If I Lose Her (16 page)

 “As we go
into this new millennium I just want to say how lucky I am. I have been married
for 24 years to the most beautiful woman God ever put on this planet, my family
is healthy, my oldest daughter, Susan, is about to marry an extraordinary young
man and my youngest will, in less than three weeks, have her work on display in
the preeminent art gallery in the state of Colorado. God is good.”

 I smiled,
lifted my water glass and took a drink hoping nobody else noticed that Jo’s
father mentioned every person at the table but me.

 I reached
for one of the cheesy dough balls sitting in a platter in the middle of the
table and tossed it into my mouth then the meat started to arrive.

 The waiter
was dressed in a green and yellow, Brazilian outfit and carried a giant metal
skewer full of dripping sirloin steaks.

 “Picanha?”

 “Yes
please.” Then I watched him slice off two pieces of seasoned meat and lay then
on my plate. Next was the beef con alho then the fraldinha. I didn’t understand
what all the names meant, but I could practically sample what each one tasted
like from the amazing aroma each one brought with it to the table.

 If I were a
wise man I would have paced myself, but there was no wisdom found in me after
two days of stale Cheerios and Ramen noodles.

 “So Alex,
how is studio work coming?” Jo’s father asked as I prepared for the second
go-round of meats.

 “Unfortunately,
it’s not any more. Mike had to let me go because of how much business slows
down over Christmas,” I said, uncomfortable with having to lay it out for
everyone to see like that.

 “Oh, I’m
sorry to hear that. Jo said things were going well.”

 “They were.
I was practically the studio manager when I left.”

 “So, what’s
next for you?”

 “I’m not
sure. I’ve been sending work off to some magazines and newspapers around the
country, but I haven’t heard anything back yet. The lead-time on that sort of
thing can take six months sometimes.”

 “Six months?
Wow. And you have the means to hold out till then.”

 I looked at
him with a cheek full of something spicy.

 
Oh come
on. Really?

 
“I’ll
be alright.”

 He nodded
and took a drink of his soda.

 “Have you
given any further thought to school?”

 “Daddy?” Jo
said in mild protest.

 “No, it’s
okay,” I replied taking her hand.

 “I don’t
mean any offence; I’m just asking if you have any plans toward something
more…stable, that’s all.”

 “I do have a
pretty solid lead at a newspaper that I am following up on Monday.”

 “Uh huh,” he
replied turning to the waiter who held another skewer, this one with roasted
pineapples.

 “I really
appreciate the evening, but I should really get going,” I said dropping my
twenty on the table.

 “Alex wait,”
Jo said following me out.

 “Uh, sir?”

 I left the
restaurant and began walking down the sidewalk.

 “Alex,
please wait,” she said grabbing my arm. “Daddy didn’t mean anything by that.”

 I turned and
saw the maitre d’ hurrying to catch up.

 “Excuse me
sir, I just need…”

 
The
jacket.

 
I
took the jacket off, handed it to him and he went back to the restaurant.

 “Jo, I
shouldn’t have come tonight.”

 “Why?”

 “Because
this isn’t my world Jo! I don’t belong in there any more than you belong with
me. Let’s face it. I’m not going anywhere. You’re the one with the great
family. You’re the one going to the great university on the scholarship about
to show her work at the Denver Art Museum, and what am I doing? NOTHING Joe. I
can’t even get a stupid magazine to call me back.”

 “So you’re
upset that I’m going to college? You’re upset that I’m showing some work at the
museum?”

 “God Jo! NO,
that’s not it.”

 “Then tell
me what it is, because I don’t understand what the HELL is going on.”

 “You want to
know what is going on? That little dinner in there cost me my last twenty bucks
Jo. My rent is due tomorrow, and I have no way to pay it except pawn my car,
and to top it all off, the only person I would normally talk to about it is
shacked up with some ASSHOLE!”

 Jo put her
hand over her mouth and started crying. “Let me help you,” she said reaching
out for me, but I pulled away.

