Look on Down from the Bridge

"Reminds me of when I was in New Orleans last month and 2 college profs drove some miles in to see me and then argued with each other into the night about their degrees and how they were going to take over the university magazine. Finally one of them noticed me, turned to me and said, "My balls hurt!" I told him that was too bad and then they went on with their talk."
Charles Bukowski, April 12, 1965

I felt the neighborhood warming up so I got up at 4:00am and walked out into the damp, tepid darkness with the camera and tripod. I walked a few blocks down Oregon and when I passed Vine Street I set up my tripod to make a photograph of the puddles in the gutter.

As I was setting up the composition I heard a voice call to me. I looked up and saw a teenager standing on his porch.

"What are you doing?"

"Making photographs."

"For what?"

Using the line from last week,
"I like to photograph beautiful things."

"What are you photographing?"

I felt myself getting irritated, not at his questions, but rather because fate placed me in a spot where somebody happened to be up at 4:20am on a Saturday morning, was looking out their window just as I was passing by, and had the energy and nerve to go outside and question my intentions.

I instinctively wanted to say "none of your goddamn business", but I knew that would escalate the neutral situation into a war, and I don't like war.

"Come here and see".

He stepped down off his porch and walked over. He stooped a bit to get a view of image.

He smiled and said, "Your photographing the street."

I explained to him what I saw in it.

"Here's the house on the left, and I like the wetness in the gutter and pavement."

"Oh, ok. Sorry for bothering you," he said, walking back to his porch.

"It's ok, I'm standing out here in front of your house, you didn't know what I was up to."

I made the photograph and walked off down Vine Street. I thought about the power of language, its haunting, cruel ability to steer one off a cliff, or land one into the arms of a lover.

I thought about when I was 12 years old, in the 6th grade.

Every morning before school I would run to my best friend Rocky's house. His family had come from Mexico. He was a dark skinned boy who was popular with the girls.

When I entered his home I would notice a large oil painting hanging on the kitchen wall which his sister had made. A dark girl on her hands and knees, the folds of her faded work dress sagging to the floor, a rag in hand as she scrubbed a floor.

Years later I would think of this painting when I was at an impressionist exhibit at the Art Institute of Chicago, coming across a picture by Gustave Caillebotte.

The Floor Strippers

Rocky and I would eat cereal, watch a bit of tv. His mother would always smile at me and give me a warm feeling. We reluctantly would leave his comfortable house and walk back the way I had come, to the school yard.

One day while we were in class, I had carelessly blurted out to Rocky that Mexican's spoke like dogs. I know how bad this sounds, but my intention wasn't cruel, rather I was trying to convey my frustration with not being able to understand Rocky's family when they spoke. It was like listening to something as foreign as a dog bark.

Within seconds of my saying those thoughtless words Rocky flew into a rage and saw blood - my blood - he ran after me and I'm sure he would have crushed me to a pulp had I not been faster than him. We raced around the room until the teacher caught Rocky. He was sobbing, and looked as if I had just murdered his mother.

From that day on I knew I would not be able to visit Rocky at his home again. He told me a few days later that when his parents asked him about who had said such a horrible thing, he did not have the heart to tell them it was me. His parent's liked me, and he believed it would hurt them if they knew I was the one.

Rocky and I rarely spoke after that, and I never forgave myself for saying such a stupid thing. I had meant no harm to Rocky, and I respected Mexican people.

I learned that day that a simple blunder with words, an act of just a few seconds, can destroy years of friendship. I no longer trusted words, and decided I didn't like talking. What a waste.....

As I walked down Vine street, the wet pavement throwing long, garish reflections at me, I relived that painful day. My distrust of words was still strong, and I still preferred silence to speaking.

I walked around town, making numerous photographs in the dark, moist loneliness of early morning. Just as the sun was coming up I decided to stop at work and put in a couple of hours.

I was feeling kind of tired by the time I left work, more from reliving the past than anything that had happened earlier that morning. Walking home, the sun's light glared white in the streets, making me squint and smile. How much had really changed in 30 years? Walking along in the morning light, I was that same kid bopping along to Rocky's house, just a few thousand memories richer.

5:38am