bARTknows

It's a quarter past ten, and like most evenings, I'm developing film in the dark confines of my blacked-out apartment bathroom and closet. I can only develop black and white film, typically my flavor is hand rolled TMax 400 that I received in a one hundred foot roll as a gift from a friend. I derive exhilaration and meditation from developing my own film. The process of time, temperature, and precision under the cloak of darkness. It's very peaceful and elegant. Water lifts away the silver precipitants revealing a moment in time. Its cyclical simplicity is stark: the positive produces a negative that produces a positive. Such a simple metaphor, isn't it?

After the final wash, I peer through the frames eagerly in the light above my bathroom sink. I search for a few perfect glimpses of my perspective, eternalized in silver emulsion and polyester. Insights into how I experience the world. Moments I can use to relate to others.

As Ted comes to life in the black and white negatives, moments on that sidewalk fill my recollection. Under the close scrutiny of my loupe, the frames are vignetted slightly with deep contrasting shadows and a grain I can almost see with my naked eye; all sure signs that the film is almost totally spoiled. I can't wait to get them printed.

Uli is Hungarian, quiet, balding, a smoker, and by far one of the best portrait developers I've ever met. He greets me with his eyes pursed as if still shielding them from the smoke of a cigarette he tossed minutes ago in the dark room. He nods at me with affirmation, the blonde curly tufts of hair bounce on his head. He says, "'Dis is good—his i's like soft ee's. Who is dis? I made two each like you want." I nod as he spreads them out carefully across the table, shows me the details, boasts over the precision of his lampwork in a way so humble, I feel as if I could take credit for it though I had no more to do with printing than he had to do with the development of the film. I smile and lean in, picking up the black magnifying loupe on the counter.

Peering in closely, the eyes are so familiar; the phosphorescence of his skin against the darkness of his hat. The beaming whiteness of the platinum strands bursts from his cheeks and jaw. I don't even hear Uli describing how I might have scratched the film by rolling too much into the reusable cannister. My gaze is fixed on the darkness of his eyes. The red filter. Dramatic dark blue skies become nearly black in the white contrast of the clouds. Ted's eyes had done the the same.

With the silent high whine of worn brake pads, my car creeps to a crawl at his corner. The blue mailbox sits alone. No Ted. I glance to the storefront Ted described to me and see it is open for business. A dark obscured figure I assume to be Ed Lilly arranges various sundries under the awning. I circle around, touching the white envelope through the clear ziploc bag in the seat beside me.

Immediately, Ed strikes me as a fairly upbeat and comfortable European man. Greek, maybe. His store is packed to the gills with anything you'd need on impulse during a lunch break. Magazines and newspapers pack the walls so tightly among toothbrushes, headache powders, lighters with flashing LED breasts, cigars, cigarettes sold individually, condoms, hair gel, and the list goes on to everything imaginable that you could fit discretely in a coat pocket.

"What can I do for you, my young friend?" The way he says 'my young friend', with a little splash of sass and sarcasm, paints a pleasant smirk on my face. I like this guy. He smiles.

"Are you Ed? Ed L...?" I stop, remembering Ted's jab at Ed's last name.

"Suure am, how can I help you?"

I introduce myself, then give him my quick back story on Ted, how I took photos while he he told me about Fili. With no one at his storefront, Ed listens intently. During my storytelling, his posture assumes a more relaxed, almost amused stance.

"Of course, I will give these to Ted. You have my word." He takes the bag from my hand and I can't help but wonder where Ted might be. I must have it written on my face, because Ed interjects, "He's gone uptown, to meet his daughter."

Ed realizes immediately that I'm clueless. A daughter? It suddenly occurs to me that Ted is more than that one story and a bunch of pictures. I have a spinning realization in my mind. History. Ours. Yours. Mine. Everything.

Snapping back to reality, I see Ed with his hand out, "Anything else, Mr. Bart?"

"Nope, thanks." I walk back to my car with one thing on my mind: Ted's daughter.

He's wearing a familiar set of brown cotton gloves, their fingers halved to accommodate the cool May evening air. "How have you been?? Did Ed give you the photos?"

He takes out the ziploc bag, most of its original contents missing. Puzzled, I wait for an answer to either question. He brings one hand to his beard and with the other massages the remaining photo between his thumb and index finger in a way that makes me think he's going to tell me the thickness of the paper.

