redfishingboat

When I smashed my Rollei in Montréal, for a few moments I was sure it was all over for the thing. My favorite camera makes it seem almost too easy to take compelling pictures, and absent-minded will be my epitaph. But, the hardy machine was unfazed, but for a mirror in the viewfinder that had come unhinged. I can still take pictures with it, but I have to really wrestle with the finder. Alas, it needs fixing again.

I was hesitant to take my camera back to the master machinist Harry Fleenor, fearing another eight-week wait for an eight-minute repair. This was simply beneath him.  A contact had recommended a repair wizard here in the San Fernando Valley, a man named Zvi who supposedly knew everything about every camera. He sounded promising so I followed up with some Web research and found a few gushing testimonials, including one that called Zvi the “camera whisperer.” That convinced me.

I planned to take my bruised Rollei to the camera whisperer and then head down to San Diego for a baseball game. I’d asked a few of my baseball-aware friends if they’d like to join me to go see the Phillies play down there. My mates respectfully declined, but I needed to get out of the house, so I decided to go solo. I planned a micro-excursion to America’s Finest City, to get from my apartment to Petco Park in downtown San Diego. I’d eschew my car and go via bus and train, stay downtown, and then come back the next morning.

The Phillies called up a rookie to make his first appearance in the major leagues. His name is Antonio Bastardo, and I was excited that I would be there for his debut.

I wasted away the morning, and while I packed extremely light, I have a way of misplacing critical items at crucial times. Time passed like it does, and abruptly I realized that I had no time to take my camera anywhere. In fact by the time I walked out of my place, I realized I had exactly one hour to make it to Union Station for the two o’clock train departure. Yikes! The repairs could wait. I had to go!  I thought back to the last time I’d gone to Union Station. I remembered that it had taken me exactly one hour. I was worried.

For one to go to Union Station in downtown Los Angeles from the San Fernando Valley goes like this: Walk four blocks. Wait for bus. Catch bus. Get off bus, cross street, wait for subway. Take the subway to the very end of the line. You’re there.

It was a day of unsurpassed beauty, the sun was bright and warm, the sky was playful and clear. I vowed not to look at the time until I’d made it to the train station. I made a conscious decision to have faith, and that brought me a peaceful, beautiful, trancelike focus. I made made each connection smoothly without undue delay. And, when I got off the metro subway I finally checked. It was 1:55. I hustled up the escalators, through the station. I still had to print out the ticket from a kiosk. I tried one. It didn’t work, and I calmly moved to the next kiosk. I had such a blissfully assured calm. I was spiritual. I was quick without being crazy. I got the ticket. I checked the board. I had to make it to Track ten. Ten! I ran down the needlessly long hallway. Track ten was the farthest option. What were they hiding? I saw the clock. It was exactly two. I reached the ramp to the platform, looked up and saw motion blur. The train was speeding, speeding away without me.

Despite the economy, I guess the trains still run on time.

I stopped short, caught my breath, and let the anxiety that I’d outrun catch up with me. I stood there while that anxiety washed over me, and I let it pass me by. The aura of calm returned and I just chuckled. So much for faith, though.

I took out my camera, as Union Station was surely a great place to take pictures on such a day. For reasons I can’t comprehend, I couldn’t see any of those pictures. I ended up leaving without taking a single photograph. But, I’d convinced myself that I’d guaranteed the Phillies would win in the baseball game that I’d missed. That’s just how it would go. I knew it.

Back at home, I called the hotel in San Diego and canceled my reservation. I called the Padres ticket office. Despite their no exchanges policy, I explained what had happened, the train and everything. Kathleen was the service agent, and she convinced her manager to exchange my ticket for one for the next night’s game. My train ticket was good for any of these trips, so I’d just try again tomorrow.

And, I still had a few hours of daylight. Feeling productive, I jumped in the car to head to find the camera whisperer. I didn’t know his hours, but surely if I got there by five, I’d have a good chance of finding him. And, like the review said, don’t bother calling. This would work. Probably.

There was some light traffic, and Tarzana was a little farther than I figured in my head. But, again I was quick without being crazy. I found the address, parked, and saw the door to the shop open. It was five on the dot. I got out and approached. There was a tall man in his thirties at the door staring off into the distance , which I now noticed was flanked by a security gate that was pulled to the edge of the door. About to close. The man seemed unaware of me, of anything other than his cigarette. Was I going to be too late by a matter of seconds twice in one afternoon? I eyed the sign on the door listing hours as ten to four. Curious. Standing before the morose man, I said “You’re not open are you?”

“No,” he said simply and quietly, not to me but to the afternoon’s haze. If I’d hoped for some leeway, that reply was enough to turn me right back around.

“Was there something you needed?” asked another voice. A stern, wizened woman whom I’d somehow not seen was right behind me. Much older than the man at the door, she looked at me painfully.

“I was just hoping to get a camera repaired,” I offered with an optimistic tone that seemed to die in the vast space around me.

“We don’t do that anymore,” she said gravely, dubiously.

Determined to be friendly, I pressed her if it was because business has been slow. I wanted to be supportive, empathetic.

“My husband has just passed away,” she said to no one. Zvi was gone, probably very recently.

Stunned, I lowered my head. These people were his survivors facing an uncertain future. I offered some unheard condolences, unheard by them and by me. And, I stumbled off awkwardly. I didn’t know their story, but I wish I did. What could I do? Back to my car, back home.

Antonio Bastardo and the Phillies played the game without me. I watched from home, and they won easily, putting on quite a show. I knew they would.

The next day started cloudy and filled with gloom, quite a contrast with the previous.  But, I tried again and made it down the coast. Another  day, another train, another baseball game. It was adventure mixed up with some fun, loneliness, and a ballpark hot dog. I still found it hard to take photographs. I don’t know why.

I’ve found another camera repair man in Los Angeles complete with tales of history and character. His name is Walter. I’ll take the Rollei to him. I’m sure it’ll be an adventure.

Probably.