kodachrom-lob5

I laugh. “No way, man. Half of those slides are of some guy’s family and Christmas trees and useless shots
like that. I don’t want those. I can’t do anything with those. I want landscapes and pictures of old wooden
fishing boats.”
“Yeah, but the other ones are good. You saw them.”
“Yeah, but . . .”
“Okay, give me three hundred!”
“I’ll give you one-fifty.”
“Make it two hundred.”
“Deal.”
We shake on it over the bar.
Anthony lifts his beer mug and takes a big gulp. I pause for a moment to exhale, now that the sudden
bargaining session has ended almost as fast as it erupted.
I look around at where I am and think about what I’m doing, and I get a strange sensation. I’m not an actor,
and this is not a scene from a movie, yet I have been transported briefly to another place. Where did I go for
fifteen minutes? The way The Dock looks, it could be 1950 right now. Lobstermen today don’t look much
different from the way they did back then.
In the space of a mere fifteen minutes, I went from minding my own business to doing business with a
lobsterman who just came off a fishing boat with a batch of mysterious old thirty-five-millimeter slides from
fifty-odd years ago.
The reality of paying Anthony his two hundred dollars and paying for my clam dinner snaps me back to the
present. I suddenly realize, after checking my wallet, that I don’t have the full two hundred in cash to pay
Anthony for the thirty or so slides. I feel embarrassed and a bit apprehensive about welching on a deal,
especially because I am way out of my element and surrounded by Anthony’s lobstering and fishing buddies,
all with strong hands and tough faces and downing big beers and drinks served straight up.
“I need to go find a cash machine. How ’bout I follow you to the bank, because you live here and know where
to go. I’ll take out some cash and pay you.”
“Sure, no problem,” Anthony assures me.
Then he surprises me once again.
“You know, after we do this deal and you like what you get, I have more of these at home.”
“Oh, really?” I turn toward him again with interest. “How many more?”
“Yeah. About three hundred more slides, I think.”
“No kidding.” Now the dollar signs move from him to swirl around my head. I’m beginning to see imaginary art
galleries filled with the long-lost Montauk Photos. I’ll be famous in art circles. What a find! I want those three
hundred. A half-filled box is not enough. Suddenly I want more—I want them all!