Untitled - St. Pius X Catholic High School

he light shone through a the dimly lit shop
and fell perfectly on the old rolleiflex lying on
the counter. Robert gazed at the camera.
He closed his eyes and tried to hold back the
memories that flooded his consciousness. Robert
saw the pictures he had taken with the camera
clearly, as if they too were lying on the counter.
He remembered the protests he had covered for
the local paper. He could still hear the dogs bark
as the police unleashed them on the crowd of
demonstrators. He felt the thud of the clubs as they
came down on the protesters’ heads. Capturing it
all through his photographic lens, Robert had felt
even closer to the chaos.
here had been urgency back then, a feeling
that life hinged on whether or not he got
the story out through his pictures. He felt
it was his duty to be there when the riots broke
out, or when a package bomb devastated another
all-black church. Robert had been an activist, an
idealistic youth. Working for a newspaper in Mobile,
he had covered a society at the height of tension.
He was sure something was about to give way, and
he wanted to be up front with his camera when it
did.
obert didn’t care about the money or the
notoriety, as long as the stories he covered
got out. But when a large media company
in Atlanta bought the paper, Robert was asked to
leave. He felt betrayed. Everything he had learned
about duty seemed fickle and immature now.
Forced to find another job, he took a position as an
insurance broker in the downtown area. Slowly,
the sense of purpose that had inspired his youth
faded into his new life. The inspiration of ideals
seeped out of Robert as time gradually evaporated
intent. He didn’t care about changing the world
anymore, and the camera was an old, forgotten
friend. He didn’t care about anything anymore, or
so he thought.
obert closed his eyes and tried to forget.
Just then, the attendant behind the counter
appeared. He had slick, black hair, a sharp
nose, and wore thick-rimmed glasses that seemed
to enlarge his eyes. Taking one look at Robert’s
camera, his eyes lit up as if he saw a treasure chest
lying on the counter. The man gently picked up
the black apparatus and looked at Robert with the
inquisitive eyes of an appraiser.
“Where did you get this?” the man asked, a
hint of suppressed emotion revealed in his voice.
“It was a present from my parents,” Robert
replied, irritated and perplexed by the man’s interest
in his camera. “It was used then, so it must be pretty
old.”
“Oh, why yes. This camera is from Kodak’s
1910 series. I’ve only seen maybe two others like
it,” the man replied, rotating the
camera gently in his hand and
taking notice of the dents and
marks on the camera’s body. He
mumbled quietly to himself in
concern, as if the camera had been
an abused child. “It’s a shame
yours is in such poor condition, or
else you might’ve been able to get
some more use out of it.”
“I just want it cleaned,” Robert
said, wondering to himself why
he hadn’t used the camera in so
long. No time, he thought. Ever
since leaving the paper, Robert had
been bogged down at his new
job with the insurance company.
The job paid twice as much as
the newspaper, but money seemed to have lost
its value with Robert. He missed the days when
ideals meant more profit. He loved the sensation
of believing. He had never been the same since
he stopped taking pictures. Something was missing
from his life, whether he wanted to admit it or not.
ìI’m sorry sir, but there is nothing I can do for
you here. We stopped carrying the parts you need
a long time ago,” the man said. His voice was hard
and there was a growing sense of accusation. “It’s
a shame you waited ‘til now to get it looked at.”
obert felt a pang of regret and helplessness,
as if he had chosen not to save a friend’s life.
“You mean you can’t fix it?” he asked.
But the attendant did not answer. He only
turned the camera over one last time before placing
it down and walking to the back of the shop.
Robert did not know what to say. He
thought the camera would be an easy fix, only
needing a few parts. Robert had loved this camera
in his youth, and all he had wanted was to feel that
same love again. But he
had waited too long to
save his old friend. The
world had progressed
and the camera was
now an outdated model,
something to be encased
in a museum. Robert gently lifted the camera from
the counter. He looked over with caring, youthful
eyes. Every bump and scratch on the body was felt
in Robert’s heart. The camera had once been an
extension of Robert’s life and dreams. It had been
his outlet, a medium for his radical adolescence.
But it was all over now, he thought. There would
be no revisiting of his past, no recalling of a better
time.
ejected, Robert left the camera shop and
walked down a narrow street that emptied
onto the piers. The cool sea breeze and
the light sunshine did not wake him from his
disheartened trance. “Why did I wait so long?” he
asked himself over and over. Life had surely gotten
in Robert’s way. But now the only life he wanted
was the one he would never be able to return to,
even if the camera had worked.
ust then, a strong rush of wind hit Robert
from behind, knocking him to the ground.
Robert’s head hit the curb hard and he
heard a muted snap, as if a whip had been cracked
nearby. He lay face down on the hard cement, blood
trickling from his nose, unable to comprehend what
had happened. Slowly he began to sit up, holding
his throbbing head with one hand and his bleeding
nose in the other. Then, he felt his side where the
camera had been swinging a second before. There
was nothing there now. Robert snapped back into
reality, jumped to his feet and looked around. He
immediately saw a brown-haired man carrying the
camera dart into a side street. The pain in his head
dissipated. His only thought was for his useless
camera.
e ran as fast as he could after the man.
Dashing into the darkened side street, he
began to gain on the thief. Trashcans and
parked cars lined the narrow road. The man, not
realizing that he was now the prey, had let Robert
come within feet. But Robert did not stop, his
mind blinded with pictures of abusive police and
unfeeling batons. Robert leaped at the man holding
the camera, and they came crashing down on a set
of trashcans.
obert could hear
the dogs barking
and the sirens
screaming. He grabbed
the man by the collar and
punched him swiftly across
the face. Then, he jumped on the man’s stomach
and punched him again. The man could not defend
himself against Robert’s new intent. Robert was
punching for his wasted life, for his lost ideals, and
for his stolen camera. Blood splattered onto Robert’s
shirt and poured out onto the street, forming a dark
red puddle. Robert sat there for what seemed like
hours, beating away at the man’s face.
inally, something snapped. Robert stopped
his fists and realized the man was no longer
moving. Robert stood up, feeling sick and
numb. He looked around in a daze and his eyes fell
upon a black object strewn out in the road. It was
smashed to pieces, almost as bad as the man lying
by the trashcans. Then, Robert recognized it. But
it was too late to save his broken, beloved camera.
Robert fell to the ground, his face in his hands.
Tears streamed down his face and onto the street,
forming a small puddle next to the sea of red.