The Door to Door Portrait Artist

Henry chills at home while Lu Lu's out shopping, listening to a never-ending Mahler Symphonies, flashing back to the yesteryear's hurricane, the turbulent seconds it took to move on, and the days of rain it left behind.

Time waits for no one, and it won’t wait for me; a lyric from Time is On My Side, penned by Jerry Ragovoy that's on loan to the Rolling Stones for an unknown sum.

The summer is over, the harvest is in, and we are not saved; Jeremiah 8:20

Jeremiah's Old Testament proverb vetted the coming famine when the wheat, fig, grape, and olive harvest was shredded to nothing by a swarm of locusts in 600 BC.

The dewy-eyed novitiate asks the Clown Monk;

your highship, I have nothing to do,

 

butterfly, talk about sex, do drugs, watch La Liga and Bonanza on TV, avoid telling the truth.

1984, a year when computers are as slow as molasses, and cell phones are bulky and rare. Stable operating systems are few, and the World Wide Web is a year old, the year cocaine is more popular than computers. Henry asks his wife, 

have you read the articles on computers in Science Magazine, or Oasis Xylophone?

Honestly, I'm not a geek, I'm a mermaid.

Henry and Lu Lu talk over going for a swim in the seawater pool, safe because the saltwater neutralizes the viruses, then he says, 

fuck the swimming pool, let's stay home and smoke dope.

Baked, the couple nurses a joint, in a fog Lu Lu fesses up, sayin, 

I fucked Fidel Castro; it was do it or go to jail. We'd party at his Havana house, he had the best of the best, ganja as well as cocaine. Did you know Fidel and Gabriel Garcia Marquez were best friends in the day? Year after year. Marquez would bring his beautiful wife, Mercedes, to Castro's house, where they'd talk about Latin music and literature. Both were the best at what they did. One night I said to Fidel,

mi amor, your passion for the Russian rockets and AK 47s is secondary to your passion for sex, Castro says, 

in my position, wearing one's heart on his sleeve is impossible. When I listen to cold and rigid Russian concertos, I remember the El Movimiento 26 de Julio and the revolutionaries who fought and bled by my side. 

Henry wonders, 

do you still love Fidel? 

He's arrogant, a wild lover hung like a burro. He’d rub cocaína on his pollo to stay hard. He had so many women, 1000s; I'm hot let's jump in the cold tub.

As they're eating chicken salad sandwiches the doorbell rings; Henry opens the front door and a Black man holding a white cane says, 

my name's Andy Higgins, I’m a blind man, a door-to-door portrait artist, 

 

please come in,  

Henry leads Andy around the bungalow, walking him to the kitchen table, where asking him,

how bout a drink or some pot? 

Thank you, yes, Seagrams & 7, and roll a fat joint. 

Lu Lu cranks up the air conditioner, it's clear Andy is hot.

Then she spins an LP on the record player; the George Shearing Trio tickles the keys playin, Unreachable Heights. Andy asks, 

George Shearing?  He's blind, ain't he? Does he play without looking at the keys? I have no musical talent, I became a photographer to prove that a blind man can do anything if he puts his mind to it. Let's go to work, Henry grab my Polaroid and the tripod. Set the kit up facing the sofa; think like you're doing a portrait.

Henry secures the camera to the tripod, looks through the lens, frames the shot, goes back to the sofa, sitting next to Lu Lu. 

The couple didn't dress fancy, he was wearing a Grateful Dead T-shirt, and she was nude.  

Andy stands, walks to his camera, knocks it down, then catches it in 1 hand, Henry asks, 

How’d you catch the falling tripod?

Everything's feel for a blind man. OK, here we go, I’m going to say, get ready, count to five, and shoot, now let's smile!

Henry and Lu Lu don't pose, they ignore Andy, making out, playing scissors, rock, and paper, even wrestling on the sofa, Andy says, 

I can smell your body, she answers curtly, 

keep your nose to the grind pal.

In minutes Andy says,  

I think we have enough shots, for an extra 5 bucks, I’ll immortalize your portraits in a plastic-bound photo book.

Henry goes to the kitchen, mixing drinks, martinis this time, bringing them to the living room on a tray. 

On the sofa, the couple pages through the Polaroid portraits, laughing insanely.

They love the photos, the work is realistic, raw, 

well— you all know how much Polaroid film costs, how about 200 bucks for the works?

Henry stands, reaches into his pocket, walks to Andy, handing him 2 hundred-dollar bills, the blind man asks, 

Can you call me a cab? 

Henry laughs saying, 

Trust in the Lord, Ray Charles, 

I'll be trustin in the Lord alright, Henry, gotta go, my cab is here.

Lu Lu leads him out of the bungalow to the sidewalk; he faces her asking, 

what ya think? She answers, 

Andy Higgins, without a doubt, the GOAT of blind photographers.