I find myself drawn to detail and space in Gloversville far more than neighboring Johnstown, at least of late. Here are some more Gloversville structures. I particularly like the faded sign on the wall behind the Gloversville Diner for “The Morning Herald.” That paper is long-since gone, folded into the current “Leader-Herald.” Soon that sign will only be a memory.

Rollei Rolleiflex Automat K4A
Rollei Retro 400 film
HC-110 Dilution B

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.

One day after six weeks, I pinged Harry Fleenor about my Rollei. Not ready, it needed another week to simmer. A week later, I refrained from checking again. I knew it would be ready when it was ready. A week after that I got the message: Come and get it. My excitement was split between getting the camera back, and for my mission to get a portrait of Harry Fleenor himself.

When I walked into his shop, there was a geezer there getting an opinion on some camera I couldn’t identify. He was lowballing Mr. Fleenor on the repair quote, to which Mr. Fleenor replied that he would cut no deals on repairs. The geezer was put out, and hemmed and hawed. Just great, I thought. Way to put my subject in a bad mood before I even got to him.

Eventually, it was my turn and I plunked down my pink copy of the work order. “You must be: Orlosky!” That’s me. He put the camera down, and I put the cash down, and then I immediately whipped out a roll of Tri-X and started to load the Rolleiflex. Nervously. Mr. Fleenor started writing up the final receipt. I was fumbling. “You ever shoot with a Rollei before?” he asks me. Yikes. “You going to take a picture?” I’d like to. “What speed film is that?” I was under attack! I whip out my meter. “What’s the exposure?” I’m pretty sure I didn’t even see the reading at that point. “You’re probably down to one-thirtieth. You better hold real still.” I was going to be lucky to even focus the thing. But, he posed skeptically. I focused. I flipped the lug open with an expert’s nonchalance to free the shutter. I drew in a breath and held it. I got the shot.

As we wrapped up the paperwork, he seemed genuinely pleased that I was so eager to shoot with his handiwork. I was glad.

I arrived at the address on a bright and hazy Thursday after a long and dreary afternoon drive through muddled Los Angeles congestion. Battling traffic had imbued me with a sense of undeserved urgency, there was no real rush.  Actually, I arrived after missing the place twice and circling back around. For it was a sterile, invisible,  two-story office outcrop that could have once been called Sea Breeze Motel in some other century, but which was now sturdy home to dentists, tax attorneys, and hairstylists. Parking was scarce. In fact, each space was visibly assigned to a specific suite number. The most popular building tenants rated two or even three spaces. There was no space at all allotted for suite number four.

Classic camera repair must not generate much foot-traffic, I thought.

I parked at a laundromat, forced to legitimize my taking up space by buying an orange soda at a liquor store. I considered that it would be a bit surreal to walk in with a Rollei and an orange soda. I stashed the bottle in my bag. Up the stairs past some wooden men speaking Spanish who looked like they knew me, but didn’t. The doorway featured a carved wooden Rolleiflex badge, so there could be no mistake. I looked for any posted information to discourage me from just barging in. I found none, I opened the door, I entered.

I have to confess that I paid too much for my Rollei when i first got it. I didn’t do my homework.  The model that was advertised to me was not what I bought. I think this was not through any malice on the part of the seller, just a matter of general confusion among amateurs. Perhaps this is why I am so keen on making it work for me. I’m self-conscious of its well-worn condition, though Carmen says it’s just well-loved Whatever. I really want the Rollei-tionship to work, and I’m willing to compromise to make it happen.

Inside the door was a tiny hall with a chest-high counter that separated supplicants from the Master. I didn’t have time at all to take it all before a slight lanky greybeard and wire-frames greeted me quietly, and not without some pain in his eyes. I realized I had been counting on waiting a few minutes to be acknowledged, but he was on me in an instant, wanting to know my business.  I insisted first upon introducing myself and offering my hand.  Didn’t he know that he was a legend? Harry Fleenor introduced himself in turn and shook my hand with a worried and awkward curtness. Having done that I launched into a staccato rendition of my problem:

“I have this Rolleiflex  (did I pronounce it right?) I’ve run a dozen rolls through it and the shutter doesnt always want to cock and i think it needs an overhaul (god no why am I telling him just let him check it out) so I was wondering if you could take a look at it, if you wanted. Sir (oh crap i’ve blown it already)” And, I quickly notice the small notice on the wall that there is a ten dollar charge for inspections.

With the jittery slowness of someone who has seen his share of fools like me, he took the camera, popped it open and cocked the –

“Oh, what’s that grinding?” he accused me.

“I can’t say,” I offered mutely.

He fired, wound, fired, wound, fired, wound. He’s going to say it’s fine and why am I wasting his time, I dreaded.

“Oh, yes there it didn’t cock.”

Whew.

“The shutter sounds a little slow, I’d like to test it, if that all right with you.”

Please do.