 I wasn’t
trying to hurt her. I shouldn’t have left her standing there on the side of the
road with tears streaming down her cheeks, but I needed to sort this one out on
my own.

 When I got
home my phone chirped.

 “I love you.
Call me,” the text message read.

 “You didn’t
do anything wrong. I just need some time,” I messaged back. Then I turned the
phone off.

 I sat on the
couch trying to calm down, but all I could do was look at her over-night bag
sitting next to the dresser and the laptop box sitting on the dresser that I
knew was empty.

 Sunday was
crappy.

 Monday
morning at 8:30 I sat watching the clock. At 9 I picked up the phone and dialed
the number Mike had given me.

 “This is
Dan.”

 “Hey Dan,
this is Alex Douglas, Michael Baxter’s assistant. Ex-assistant.”

 “How are
you?”

 “I’m good. I
spoke to Mike last week, and he said I should give you a ring. Something about
you needing a photographer.”

 “Mike says
you’re a hard worker.”

 “I am.”

 “What do you
know about photojournalism?”

 “Well, I’ve
shot a few events, and I worked for the Mile High Guide as a stringer for a
couple of months.”

 “That must
have been a shit job.”

 “Uh, I think
no comment is the journalism term I’m looking for.”

 “Hah, okay.
Can you bring something in for me to see this afternoon?”

 “Absolutely.”

 “Tell the
receptionist that you’re here to see Dan and she’ll ring me.”

 “What time?”

 “How’s 3?”

 “That’s
great. I’ll see you then.”

 Click.

 
Wow, short
and sweet.

 
I
jumped in the air as high as I could. Then I turned my phone on and texted Jo.

 “I’ve got an
interview,” I typed.

 “Good luck.
I love you,” she texted back.

 I made sure
my book was clean and together. I paper clipped a copy of my resume to the
inside cover, washed up and got in my car. The fuel gauge was just under a
quarter of a tank. I wasn’t sure if I even had enough gas to get to Boulder,
but I sure as hell was going to try.

 I pulled up
to the address I had found online, tightened my tie and walked up to the front
doors of the building with the big white letters reading: The Daily Camera.

 “May I help
you?” a young brunette asked me from behind a large desk.

 “I’m here to
see Dan Parken.”

 She lifted
the phone and dialed a number.

 “There’s a
gentleman here to see you.” Then she hung up. “He’ll be right down. Please take
a seat.”

 I was too
nervous to sit, so I looked around the lobby at framed photographs of
significant news events spanning the last hundred years. There was also a copper
print-plate with the headline: America Declares War, from December 8, 1941.

 “Alex.”

 I turned and
saw a short man with thinning grey hair holding his hand out to me.

 “Yes,” I
said shaking it.

 “Why don’t
you follow me.”

 He swiped an
electronic key-card releasing a security gate, and we walked two flights of
stairs up to the newsroom. We passed stacks of today’s newspapers from
publications all over Colorado as we walked through a grid of cubicles filled
with focused faces lit by computer monitors.

 “Greg, I
finally got the commissioner on line two,” some woman with black rimmed glasses
called out.

 We sat down
at Dan’s desk, cluttered with hand-written notes and ink-jet prints of photos
with comments scribbled in the margins.

 He reached
past me and turned down a radio from which I could hear a police officer
talking to a dispatcher.

 “So you know
Mike?”

 “Yeah. I
worked for him for a little over six months,” I said handing him my portfolio.

 “He does
some good work for us.”

 “I learned a
lot from him.”

 He flipped
through the plastic pages of my photographs, stopping to look at each one
carefully.

 “Tell me
about this shot,” he said turning the book to me and pointing to an image of a
cow caught in barbed wire with a gun-wielding rancher in the background; the
sky was an unnatural, rust-red.

