Creative: Maine-taining

Ten minutes go fast. A cover this time. I burn half the time on typeface. This and that and this again. Can’t find anything I like. A placement to balance or unbalance another placement. An image far below the standards of my imagination, but a magical night of pure humidity and the fortuitous decision to reserve a table inside as the outside world gets pounded. Fish and mussels and the occasional shrimp. Doors to the kitchen bang out and shut. A man with prostate issues stands ready by the restroom, unsure whether to stay or go.

“I listen to Lithium radio,” he said.

“Three dead singers per hour.”

“A nice, small airport,” I counter.

“The terrorists love it,” he followed.

Then came the story. The rental car drive from Boston, the dinner at Pizza Hut, and the airport worker who urged them to speed up so they could make the flight.

“I gotta go,” he said, packing up his Jansport backpack. “My mom is looking for me.”

“Pretty smart for a dumb kid,” I thought to myself.

The flights west are overbooked, crowded, and filled with slovenly people in pajamas and food-stained pants and shirts. “Never again,” I say to myself about this gem of an airline, knowing the lie before I even think it. I will return. There will be a time and a need and a deadline for performance. The hotel room and its view of the industrial park next door become my fortress. My safe place where nothing permeates my being. There is the extroverted outdoors and the introverted indoors. The pen and paper, books, and stillness that allow me to return to base.

Over twenty-four hours of travel time, there and back. Twelve out and fourteen on the return. A red eye to guarantee my instability and fogginess. Everyone around me on Instagram. Blocking the aisle, failing to rise from their seat until someone yells, “MOVE!” They look up, stunned and glassy-eyed, returning from a goonish world of all things dumb. I make a quick mental calculation. How much of my life wasted by theirs? The number is troubling.

Something travels through my body. A foreign adversary. Reading my physical tea leaves, I have a good idea what it might be. Nothing impacts me like normal people. Oh no, my body is a temperamental wasteland of invading armies, each fighting for control and dominance. Lyme resetting everything. I do thirty-five miles on the bike, then run three and a half, just to see what happens. There is fatigue and brain fog, precisely what the medical world told me was a figment of my imagination. I’ve been here many times before. They can suck it for all I care. I am the king of my castle now. Time is the only cure for something like this. Let it have a look and pass through. Slowly, the aches and pains subside, the fog lifts, and I know I’m on the backside. “I can do anything,” I say to myself. “I am capable.” “I can weather the storm.”

The conversation at the table is rife with disinformation followed by misinformation. By the time the talk landed here, the original story has been obliterated, channeled into fields of red and blue. He doesn’t say hello or introduce himself. He just starts in on the usual suspects. California, Illinois, and New York. All the ills of the world. Turned sideways in his chair, hat pulled low. Debunked after debunked after debunked, served up quietly to test the waters. Friend or foe? This is just my game. I nod but utter nothing until the opening presents itself. A counterattack, balancing the red with blue. Personal experiences, unlike those he mimics through his television brain. He tells a fascinating story, one with intimate detail. He finally turns and smiles at me , thinking my king has fallen. “I was there,” I say. His face falls. He reaches an unsteady hand for his lukewarm coffee and artificial creamer. “Ya, well,” he says as he turns sideways again, staring off into a world of fear and hate.

The water is over the road, and the lifeguards are gone, back in school. Everything now is at your own risk. Swim out, I say. Take a chance. See where the tide takes you. A mom buys a brand new boogieboard as the swell hits its peak. “Darwin would be proud,” I say to myself as she drives off in a brand new Rover equipped with roof rack and engine snorkel. Might come in handy when the search for the missing child begins. Just drive that baby in, like in the commercials. Go far, explore, wild places, extreme, or whatever phrase fits the bill.

The ride from the airport proves to be the scariest ride of my life. The ride-share car is making so much noise I can’t hear the driver, and I can feel parts moving under my feet. “I thought the new tires would reduce the noise,” the driver shouts in my direction. “No such luck,” he adds. I double-check my seatbelt and make a plan for the rollover and subsequent fireball. His gas gauge reads full. “Please don’t get on the highway in this shitbox,” I say to myself as he punches it, heading for the onramp. Right to the fast lane. The speedo is reading 85 and rising.

He’s old. A real Mainer. Speaking in a way, and with a heavy accent. I’m several sentences behind, translating as the car shakes violently. A story of near-death the day before. His boat, anchor fouled, taking on water, far from shore, his wife can’t swim, bilge pump non-functional, and the only way back is his ancient Minn Kota trolling motor. I position myself for impact, hoping we hit a dry patch and not some marshy space where I get trapped sucking air from a small pocket near the roofline. Finally, our exit. A breath of relief as the floor of the car gets hot under my feet.

The CEO asks if I will shoot a group shot. You know the answer. We line up in the street. A small side street between hip restaurants and shops. I bang away the frames. Someone asks why I’m not in the image. I say, “Because I’m in all the rest.” As we leave, the CEO says, “Hey, let me photograph you.” “Small green box in the middle,” I say. “Put that on me, press halfway down till the box glows green, then press all the way.” Like a boss, he shoots one frame and one frame only.