"Yeah, Ed gave 'em to me a month ago. They're pretty good. Didn't realize that's how I look. I kinda forgot and even stopped giving a shit, really. Funny how that fades. You're looking alright, Bart. Good of you to remember to bring them to me." Despite the faint smell of dried urine wafting off his clothing—though I can't be sure it's him and not the alley—he looks a little healthier, leaner and less swollen or jaundiced.

Slightly annoyed that only a single photo remains, I ask, "So where'd the rest go?"

"My daughter."

"Would you tell me about her?" Curiosity captivates me and I let go of my annoyance.

He gives me a gentle nod, locks his blue eyes on me, and tells me about a young woman living in Alabama with her own daughter. His daughter is a nurse. Ted is a grandfather. When I ask him about why he doesn't live with her, he explains how she tried to take him in but the pain of his past and his admitted love affair with the bottle were simply too much for the household to handle. He tells me how he came here to stay with a friend who frankly never existed. He says he did it against her wishes.

"I don't want to complicate their lives. Don't wanna hurt her any more, Bart. I'm crazy. I know it. She comes to see me every now and then, just to see how I'm holding up." Essentially he ran away from a loving home as an escape. He's been here ever since. I can't even begin to imagine what his daughter feels knowing her father is living his life out on the street. It hurts me to think about this. I can't decide if Ted is selfish or selfless.

My resentment builds, "So that's it then, Ted? Your daughter comes to visit you despite the fact you ran away from her and your only family to come here and wallow in your own sorrows. Is that what you are telling me? Is it all because of Vietnam? Have you tried to get help for what happened? Counseling...?"

The surging anger of his reply gives away the reality that I'd struck a serious personal chord. I just crossed the line, no doubt, "Counseling!?! What the fuck do those pen pushing assholes know about my life?!?...what I fucking lived through and all I sacrificed." He looks as if his rage is enough to bring him to his feet.

Backing down, I pause for a moment. "Really, Ted, listen, I apologize..."

"Yeah, well, fuckin'-a Bart. You're what, twenty-three? Twenty-two? You don't know shit about nothin'. "

"I know. I have no right to assume that I understand the least of what you've lived through. I'm sorry. Look, I'll go... sorry." I can't say I want to agree, but he's right. I really don't know shit about nothin'. I'm a young immigrant ivy league brat who think he can save the world one idealistic conversation at a time.

"Bart, no...it's ok. Stick around for a minute..." Ted tells me about how he didn't want anything to happen to those photos. He never had a single photo to give his daughter and gave them to her. He tells me that he really loves her and enjoys her company when she visits. Several times, he restates not wanting to bring hurt into her home. It makes me sad to hear all of this. In the worst way. I can only relate to feeling that way when I've done something I believe is shameful and I can't bear the thought of anyone finding out about it, especially those you love most.

The conversation winds down and after a few moments of silence, I ask, "Ted, you hungry? I was thinking of getting myself a sandwich somewhere around here. Can I get you something? Anything, really, your choice."

He mumbles something, then replies with a smile, "I could go for some good old fashion southern fried chicken, milk, and some okra. Oh, throw in an eighteen year old hooker and bottle of vodka."

With a pat on the back, "No hookers and vodka, Ted. I'll try for the okra, but I know just where to get you some great chicken and milk." I make a round trip and watch him eat while we share some more small talk. I enjoy my sandwich.

The summer's been good to me. Classes are about to begin. I'm gliding down the street on a hot August day. The Sun burns the clouds away overhead, digging its hot fingers into my skin as I turn the cranks on my bike. The ticking freewheel spins, whizzing as the wind rolls like water over the steaming pavement after a light morning shower. The clouds spin in the deep blue sky. I wheel behind the Tabernacle—home to some of the greatest concerts of the summer—and see Fairlie St out of the corner of my eye. Slowing to a steady cruise, I set my course down the alley to find a familiar face.

The screeching cacophony of the belts fights the loudness of fans cooling the interiors for thankless tenants reminds me that a year has come and gone. I stop and close my eyes, thinking back to how much has changed. The smell of the alley brings back memories, and I relive that humbling, awkward moment when I first encountered Ted. How embarrassing.

