Snapshots

As a photographer, Frank always tries his best to find the beauty in even the ugliest of things. He's still a bit new at the concept- the whole “photography business,” but is a quick learner. It hasn't made him a bunch of money as of yet, and he's feeling a bit regretful spending his summer's savings working part-time at the Super Mart down the road on an expensive camera. It looks past it, however, thanking his choice for giving him an opportunity to do something new instead of “waste his time trying to play guitar.”

“It's not just an expensive camera!” Frank says defensively at times, “It's a Canon EOS 60D DSLR Camera with an 18-135mm IS Lens.” A couple of weeks ago, that wouldn't have made a lick of sense to the teen. But as mentioned, he's a quick leaner.

As if that mattered, half of him felt the same way about spending that amount of money on something so small. He spent a whole fucking lot of money on a stupid camera that barely makes money in return. After days and days of scolding and criticism from his mom, he promised to make her at least some money by the end of the year, as proof of the camera not being a useless buy after all.

Every day, he thought about what to take a photo of next. He thought about the things around his small town: The town hall, the cracked sidewalks, the skies and fences. Anything that would catch the eye of a fancy pants, snooty asshole who finds some “hidden meaning” behind a stupid picture. Happened twice already, luckily enough. One guy, an older entrepreneur, found one of Frank's photos in a gallery he submitted them into in town. It was a photograph of a woman and her dog walking down the street, black and white. The man bought it for forty bucks, which was good enough for Frank at the time. He felt on top of the world, being one of the very few seventeen-year olds in his group of friends with that kind of money. He realized soon enough, though, that he would need to take more photos of random women if he was going to burn through his money as fast as he did on useless junk and snacks.

It's about the third week into Autumn, and he has only made thirty dollars. (Other than the two he previously sold, which only made him seventy bucks. All spent on a new bike.) With low hopes, he applied for the local newspaper as their new photographer, once he heard the old one had been murdered in an on-going, regional mass murdering (Which he hoped he'd be able to investigate on his own time). The guy was an old grouch anyway, he heard, he had it coming eventually.

A day after applying, he got the job. They were desperate, the manager tells him, for being such a small town, it was hard to get people willing to do such a shitty job. But Frank took it happily, and was given his first few assignments right after his interview.

Filled with excitement, Frank rode home on his new bike, camera slung on his side (In its respected case, of course) and his backpack around his shoulders. He didn't stop anywhere for once, actually. He rode straight home from the paper's office, taking a good ten minutes.

He pulled up in front of his apartment, parking and locking his bike up before climbing the stairs to the third floor.

After unlocking the door with the key under the mat, he swung it open, greeting the pups and turning on the TV for some background noise. It'd help him feel less alone. He fed the dogs real quick and kicked off his shoes.

On his way to his room, he grabbed a bag of chips and a coke; just something quick to eat for dinner. His mom worked night shift at a small kidney dialysis care center, so she was hardly around. He was an only child, so he didn't really have anyone to keep him company at night. He spent most of his evenings with his friends or around town on his bike once school was out.

He plopped down on his bed and unwrapped his first assignment from the manila folder he was given as well as his chips. Taking a bite of one, he read over the instructions.

Due September 23rd, Wednesday. That was two days from now.

A photo of the graffiti at town hall and a “no skating” sign. Simple enough, right?

It sunk in then, letting Frank realize that being a photographer shouldn't be so bad after all. I mean, he found a paying job now, and all he had to do was take pictures of stuff. Not bad at all. It sure as hell beat working over a hot stove in the back of some fast food restaurant.

Frank sat on his bed for a few minutes, eating his snack of a dinner, trying to imagine the stories behind the photos he was going to need to take.

He knew about the kids who were doing the graffiti; just a bunch of sophomores who were always doing the craziest shit. He felt a bit of remorse for whoever had to clean up all that mess on the town hall, considering all the work it must take to clean off a bunch of kids' fun.

And the no-skating sign he'd need to find was pretty self explanatory. Just a bunch of kids probably doing things they weren't supposed to. Frank never really saw himself as being “that' kind of teen.

He was always laid back, never rambunctious. Had his fair experience with pot, but never took it far, and actually finding it to be boring after a few months of experimenting. He drew and wrote some, but that was it. He struggled in some of his classes, like math, but who didn't nowadays? He was just an average kid that no one really pays attention to. And he was fine with that.

There's nothing extraordinary about his looks either. His skin's fair, Italian mostly, and he's very short in stature. He has black hair and a messy mohawk that he hardly ever put up.

Besides his lanky figure, he has a few tattoos that his mom has no idea about due to the fact that she hardly ever sees him without his usual gray hoodie. He has a lip and nose piercing, but that was it. He just seemed like a kid that would fit perfectly in a background. And he was fine with that.

Frank was fit with being just a “background” character, even in his “own story”, as he put it. He's accepted that there was no princess coming out that fell madly in love with him that he'd have to protect. No. He's just that kid in the back that never speaks up. He's Frank Anthony Iero. And he was fine with that.

The teen shook out of his haze and focused at the clock. Eight o' clock. He figured he'd save his shower for the morning, and went ahead and undressed, going down to his boxers and crawling into bed. Staying up late was never his thing. He appreciated the little things in life, like sleeping, way too much.

Before getting comfortable, however, he picked up his camera and went through his routine “photo cleansing.” He would check all the pictures he took that day, and erase the ones he found to not be as good as the others. After a few minutes of decisively deleting copies of the photos he took, he set his camera down on its charger and laid down.

Curling up in his sheets, he thought of how eager he was to start working for the town's newspaper. It was a rank deemed brag-worthy to him.

Town photographer. That had a nice ring to it. Kind of...

He fell to sleep with the thought of meeting the mayor, showing him his favorite landscaping portraits Frank took, being gifted with a gold medal and twenty hot girlfriends. He was Frank Iero. Photographer and crime solver of his little town of Allenwood. A hero. But still, the background character of his own story, somehow. And he was fine with that.

Notes

Most boring introduction ever. Oops!