He stepped back into the office, and I could see it all. Esoteric machinery with Rollei logos, a gaggle of shiny bodies, stacks of documentation, Rollei’s history in posters, magnificent clutter measured by the decade. And, a woman of Italian lineage who was beautiful when the clutter was just a mess, seated at a table with a worklight with some interrupted intricate task, staring at me without curiosity but with unrestrained disgust. Fleenor’s wife? Faithful assistant? I lacked the experience to know just by looking. My life looked pale in that moment.

I noticed the wall with tacked up testimonials and thankyou cards from satisfied customers. I’d seen the same notes at a garage while waiting for a new car window, one that took four hours to replace.  I noticed a printout of a camera mural painted on a wall in Reno — a photo I had seen myself only a week prior. This comforted me slightly, as my circle was not wholly distinct from Harry Fleenor’s after all. I noticed a two foot square print on the wall of greener times with yellower flowers. My only thought was that I could take a better photograph than that.

“The shutter’s a bit slow. And, see here the tripod lug is loose. I can tighten that up for you if you want.”

He quoted a price. I nodded.  He added that based on the grinding, he’d also recommend a transport overhaul, and quoted a price on that. I said okay. This is what I’d feared, but expected.

“Do you use a Rolleikin?”

I thought: Oh course not, whatever that is, What is that? Wait, wait! I know what that is. Yes, I have one Yes I do use one. This is what I wanted to ask him about. Oh God how long am I pausing?

I said: “Yes, well I have. I mean, I do. I want to, but I can’t figure out the counter works. With that. I want to.”

He proceeded to show me how the counter works, that a crucial pin was missing. He could install a new one if I wanted. He didn’t know if I wanted to use thirty-five millimeter film. I said I did. He quoted a price.

I said okay.

At this point, he must have figured he had a boat payment on his hands.

“I don’t know if you want to spend the money, but I have some custom Maxwell focusing screens.”

He proceeded to describe them, but before he could quote a price, I said that I was happy with the the screen, thanks. We both knew the measure of me at that point. I offered that in my limited research, I thought the shutter might have been replaced at some point as I thought that model was supposed to have the Compur-Rapid shutter that went to one-one-thousandths of a second. He looked at me as one might view a child who has spit up creamed peas all over the family photo album. “No, all Rolleis of this model go to one five hundredth.”

So, he got out an invoice and started to write it up.

“My backlog right now is about six weeks. Is that all right?”

Paperwork ensued. He made some small talk about never having heard of Valley Village in the sixty years he’d been there. I assured him that happened to me all the time, as if that were somehow notable given my four years there. He made special note of my mirrored lens cap, and I searched for some hint of approval in his voice for that tiny detail. I may have imagined it, but I think I heard just that.

A significant cash deposit insured an amicable parting, another handshake and I was gone.  I’d taken in my camera to get juiced up, and I’d learned how to use the counter for the Rolleikin. I’d survived Harry Fleenor!

As, I went back down the stairs, the men from before were gone, but a shifty character lumped in their place, he avoided my gaze conspicuously. I couldn’t explain him, and I doubt if anyone could. I resolved that when I returned for the Rollei I simply must bring a roll of film and demand to test it by taking Mr. Fleenor’s  picture. I will try

Incredibly, my car was neither towed nor cited. And, the orange soda was the best I’d ever tasted.

Song of the day: “The Talkin’ Song Repair Blues” – Alan Jackson

I spent only six minutes in Montana. I crossed the border and exited the first chance I got, in order to turn around. I had seen a creepy looking ruin at the last exit in Idaho, listed as Humphrey. I went back into Idaho and exited Humphrey — there was nothing there. The road was roped off, and only this massive ruin remained — notable for its sheer size. I had to walk seventy yards up the off-ramp to get near it. I started to walk across the snowy field to it, and whoomp I went in up to my waist in crunchy snow. Undaunted I kept going, but after a while I came to the barbed wire barrier — which was made extra threatening due to the deep snow. Snow already starting to melt into my sneakers and jeans, I gave up at that point and got this picture with the Rollei Automat. Kodak 400NC has been good to me in the past, but this image came out rather strange. It may have been x-rayed at the airport, or perhaps Humphrey is just haunted.

Play “Hollow Hills” – Bauhaus

Play song “Ridin’ Dirty” – Chamillionaire

They see my Rollei
They hatin’
Patrollin’ and tryin’ a catch me shootin’ dirty!

I picked up this old beat up Rollei on Craigslist. The seller listed it as a 3.5F but after checking out Rolleiclub, I’m pretty sure it’s an Automat from around 1949.. It also has a shutter that seems to be non-standard (“Synchro-Compur” instead of “Compur-Rapid”) which means it only goes to 1/250 instead of 1/500. I also lost 2 rolls of film when the shutter completely gummed up. But, I was patient and after some work it seemed to loosen up. I might save up some cash to take it to the the mack daddy Rollei guru in Manhattan Beach one of these days.

But, it works for now. I shot and developed a roll of Tri-X. I like the results. Some color pics will be back today or tomorrow.