I open my eyes and search the alley. No Ted. I move to the mouth of the alley and pause again. I look left, then right, then left again. No Ted. Something is different this time. I'm not sure what exactly but I have a strange clairvoyant feeling of something being out of place. Checking Ed's shop front, I see he's open for business.

I find the familiar face I was looking for, "Hi Ed! I don't know if you remember me, Bart."

"Suuure sure. You're the guy, the photographer, Ted's friend. Been a couple months, no? How you been?"

Strangely, I light up a little at his choice of words, "Yeah, that's me. Been pretty busy getting ready for my last year of school...Listen, I'm just curious about Ted. How's he doing?"

Without a moment's pause, he responds, "He's gone, my friend." He smiles. Strange as it is to hear those words, his voice is upbeat, almost excited.

"Beg your pardon...? Gone, what do you mean, gone?"

"Ha! Yes, my friend, Ted is gone. And I told him, if he ever comes back here, I will kill him with my bare hands." He speaks with a touch of gravity now that has my head spinning. I don't know if he's joking. I don't understand.

Laughing almost, he gives his knee a good slap and tucks a Bic pen he's holding behind his ear, "Bart, Ted moved away with his daughter, he's not sick or anything, actually quite the opposite. I wrote him a check for all the savings, and sent him on his way. Told him never to come back!"

"I'm sorry. Check? Savings? Ted?"

"Yessssir! You see Bart, he got monthly checks from the VA—the veterans, from the war—for his feet, he was a purple heart you know?

When he came out here a while back, I always saw him sitting out there on his corner all the time. He looked really messed up sometimes, you know? So I'd give him water and food—I got to talking to him found out he's pretty smart that guy, just a little messed up from what happened to him in Vietnam.

He always wanted to pay me, asking if I could cash some checks for him, saying I can keep my share for the food and give him the rest. Then he asks me if he can get checks sent to the store to make it easy for him. I say 'Suuure! Of course!'. When he asked me to cash them, I was expecting to get a little check here and there but no! Government checks! Every month! Nine hundred dollars and change!"

I baulk, "What!?"

"I started taking care of that money for him. For years, Bart. Years. He would get into tough times and come cursing and screaming 'Fuck, shit, this that, you know...' I always knew he was wasting it away on booze when I gave it to him, so I didn't. I knew better. Boy, he would get pissed... On the upside, I saved and saved, sometimes I would get him a hotel room so he could get cleaned up and feel like a man.

You know how much he had in the end? Guess, Bart," I shrug gently and shake my head a little, completely dumbfounded at this point, but starting to feel a glimmer of inspiration.

He pauses, looks around and leaning forward he says, "Twenty-nine thousand dollars. Tax free." He nods his head in way that only amplifies my complete bewilderment.

Ed has a massive grin on his face. I put out my hand to him, "Ed, that is amazing. I will never forget this." The firm handshake says it all, "This means a lot to me, Ed. To hear this. I am inspired."

"All he left me is his photo. I wouldn't take anything else if he offered. It is from you, no?" He turns the photo over, a name scribbled on the back with a note. I recognize it from that cool day in May. I can't read it. I wouldn't if I could.

Ed pats me on the shoulder and tightens the green apron around his waist. Smiling gently, in his warm European tone, he says, "He is a good man, Bart. Sometimes our lives become too much for us. Poisoned by our own minds. This is true for everyone in this life. We are vulnerable. We make ourselves vulnerable and we help others. We share their experiences through stories as much as we live through our own. Good and bad. This is life, Bart. This is the world we must live in. We are all together. Life may not seem as fair as we may like, but we get by, don't we? We get by. Sometimes, we need a little help...and a friend."

I stare at the photograph on the green counter at Ed Lilly's news stand. The light around me radiates from the center of a man open-minded and conscious. Cars, people, hoards of us incomplete and frantic in this ocean of chaos bustle to an fro on the streets. I am one among them. I accept it, and I feel infinitely reduced by the humility of it all.

Ted broke free of his own imprisonment. Months pass, and every time I drive past the mouth of the alley, I see the blue mailbox, the bustling corner host to a memories forever etched into my mind. Where happiness and hope should be, a sadness and the sense of loss grow with every empty pass and sink slowly into an abyss of my emotions. I want the chance to tell Ted I appreciated our experience and the realizations it brought. It's an opportunity I know I will never get.

fin.