Bad Glass

in a husky nicotine purr.

Floyd let out a laugh. “Like the take-a-shit-in-a-shot-glass type of artist.”

Sabine threw a chunk of firewood at Floyd and shook her head, the wide smile still on her lips. “Fuck no! I may occasionally yell at strangers and roll around on the sidewalk, but that’s about it. Nothing too crude. And I do charcoals, too,” she added hastily. “And poetry!”

The youngest of the bunch was Charlie, and he couldn’t have been older than seventeen. He was a skinny black kid with wire-frame glasses. His smile was tight-lipped, and his tired eyes looked just about ready to fall shut. “We found him wandering the streets, looking for his parents,” Taylor said, whispering in my ear. “He was out of town when the quarantine hit—staying with his grandparents in Portland—but his parents were here, in the city. He’s convinced they never left, but we haven’t found a single trace of them.” After a moment she added: “The boy’s a genius. Fixed my watch when it broke.” She held up her wrist, showing me a beautiful Bulova. Its crystal face was cracked, but its elegant hands still ticked off the seconds.

And then there was Devon, still lying on the floor, gently rocking back and forth. Taylor gave me an exasperated shrug. “Yeah, he’s just a fuckup,” she said. “Mac says he used to see him up at the Jiffy Lube on Division, working on cars.”

“Shut up,” Devon mumbled, the smile disappearing from his lips. “If you don’t quit talking about me like I’m not here, I’ll fucking Jiffy Lube my arm and sodomize the whole damn lot of you.”

“He doesn’t like talking pre-evacuation,” Sabine said, holding her hand next to her mouth, like that little barrier might keep Devon from hearing. “He’s got issues.”

“And he’s got the best fucking pot!” Floyd said, suddenly dropping to the ground and planting a big theatrical kiss on Devon’s forehead. Everybody laughed, Amanda nearly collapsing to the ground in hysterics.

“Speaking of, where is that shit?” Floyd asked, his voice suddenly serious. “I need another hit. I can feel the horrors starting to creep back in.”

And just like that, the laughter stopped. Amanda giggled once, but there was no levity in it this time, just nerves.

Mac started to nod violently. I couldn’t tell if he was agreeing with Floyd or if this was some type of nervous tic. His eyes once again made a circuit of the room before finally settling on Taylor. “And … and,” he rumbled, his voice strained and unsteady. “Are you sure we’re alone in here? Are you positive?”

After a moment, he continued, his voice dropping down into a low conspiratorial whisper: “Is there someone else in the house?”

The pipe went around the circle a couple of times, then Taylor grabbed Mac’s hand and coaxed him to his feet. She took him on a circuit of the house, trying to show him that we were alone. I could hear them moving through the rooms upstairs, the sound reaching me through a pleasant, drug-induced haze. It sounded like there were a lot of rooms up there. And a lot of stairs. Three stories, maybe. Four or five bedrooms.

Moving catlike, on all fours, Sabine crept over to my side and gestured toward my bags. “Can I take a look?” she asked. She started digging through my duffel, not even waiting for my permission. Laughing, she pulled out article after article of clothing—T-shirts, sweaters, jeans, and underwear—and set them in a pile on the floor. She tossed aside my copy of the AP Guide to Photojournalism. Then, finally, she reached the food. She let out a delighted yelp and started stacking cans in a little pyramid.

“Amanda!” she called, startling the blond girl out of a droop-headed daze. “Shelve the fucking pasta. We’ve got dinner right here!” She rolled several cans across the hardwood floor.

“Thank God,” Amanda sighed. Then, under her breath: “Fucking pasta. Every fucking day.” She looked up toward Sabine’s pyramid. “Got any meat … or bread?”

“Just canned meat,” I said with a sigh, watching as my store of food moved from hand to hand. Floyd was lost in a can of pork and beans, his eyes locked on the picture on the label. Mac, just back from his tour of the house, dropped to his knees at Sabine’s side and started cycling through the cans on the floor.

