It was photo shoot day again. I had been reminded the day before when she yelled, so I could hear, “Photo shoot tomorrow!” Then, on the day of, she sent the suit through that swinging flap at the bottom of the door that my meals also came through. I always had to wear a suit for the photo shoot, a boy’s version of a grown man’s suit. She’d knock three times to give me a five-minute warning, time to get dressed. Luckily, the tie was a clip-on. Then she’d come in with the equipment: a tripod for the camera, lighting on stands, and her Nikon. As she set everything up, neither of us spoke.
The photo shoot was a semi-annual event. As I was still very much a growing boy, sometimes the suit would fit too tightly, and when she noticed this she’d call me a little guttersnipe, as if it were my fault. I didn’t know the word “guttersnipe,” mind you, but from the tone of her voice I could tell it wasn’t a good thing. Years later, when I found out what the word meant, I had to laugh, because I was anything but a guttersnipe before.
“Well, I guess I’ll have to buy you yet another new suit for the next one,” she said, exasperated. “Meanwhile we’ll do our best with what we have. Just look relaxed.” But she never hit me, I’ll give her that. She gave me directions on how to pose. “Watch the birdie,” she’d say, and laugh to herself.
“Well, that’ll do it for today. I’m sure she’ll appreciate this one,” she said with another snicker. All the photos, she had told me before, were sent to my mother, with no return address. She broke down the equipment and packed it up. “See you in six months.”
She left my “room” and locked the door again, leaving me there with little to do but softly sing the few songs I remembered from before and to fantasize, yearningly, about the next photo shoot.
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