Free Awake Asleep Dreaming Dead by John Siwicki Page B

forbidden fruit, go head.
    Tom passed him a beer. So you’re a photographer. When did you start doing that?
    Well, I’ve always liked photography. My uncle was a photographer, and I got a camera from someone on my sixteenth birthday.
    Oh, yeah, what kind of camera was it?
    Nikon FM 2; the same one I used to take your picture. Ever heard of it?
    Oh, sure, that was a fantastic camera, Tom said. Solid, and extremely well made, like a tank. Great camera, here’s to Nikon cameras, then tipped the can of beer, and gulped a mouthful.
    Do you like taking pictures, Sam asked. Got a camera?
    Don’t need one anymore. If I want a picture of something I just buy a postcard. I’ll leave the picture taking to you.
    But what if you meet a beautiful woman, and want to take her picture?
    Well—then I’d write a poem about her, carry it in my pocket, and read it every so often to remind me of her. His voice cracked, then he took another swig of whisky, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and grunted with pleasure. Tom was choking up, and getting misty eyed. A trigger had gone off, and a door opened to a secret place hidden in his mind.
    You sound like a romantic. Do you write poetry?
    Yes I do, he said, and published some of it. Are You Casablanca is the name of one.
    Just like the movie? Sam asked.
    Well, not exactly like the movie, Tom said. It’s about love, heartbreak, happiness, and longing to relive some great moments.
    Is it hard to write poetry?
    Not if you’re drunk, then belted out a laugh. Just kidding, sorry. Yeah, it’s damn hard, and easy at the same time. It usually begins from an idea, then a thought follows a certain path. Or goes off in a completely different direction, and we hope it ends up being something special for the writer, sometimes for others. He paused and was just quiet for a time then said, A good poem will make you cry.
    Have you written anything else?
    Sure, he said. One novel.
    What’s it called? What’s it about? Did it take a long time to write? Do you like Ernest Hemmingway? Sam fired off more questions. Can I buy it in a book store? Online?
    No, you can’t! It’s never been published.
    Why not? What’s it called?
    I wrote it, and now I have to explain what it’s about? Cripes, man!
    Sorry I asked, Sam said. You don’t have to tell me the whole story, just the title, about some of the characters, and the place or setting.
    I’m not saying any more about it except that it took years to write, and I was miserable toward the end of it because I’d read it so many damn times. It practically drove me crazy. And it’s more of journal than a novel.
    Why do something you don’t like?
    Because I had a story to tell, and justice has got to be done.
    Strange that you don’t write anymore. Want to again someday?
    Maybe, not now, not at this moment. I just enjoy the view wherever I am. Tell me, why are you going to Ellsworth?
    To photograph Alan Roger’s house for a magazine story about him. I got a call from an editor a while back. I’ve always been interested in architecture. Studied it in school, and Alan Rogers was a fascinating fellow.
    Like I said before, one of the few you can count on your hands. Disappeared didn’t he?
    That’s right. How’d you know that?
    I read about things.
    You seem to know an awful lot about it. I’m heading to Ellsworth where he started his architectural school to get some background on his life. It’s in the country. Have you ever been there?
    Went there long ago. I remember it being a nice place, and felt alive. Alan Rogers was partial to low ceilings, and sharp angles. I’m not that tall, but remember ducking to get through some of the doorways in his house. I read the police searched the entire estate, and found no clues whatsoever. He just vanished into thin air.
    Well, isn’t that curious.
    Not so interesting, Tom said. You mind if I tag along? If it’s okay? I like to . . .
    The tone Tom used when he said, I like to . . . sounded like he was