Love is Always Write Anthology Volume 10

eyes flicked upward. They stared in terror.
    George lunged back in alarm.
    "Help me. Please help me. They know where I hide. Help me."
    "Help you?" Recovering, he tried to sound nonchalant, though his heart hammered louder than the cranky pump in the film-processing darkroom. "I think I'll pass. I have my hands full right now. My ex-wife calls twice a day, just checking to see if I've gotten over being gay, my son ignores me, and my boyfriend, who, by the way, just bought a pair of pink leather oxfords, wants a fucking commitment. So I'm tied up at the moment, but I'll have my people get back to you."
    Not that he had 'people' anymore, since becoming a falling-down drunk led to being fired from his spot on a national news show, but what the fuck, it wasn't as if the angel were real. Since Afghanistan, he saw all kinds of shit that wasn't real.
    The golden eyes rolled in their sockets, unimpressed by his problems. George pasted on his best television smile and used his middle finger to salute.
    Rissa had beer stashed in the refrigerator upstairs. George tested himself, imagining the cool fizz of the brew on his tongue. The harsh chemical smell of color developer faded into the muted aroma of hops. He swallowed, thinking of the comforting way the golden liquid would flow down his throat.
    Nope, not worth it.
    Gingerly, he lifted the heavy paper by one corner with fingers that hadn't shaken this much since checking into rehab. Those eyes had been downcast when George first slid the photo out of the manila envelope onto the wooden drafting table which comprised half his workspace. He was sure of it. As sure as a man who'd been treated for PTSD could be.
    "Help me. Help me so I can help you."
    "Fuck off." He flipped the photo face-down onto the drafting table and swiveled his chair. Resolutely, he booted up his computer, grinding his ass more firmly into the cheap foam cushion of his seat as he massaged his temples. One beer wouldn't help. A six-pack would lead him back to the loving arms of Hotel Hopeless. He had a kid to support. Sobriety wasn't supposed to be a good time. Being a drunk wasn't all it was cracked up to be either. George eyed the calendar in the corner of his computer screen. A new hallucination after four hundred and ten days sober. What a joke.
    Someone dropped a quarter into the jukebox in the bar next door to the studio and George began a Google search for Lucien LeTour. A lifetime ago, he and Lucien had been frat brothers. If he didn't know better, he might think this was one of Lucien's elaborate pranks.
    George scanned the Wikipedia article, remembering the controversy over the series of photographs. He hadn't yet become a falling-down drunk when Lucien had gotten high on his own hype and began swearing the photos weren't computer-enhanced images, but un-retouched photography. At first, his claims had merely added a fringe of lunacy to the publicity around the incredible pictures of curiously mature-faced children who appeared to be angels.
    Then, Lucien wrapped his car around a telephone pole and died at the scene. He looked at the date of death. That was one tragedy George hadn't photographed. He'd been embedded with the 2nd Marines in Afghanistan when Lucien died. By dying, Lucien attained the fame he'd craved in life. The photos appeared in Life shortly afterwards. This original print must be worth a small fortune.
    The metal security door banged open in the back hall, and George jumped, knocking over the cup he used to hold his brushes. He was on his knees picking them off the dingy blue carpeting when Rissa, his boss, stalked into the work room holding a Krispy Kreme box. She scanned the neat piles of white envelopes on the worktables as she slung her camera bag onto the table and sank into a chair.
    "I see you got the photos packaged for Evans Elementary. Thanks, George."
    George mumbled a reply. He restored the occasional dead relative photo, but mostly, his job consisted of printing and packaging huge rolls of eight-by-tens, five-by-sevens and wallet-sized photos of elementary school children. It was mindless work. Perfect for a man with a lot on his mind.
    "I don't suppose I could sweet-talk you into running a video camera at the Forrest-Calhoun wedding tomorrow?" Rissa bit into a raspberry-filled donut. Powdered sugar drifted down the front of her oversized black t-shirt. Her eyes rolled as she hummed with pleasure. "Wedding's outdoors at Cleveland Park," she mumbled around her mouthful.