A text message flashed on my cell phone this evening at about 6:45:
"Look at the moon! xoxo"
I do as my gadgets tell me, especially when there are x's and o's involved, so I stepped over to my window and peeked through the blinds. "Ah yes," I said, suddenly reminded that there was a full moon tonight, "There's a full moon tonight."
I hesitated before grabbing my camera bag, since I knew the moon wouldn't be nearly as spectacular by the time I got anywhere. But I figured I'd run out anyway and hit a recently abandoned factory I've been meaning to shoot.
After about half an hour trying to make the building's midcentury entryway appear as interesting on film as it was in person, a white van pulled up next to my car. Security, I figured. I expected someone eventually.
Now, I've been in this situation enough times to know what to do:
- Smile. It throws them off. Especially if you wave and say hi.
- Introduce yourself and tell them what you're doing. Those were going to be their first two questions, anyway, and they won't know where to go next.
- Try to chat them up about the architecture. They seriously won’t care. They'll just be glad you aren't tagging anything and will be anxious to get back to their magazine.
Using this technique, I'm usually on my way in less than 5 minutes.
Unfortunately, this was no security. Just a guy in a dirty T-shirt who looked like he gave himself his own haircuts. I performed step one anyway. As I attempted step two, he interrupted me by answering his cell phone. After quickly assuring the calling party that the situation was under control, he asked me, "What are you doing here?"
"Just taking some pictures," I answered.
"Pictures ...?" He was baffled. He asked the question like I just told him the Styx broke up and this was the first he had heard about it.
"Yeah ... pictures." I figured it was pretty obvious the camera on my shoulder hadn't been attached to its tripod for the purpose of busting windows.
"Pictures? Oh, you must be with the ..." He stopped. This sentence fragment would haunt me for hours. He started up again. "Pictures for what?"
"Just a hobby."
"Hobby ...?" He did it again. He reminded me of Mr. Burns confronted with the concept of a recycling center. Ree-cy-cleeng?
The next few minutes were repetitive and puzzling, but somewhere in there I discovered that this guy, at least according to him, was somebody hired to remove some equipment remaining in the rear of the building. The rest of it basically boiled down to his asking for my business card, which I told him I didn't have (as his business wasn't something I was looking for), then insisting I tell him my personal cell-phone number. He was honestly surprised I wouldn't give it to him.
After asking for, and being denied, my phone number a second time — having yet to even ask my name — he concluded, "Well, if you're not going to give me your number, I'll have to write down your license plate." I acknowledged his predicament and simply packed my camera away.
When I turned around a minute later, I discovered he had taken up a position right behind me. I took a firm grip on my Maglite. "So," he said, "A hobby, huh? Everybody's gotta have a hobby, I guess."
I shuffled my way around to the driver's side and got in. Step three was revised to: Lock doors and drive away hastily.
Besides, I had to go cash in my x's and o's.
