Photo Realism by LJS van Essen

In the summer of 96, Ratt would be running around town with his Leica, on the prowl for scoops. Career Day at school had seen him take a standardized vocational test which revealed an inkling towards the socially responsible professions, such as journalism. His knowledge of the trade was rudimentary and based all but entirely on his familiarity with Spiderman comics. Going on Peter Parker's example, he figured the thing to do was produce a body of work, then head down to the local newspapers and see if anyone would hire him. Mere blocks from his house, where the bad neighborhood began, he knew of a dilapidated apartment complex that was perfect for shooting hardcore human interest photographs. It was a crack den where junkies

and prostitutes hung out, though once he'd seen an impeccably dressed, diplomat-type exit a stretch-limo and go in with his entourage trailing behind. He would climb the fire escape from an adjacent building and sneak in via the rooftop entrance. The place looked like it once had been a hotel, its numbered doors, many of which were kicked in, and fully furnished rooms reminding of more lavish times. He would set up camp in one and snap photos of strung out crack fiends loitering on the sidewalk below. One day, he was in there going about his business, when he heard approaching footsteps and muffled yelps. Quickly, Ratt hid in a closet which reeked of decomposing organic material, when in walked a man with a briefcase in hand and a girl flipped over his shoulder. The man plopped the girl down on the bed and she began to, not really scream, but whine uncontrollably, so he gave her an injection. That hushed her up alright. The man then began patting the

girl on the cheek, and said in that menacing drawl of mobsters he was in no mood for funny stuff. Then Ratt saw something he'd hitherto only heard about: the man unzipping his fly, taking out his already erect Johnson and inserting it into the girl's mouth. In sex ed, they'd talked about what mom and dad did to show they truly loved each other, but this had not been on the curriculum. Ratt wondered whether his own mom and dad had ever done it like this, and whether shed needed an injection to get in the mood as well. Halfway through the man took out his portable phone and proceeded to have a lengthy conversation, losing interest in the girl eventually and retracting his limp dick. When he got off the phone, he punched the hapless girl in the head and laughed cruelly. That was Mr Feust, he said. You do remember Mr Feust, don't you? The girl nodded faintly. Well Mr Feust says there's a buyer on the market, a true blue Saudi prince, Ivy League, international playboy type

fellow. Still a sand nigger if you ask me, but nobody is. Anyhow, he knows his stuff, 'cause Mr Feust says he literally hollered at the prospect of adding the insatiable Candy Barrr to his harem. As it happened, the girl was an adult film starlet tipped off as promising by the industry - she was the 1995 winner of AVNs Beautiful Pussy and Best Boy Boy Boy Girl Scene categories - but had ruefully failed to meet certain financial obligations. While for most, defaulting on private loans equalled a nightly adventure exploring the life aquatic of the Hudson bound and gagged, Mr Feust had in Candy Barrrs case seized upon the chance to not only recompense on dividends never returned, but strike a profit. The man had been told to at once deliver the girl to the designated safe-house so the exchange could be made. Only thing was that over the course of several days entrusted with looking over Ms Barrr while Mr Feusts arranging staff pulled strings on

the international sex slave market, he had developed something of an infatuation with the girl himself. Whether the same type and grade of love as straight folk thought of at the term, this he doubted, but he had strong feelings for the girl regardless and found himself most dismayed at the thought of handing her over to some teacloth-toting Oriental. But such were the ways of the game - give unto Caesar what is Caesars and all that, as Mr Feust was wont to say - and so he told her to get up and get prepared, they were going for a ride. Only then did the man notice he'd connected, fist-wise, far better than he'd thought, and apart from looking well-stoned from the elephant tranquilizer, Candy Barrr was now sporting a shiner that wouldn't look out of context on a cagefighters visage. Only on her, this was almost certain to drive down the sum the Saudis would be willing to part with. Ratt saw the man pace around the room in a panic,

cursing and smashing everything in sight. This was a bad situation alright. He watched as the man rummaged through the girls cosmetics purse, taking out and applying any number of powders and creams, which in his large, unskilled hands had the effect of making Candy Barrr look like a transvestite, more than the paleskinned girl-next-door she was. It was like a movie unfolding right before his eyes, and moreover precisely the type of story he could use to jump-start his career in journalism. Now if only he could open the closet door just a little more without the ruffian noticing, why, this was World-Press Award material just begging to be captured. By then the man had given up on DIY cosmetic solutions and was shaking Candy Barrr up and down, urging her up on her feet. He was swearing in idiolects Ratt had never heard before and dragging her out the door by the arm, when on the count of three, Ratt emerged from the closet and gave chase.

The dimly lit hallway reeked of burnt tires, a sickeningly synthetic smell Ratt inferred to be the drugs the junkies were smoking in one of the rooms he passed. The elevator was already going down, so Ratt took the stairs down five flights, dodging inimical dregs toking on glass pipes and waving their skin-onbone fists in the air, making it down to the lobby just in time to see the man working Candy Barrr into the trunk of his Sedan, parked out front. He darted out the door and just managed to snap off a few photos of the two pulling up and careening down the street into the sunset. This was sure to be a premium story, and Ratt felt very pleased with what hed accomplished today. What he had not counted on, though, was the car then making a U-turn and coming right back at him. Not until it had neared him by twenty feet or less and he'd caught the mans otherworldly evil glare did he realize the story was not over just yet - not for him. No sense trying to explain he wouldnt be going to the

police with his photos, only the press, when at the last possible instant, his self-preserving instincts kicked in and Ratt dove stunt-man style out of the way, hearing the Sedan whiz past and connect violently with a stationary Volkswagen, before coming to a full-stop against an unacomidating fire-hydrant. As seen on TV, copious amounts of water issued forth from the ground and cast a thick mist above the wreckage, microscopic droplets fracturing the sunlight into rainbows. Only after he'd shot off a few pics of the beautiful mess did he notice the klaxon resounding sonorously, a warbling drone causing occupants, ever wont to avoid daylight, to emerge from their respective drug-dens and see what all this commotion was about. The drivers face lay wedged between the top of the steering wheel and the dashboard, a sight which struck Ratt as less disturbing than darkly comical. Well what was he supposed to feel? The man had lived and died a jerk, was caught up in human trafficking and had tried

to run him over - he'd gotten what hed had coming. When the police arrived, he told them he'd just been standing there, minding his own business, when the Sedan had come barrelling down the road and impacted right in front of him. The senior officer gave Ratt a long, stern look. What was a kid like him doing in a neighborhood like this? Where were his parents? Ratt said his parents were at work and dead, respectively, and he was working on his career as a journalist. This piqued the interest of the junior officer, who was an amateur photographer himself. He told Ratt he owned a similar kit and suggested he come with them on patrol sometime to shoot photos. Plenty of action in our line of work, he said, winking. On the way to the drugstore to have his film developed, Ratt shot pictures of passing cars, overflowing trash-cans, construction workers emerging from manholes, all grimy and weary. Everywhere he looked, there was a fullness of color, a cornucopia of

contrasting hues, a world aglow with inner meaning and begging to be frozen in time, forever.