 “The Mile
High Guide sent me to take some photos of the fires last June Northwest of Fort
Collins. The police wouldn’t let me get close enough to actually see any fire,
so I went around and started talking to some of the people who lived around
there, and I just happened to find this rancher. The fire had spooked his
livestock the night before, and he found this one caught in a fence the next
morning. He had to put it down.”

 “It’s a good
shot.”

 “Thanks.”

 “I had two
people working the Fort Collins fires that week and none of them got this
shot.”

 He flipped
through the rest of the pages. Then he glanced over my resume.

 “When can
you start?”

 “I can start
right away,” I said trying to maintain my rush of excitement.

 “Good. I
have one of my shooters going on vacation Friday. How does Wednesday sound?”

 “That sounds
wonderful.”

 “I’ll need a
photo ID, social security card and a letter from your school confirming that
you’re approved for an internship.”

 “An
internship?”

 He looked at
me for a moment. “Yeah, it’s a paid internship. Mike did tell you that right?”

 “I don’t
recall him mentioning it.”

 “Is that a
problem?”

 “No, not at
all. What does the internship pay?”

 “Ten an
hour, three-days-a-week and two Saturdays a month. Does that work?”

 
That is
more than Mike was paying me.

 “That’s
great.”

 “Great. I’ll
see you Wednesday. Oh, and one more thing. You’ll need credentials, and you
should probably get those now since Jane’s the only one who can make them and
she’ll be going on maternity leave any day. She’s just at the end of the hall.”

 I walked
down to Jane’s office and knocked on the door.

 “Can I
help?”

 “Yeah, I
guess I’m the new photojournalism intern. Dan said I should stop by to get some
credentials.”

 “Congratulations,”
she said smiling and handing me some forms to fill out.

 I filled
them out, she took my photo and then I sat. Fifteen minutes later she handed me
a laminated card with my photo on red paper that read: “Alex Douglas, Photo
Journalist, Daily Camera, 2001.”

 I ran my
hand over the warm plastic.
Photo. Journalist…Finally.

 
When
I got in my car, I pounded my steering wheel and screamed in excitement as I
got on the highway and drove home.

 
Photo ID.
Social Security Card. School confirmation. How am I going to get school
confirmation?

 
I
hadn’t really done any school shopping like Jo had over the past year, and I
sure as hell didn’t have the time to do any now, so I went to the only school
that came to mind, which was only blocks from my apartment. I drove past my
street and parked in the guest parking at Auraria Campus. Then I found the
admissions office under the Metropolitan State College of Denver sign, went in
and found my place in a line of students that ran down the hall and around a
corner.

 
This is
going to take forever.

 I took a
class catalogue from a stand and flipped through it while I waited. It didn’t
actually take all that long before it was my turn at the desk.

 “Can I help
you?” A real roly-poly of a lady asked.

 “Yeah, I
just need to register for an internship.”

 “Uh, you
can’t just register for an internship. You can register for classes and select
one internship per semester as part of your workload.”

 “I’d like to
do that then.”

 She handed
me a clipboard.

 “Fill these
out and bring them back with your transcripts.”

 
Transcripts?

 
“I
don’t have my transcripts with me.”

 “We can’t
register you until you fill out the forms, submit your transcripts and pay the
fee.”

 “What’s the
fee?”

 “A
non-refundable $75.”

 
$75?
SHIT!

 “Can I bring
these forms back when I have my transcripts?”

 “Yep.” Then
she looked past me to the line out her office door. “Next.”

 Classes
started next week. If I could get my high school transcripts I could register,
but where was I going to come up with the $75? I walked out to the car and
turned the key. The fuel gauge was buried deep in the red. I had a couple of
small things at my apartment I could hawk, like my camera gear, but I needed my
camera for the newspaper. I couldn’t pawn my car either, now that I was going
to be driving back and forth to Boulder three to four times a week.

 I watched
students walk back and forth in front of my car for a good fifteen minutes
while I tried to find a solution.

 Borrowing
money from Jo just wasn’t an option, which meant that there was really only one
option left.

