Sometime last year, perhaps after the U.S. Election when I was exponentially more irritable than any day prior, I recall trying to pacify my psyche with some timelapse photography.
Even though TIA International Photography is my small business that I will always love, for the purpose of this story, TIA is also a welcome escape from reality, if only temporarily.
In this instance, my escape was a spot in downtown Seattle near Pike Place Market.
For timelapses, I typically stand adjacent to my camera (Alpert) and my tripod (still nameless) while reading a book. On this occasion, I believe I was on chapter four or five of Mark Manson’s popular “The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck”. (It’s been a moderately helpful guide, to be candid).
As usual, I’m almost always wearing my headphones while doing any photography in the streets of Seattle, or any city for that matter.
Now, I could be completely misguided, but isn’t a person wearing a pair of headphones or a headset an understood (and universal) signal for not wanting to be approached? I thought that a human wearing headphones in a public space translated to one of the following:
- “Move on.”
- “Do not disturb.”
- “I’m in my mind right now.”
- “Leave me be.”
- “It better be important or an emergency.”
- “Please mind your own damned business while I mind mine.”
Right? Maybe I’ve lost my mind since that accursed election — (quite possible, in retrospect) — but most people seem to understand this behavioral context that is applicable to many cultures around the world.
Still, there’s always someone who doesn’t grasp context, or who doesn’t know how to pick up on social cues, or who simply — as Manson would put it — “doesn’t give a f*ck”.
To my blissful delight, the individual that I’m about to describe probably fell into all of the above combined. (Bloody hell).
Let’s call our main character “Griswalter”, shall we?
Griswalter saw me standing next to my equipment, headphones on ears, eyes affixed on the text of Manson’s bestseller. Perhaps Griswalter, like a lot of people, was unaware that I was well aware of his presence. I always keep a vigilant eye of everything happening around me simply for the sake of sustaining my personal safety.
Of course, I was hoping Griswalter would “read the room” and go away, but he didn’t. He stood there and, after a few seconds, beckoned my attention by waving his hand eagerly.
Okay. For a moment, just imagine this scenario had I been the one who was unable to pick up on social cues or lacked the capacity to interpret human behavior. Even better, imagine that I understood these social cues but deliberately chose to feign ignorance regardless. I think such a scenario would have made an uproarious scene in a sitcom — a British sitcom, mind you, not an American one.
Alas, I turned to Griswalter, grudgingly removing the headphone from my right ear. Why only the one headphone? During this gross interruption of my escape from reality, a certain house music diva from the 1990s was singing sweetly into my psyche. Neither her voice nor her groove deserved to be put on pause, so I left her to sing into my left ear. Meanwhile, I looked at Griswalter with little curiosity.
As he gestured to my camera and tripod, he inquired with emotion equivalent to my aforementioned curiosity. “What are you shooting?”
Bear in mind — I had already been standing in place for at least 15 to 20 minutes by the time Griswalter approached me. Perhaps he was unobservant, heedless or, perhaps, he didn’t give a f*ck. Nowadays, you never know, but I felt a surge in my irritation at that moment.
I looked at Griswalter. He was a lanky fellow, middle-aged, charcoal hair with tinges of silver, a scruffy beard, and not particularly menacing in his gait.
After years of photography in different locations, I can easily detect when there’s an actual interest in what I’m doing when someone asks. There’s often a tone or inflection in the person’s voice that denotes genuine interest. It’s similar to enthusiasm. Griswalter’s inquiry was completely devoid of this, so I knew something else was afoot. He wanted something.
Short disclaimer: Unfortunately and/or fortunately, I’ve also lived long enough to acknowledge that my demeanor in public is one that is unassuming and pleasant, so strangers will approach me. This is not necessarily a bad thing. It’s the intent of the stranger that is in question.
In response to the inquiry, I looked from Griswalter to the direction of my camera lens, back to Griswalter, and back to the direction of my lens with exaggeration.
I stated, flatly, “What’s in front of me.”
My response didn’t appear to faze charcoal Gris. Now that he had my attention, he proceeded to reveal the real reason why he bothered me in the first case.
“Do you like jokes?” he asked.
“What?” I replied.
“I like to tell jokes. If I tell you a joke and you find it funny, could you find it in your heart to give me a few bucks? Two dollars for each joke,” he said, his face expressionless.
And there it was: The pitch. This was the real reason why he had disrupted the sweet serenade of the 90s house music chanteuse who was crooning into my cranium.
Over the years, I’ve noticed that some individuals have a peculiar inclination to believe that people in the act of using photography equipment in a public space must be loaded or have excess cash to spare. This is a stereotype. Please allow me to use this opportunity to state that you’re better off borrowing money from someone you know. Photography equipment is hyper-expensive. Engaging in photography is time-consuming. It’s likely the photographer you’re interrupting to ask for money is struggling to fund his or her craft as a result.
(That said, I’m about to severely contradict myself, but only because I felt the circumstances demanded the contradiction).
I told my pal Gris that I wasn’t interested in hearing any jokes. “More importantly,” I said, “I am not really in the mood for jokes. I’m in the middle of a photo assignment, if you don’t mind.”
For the first time during our exchange, Gris’ expression evoked emotion. I believe it was a flash of sadness after being rejected (for an unsolicited service).
“But I’m really a funny guy and have funny jokes. You’ll get a kick out of them. Let me give you a free sample,” Gris insisted. He was about to get into his sample when I told him to stop.
I proceeded to bring out my wallet. On most occasions, I have a few one-dollar bills. Of course, at this particular time when they would have been tremendously handy, I didn’t have a single one. I looked at my wallet, and decided to go with what I did have handy.
“Tell you what,” I said. “If I give you twenty dollars, will you go away?”
Gris’ face lit up. “Oh! I can tell you ALL my jokes! Are you sure you don’t want to hear any?”
“I’m sure. Here you go. Happy holidays,” I said and gingerly gave him the federal reserve note.
Looking back, there was a bit of humor in the confused look of someone getting handsomely compensated to do the opposite of what he had offered with compound interest as additional incentive. Perhaps that was the biggest joke, at my own expense, but I didn’t mind. I really was in a nasty mood.
You could say, for one of the few times against my nature, I just didn’t give a f*ck.
