He had had an old Nikkormat that was his dad’s. It’d been kicking around. There was another camera, a Leica, with a parallax view-finder he’d used as kid when he was nine and ten but that was gone with the snows of yesteryear. And this old brick, the Nikkormat, he’d just been going around the neighborhood shooting this and that, whatever had caught his eye, nothing fancy. Just the garbage and debris and what lay about it. He’d no idea how good the thing was, with its 50 mm/1.4 prime. It’d just been this old camera that he took when he left, or maybe his sister had gotten to him for some reason now that’s completely lost. This was ages before things got cool, before things got hip. This is when rent was cheap and rats pushed their way through the kitchen cabinet under the sink and you saw that rat when it did that and screamed and hid the baby and then called up the landlord about it who’d come over and spackle the hole and set a trap, or so he said, in the basement for it. Nobody’d had a thought about any of this lasting or being something, least of all him. None of it was about becoming something. It was all just garbage and decay.