 I turned the
car on and became fixated on the fuel gauge for the entire trip to my mother’s
house; the whole time praying that somehow my baby wouldn’t run out of fuel and
leave me stranded on the side of the highway.

 To my utter
consternation I made it.

 A sporty-red
Mitsubishi Eclipse and a duel-wheeled Ford pickup truck sat in the driveway.

 I looked at
the clock on my phone. It was nearly 6:30.

 I walked up
to the door and knocked. Knocking felt weird.

 It took a
minute, then my mother answered.

 “Alex!” She
said stepping forward and hugging me.

 “Hey, lady.”

 “How are
you? Are you okay? Is everything alright? Please, come in.”

 She stepped
back and I entered the hall.

 
I used to
know this place, but now it feels so different.

 
I
looked at the muddy pair of work boots sitting next to my mother’s flats on the
entry mat.

 
It smells
different. You smell different.

 
“I’m
okay, everything’s fine. I got some news today and to be honest, you were the
first person I wanted to talk to about it.”

 She smiled
and put her hand over her mouth like she was about to cry.

 She hugged
me again.

 “I’ve missed
you,” she whispered.

 “I missed
you too lady.”

 
The house
smells like food. They must have just finished dinner.

 
“I’m
not interrupting anything am I?”

 “NO, no. We
were just washing up. Are you hungry? There’s leftovers.”

 Then Peter
walked around the corner from the kitchen with a dishtowel in his hands.

 “Hey kid,”
he said smiling and walking over to shake my hand.

 I shook his
hand and determined that there was nothing left to be said or done about him
and my mom, so I just needed to make the best of it.

 “How you
doin’? You hungry? We can throw a plate together for ya.”

 “No, that’s
okay. I just got some news and wanted to stop by and share it.”

 “Well, come
on in,” Peter said pointing me to the living room.

 I sat down
on the couch and looked around.

 Some of the
house was still so very familiar to me, but some of it was so different. There
was a deer head mounted on the wall above the television, and a rifle resting
in its antlers. A pair of cowboy boots leaned against the television stand and
a cowboy hat sat like a bowl waiting for candy on the coffee table. Then I
noticed that the photo I had grown up looking at of my dad on the wall was
gone. A photo of Peter and my mother hung in its place.

 “So, what’s
yer big news?” Peter asked sitting down next to my mother.

 I just
looked at him for a minute, wanting to leave, wanting to take the photo off the
wall and throw it out in the street with his boots and his hats and him right
along with it, but I imagined my mother standing up for him like she was
already doing. So I took a deep breath and did what I came to do.

 “I got a job
today at a newspaper in Boulder called the Daily Camera.”

 “Oh Alex,
congratulations!”

 “That’s not
all. I also registered for classes at Metro State.”

 “College?
Really? Honey that’s wonderful! When do you start?”

 “I start at
the paper Wednesday and classes start sometime next week. I haven’t finished
registering yet. That’s part of what I wanted to talk to you about.”

 “Okay?”

 “You see,
Mike Baxter, the photographer who I was working for, had to let me go a few
weeks back because he didn’t have enough work through Christmas to keep me on,
and things have gotten pretty tight financially. I’ve been okay, but I kind of
need some money to help me with registration fees, mostly just to get me
through, until I start getting paid at the newspaper.”

 “Absolutely,”
she said looking over at Peter.

 He looked
back at her but didn’t say anything. He just smiled.

 “I will
definitely pay you back, once I get my first paycheck.”

 “How much do
you need?” and she stood to get her checkbook out of her purse.

  “Registration
and books are probably going to be a couple of hundred, and to be honest, I
could probably use a little help with rent this month.”

 “Would a
thousand cover it?”

 “That’s too
much. I don’t need that much.”

 “Look, I’m
going to write you a check for a thousand, and here’s two-hundred in cash, so
you can get some groceries.” Then she handed me the check and small stack of
twenties.

 I held it
for a second and looked up at her and Peter.