill it down to its essence; I wanted to condense it into a series of perfect images—perfectly framed, perfectly amazing images.

The city had changed this soldier in a deep and profound way. And that was the type of power I wanted. I wanted people to look at my photography, and, looking, I wanted them to change. Forever.

And I needed that to happen fast.

After all, how much more time did I have? I was a college dropout, a former fifth-year senior living on the last of my father’s tuition checks, his accounting job waiting for me down in California, looming over my head like the blade of a guillotine. That is, if he hasn’t already disowned me, I thought. And then what? Fast-food jobs? Scrambling to survive? No time for art?

“Please,” I said. “I need to get in there … Maybe money? If I paid …?” As soon as I opened my wallet, the soldier stepped forward and pushed it back against my chest.

“Fuck, no! Are you crazy?” He lowered his voice and moved even closer, until we were just inches apart. “See the poles at the side of the road?” He gestured with an angry stab of his head. “See what’s on top?”

I peered up into the gray sky, noticing for the first time the freshly driven telephone poles standing on either side of the barricade.

“Cameras,” I replied, feeling my knees weaken.

“The roads are under surveillance. We can’t let anyone in … They’d see.”

The soldier stared at me for a long moment, his deep blue eyes grabbing hold of my muddy brown ones. Then something happened to his face—a crumpling inward—and the sorrow returned, replacing that momentary burst of anger. “You need to get in there, don’t you? Your brother? Is that it?”

I nodded.

We stood that way for a couple of seconds, the soldier studying my face, trying to gauge my intentions. Then he looked away. “The cameras have a limited range, extending maybe twenty feet into that field over there.” He nodded toward the south side of the road. “Bobby and I … well, we tend to get distracted.”

I nodded my understanding, and he pointed me back toward the car.

I started to get in but stopped as soon as I noticed the backpack on the passenger seat. I could see my camera sheathed neatly within. I glanced up through the windshield and, for the first time, noticed the sign on Fort Wright Road: ENTERING SPOKANE. But the word Spokane was gone, hidden beneath midnight-black enamel.

“Wait!” I called. The soldier had already started back toward his comrade, and there was a blank, drained look on his face when he turned back my way. I reached over to the passenger seat and pulled out my camera, holding it up so he could see. “I don’t suppose I could get your picture?”

For a moment, the soldier looked confused. He glanced up toward the surveillance cameras, then back down, shaking his head in amazement.

Then, slowly, that out-of-place grin reappeared.

He was a pretty good subject.

At first, he just gave me that shit-eating grin—wearing it like a protective mask—and that just wouldn’t work. He was standing on the edge of something dark and unknowable, not posing with his family on a holiday weekend.

Finally, I had him grip his rifle in his left hand while holding his right out in front of his face, like he was trying to block my shot. I felt ridiculous moving the soldier around like a department store mannequin. I felt like an impostor.

Is this what photojournalists do?

Yes, I finally decided. Anything to get the shot. Anything to tell a story.

I didn’t stage the bunny sticker, though. The bunny sticker was already there—a bright, childish icon stuck to the butt of the soldier’s gun.

Before I pulled away from the barricade, the soldier told me about an overgrown lane a half mile back the way I’d come, whispering directions into my ear with a cautious glance up toward the nearest camera. It was barely there—a little woodland trail, almost invisible—and I had to jolt through a quarter mile of brush before I finally reached a small alcove sheltered beneath an umbrella of branches. A dozen vehicles were already parked back there, hidden away from the main road, some covered with a thick coat of fallen leaves, others looking car- wash clean.

I parked next to a mud-splattered Jeep and got out of my car. Judging by the carpet of leaves on its hood, the Jeep had been there for quite a while. I walked a circuit around the vehicle, peering in through its windows. The passenger-side window had been left open just a crack, and there was a puddle of rainwater standing on the carpeted floorboard. The Jeep had specialty California license plates, and there was a stacked “P.P.” icon to the left of the number.

“Shit,” I muttered, shaking my head. I’d seen that icon on the news. P.P. stood for “Press Photographer.”

How much competition do I have? I wondered.

I knew I wasn’t the first. Pictures had been leaking out of the city for weeks now—strange, beautiful pictures, unlike anything I’d ever seen. But how many photographers had beaten me here? Dozens? Were there parking spots like this at every entrance—alcoves filled with Jeeps and news vans and P.P. specialty plates?

Is my chance already gone?

Overwhelmed with frustration, I hauled off and kicked the Jeep’s bumper. The vehicle rocked back and forth on its shocks, but my boot didn’t leave a mark. I considered keying the car—just scratching the shit out of every visible surface—but decided to take the high road. Instead, I hauled off and spit a huge glob of phlegm onto the middle of its windshield.

Then I got my bags ready and locked my car.

My camera, camcorder, and notebook computer were all in my backpack, each tucked away in its own carefully padded compartment. The rest of my gear was crammed into an oversized duffel; my clothing and supplies were packed so tight, they threatened to burst the bag at its seams. As soon as I hoisted it onto my shoulder, the duffel’s strap cut off circulation to my arm, and its weight had me walking like a drunken hunchback, tilted to one side.

I was already winded by the time I made it back to the barricade. As soon as I got near the cameras, I circled around to the far side of Fort Wright Road and made my way out into the field. The soldiers pretended not to watch, but I caught them shooting me furtive little looks. I stayed at least twenty feet from the road, and after about a dozen steps, I noticed a thin trail beneath my feet. Nothing like a well-blazed path—just a line of crushed grass and mud shooting back toward the road a hundred yards away—but I was certainly not the first one to make this detour.

As I drew even with the barricade, I glanced over and found the soldiers watching. As soon as he saw me turn, the one who had been on the radio glanced away—an embarrassed, self-conscious movement—but his comrade, my soldier, continued to watch. He flashed me a bittersweet smile, then swatted at an imaginary fly, waving his hand in front of his face. It was a completely innocuous gesture—anyone watching on video wouldn’t give it a second thought—but I caught the meaning. A sort of “good luck.” I returned the wave, then turned back toward the trail.

And that’s how I got into the city.