“And crackers!” Sabine said, lifting a box of Saltines from my bag.

“And crackers,” I confirmed. I’d meant for this food to last me a while, but I couldn’t—not in good conscience—greet their hospitality with selfish hoarding.

“Don’t worry, Dean,” Taylor said. I turned and found her standing in the doorway, surveying the room like a mother watching her children unwrap their gifts on Christmas morning. “Tonight’s dinner is on you, but we’ll pay you back.” Then, with a cryptic smile: “We look after our own.”

While Amanda and Mac made dinner, Charlie asked to see my camera.

“I want to see what kind of gear you’ve got,” he explained. It was the first time I had heard his voice, and it was stronger than I expected. I thought he’d have a weak, tentative little kid’s voice, but his words were deep, self-assured, and confident.

I nodded and passed him the camera. Devon surfaced from his stupor long enough to give the camera a distrustful glare.

“Nice,” Charlie said, turning it over in his hands. “Canon,” he noted. “Is it a pro model? Consumer? How many megapixels?”

“Eighteen,” I said. “Not quite pro, but close enough. It’ll do the job for magazine work … maybe not glossy advertising shots, but most people wouldn’t notice the difference.”

Just then, Sabine crawled over to Charlie and plucked the camera from his hands. She raised the viewfinder to her eye and started snapping shots.

“Careful—” I said, but she interrupted me with a shake of her head.

“I took classes,” she said with a placating smile. “I know what I’m doing.” She crawled off with the camera, taking pictures of Floyd and Devon on the other side of the room. I watched her go, anxious even after she slipped the carry strap around her neck.

“Have you had anything published?” Charlie asked.

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “Well, university publications. But nothing real.”

Suddenly Taylor appeared at my side. I hadn’t noticed her listening in the doorway. She touched my forearm tentatively and caught my eyes. It was a warm, friendly gesture. “And that’s why you’re here?” she asked. “To make your mark? To get published?” There was a note of incredulity in her voice when she said that word—published. She made it sound so trivial, so unworthy.

After a moment of silence, I nodded. “And I figure I don’t have much time. When my father found out I was getting a fine arts degree, he absolutely flipped out. ‘There’s no future there,’ he said, ‘no money.’ And he put his foot down—he actually said that: ‘I’m putting my foot down!’ He threatened to stop paying for my education if I didn’t switch degrees. So there I was, twenty-two and short on credits, returning for a fifth year to get a degree I desperately didn’t want. And once I was done with that, I could see my future laid out before me: an accounting job at my father’s firm, everything arranged neatly beneath his big thumb.

“It was terrifying, seeing it like that, and I knew I couldn’t escape just by taking pictures of fountains and trees, flowers and old buildings, people in contemplative poses. Everything was so tame—pictures I’d seen a hundred times before, and usually done better. There was no way I’d make a reputation doing that. No way I’d secure a job, a future.” Taylor and Charlie were watching me intently, their expressions curious, genuinely interested. I felt the need to explain myself—especially to Taylor—to let them know what I was trying to accomplish here, to let them know that I wasn’t just some fucking tourist. That I had goals and ambition. I struggled against the pot, trying to find the words I needed, trying to nail down the … drive buried deep down inside my chest: this powerful thing that had propelled me across three states, through a government quarantine, and into this strange wasteland. “One of my professors … he said, ‘Great photographers don’t make great photographs; great photographs make great photographers.’ And the things I’ve heard about this place, the images that have made their way out …”

I shook my head, unable to find the words. Once again, Taylor touched my arm, prodding me to continue. “There’s something great here,” I finally said, “in the unknown, the impossible. And it’s something, I think, that can make me great. Something I need. Desperately.”

After I finished, I searched their faces for understanding. Do they get it? Can they possibly understand such a vague, inscrutable drive … this thing that keeps me moving, unsatisfied?

Taylor was nodding, a gentle, sympathetic gesture.