Chapter 3 Viewfinder

A man with no hands came to my door to sell me a picture of my house.Except for the chrome-plated iron hook, he was no different from an ordinary man in his fifties. "How did you lose your hands?" I asked after he had said what he wanted to say. "That's another story," he said. "Do you want this photo or not?" "Come in," I said. "I just made coffee." I also just made some jelly.But I didn't tell this man. "Maybe I need to use the bathroom," said the man without hands. I want to see how he holds a cup. I know how he holds the camera.It was an old Polaroid, big and black.He straps it to a belt, wrapping the belt from his shoulders to his back and back again, securing the camera to his chest.He'll stand on the sidewalk in front of your house, find your house in the frame, hit a button with one of his hooks, and your photo will pop out.

I've been standing behind the window watching, get it. "Where is the bathroom you said?" "Go forward and turn right." Bending over, arching his back, he freed himself from the belt.He put the camera on the sofa and straightened his coat. "You can look at this while I'm away." I took the photo from him. It shows a corner of the lawn, the driveway, the carport, the front steps, the bay window and the kitchen window from which I observed him. So why would I want a photo of this disaster? I took a closer look and found my head, my head, in the kitchen window in the photo.

It got me thinking, seeing myself in this way, I can tell you, it got a man thinking. I heard the sound of toilet flushing.He walked down the aisle, smiling and zipping, one hook holding the belt, one hook tucking the shirt. "How do you feel?" he said. "Is it possible? Personally, I think it looks good. Can I not know this? Honestly, this is a matter for experts to do." He grabbed at the crotch. "Coffee here," I said. He said, "It's just you, isn't it?" He looked at the living room.He shook his head. "It was so hard, so hard," he said.

He sat down next to the camera, sighed as he leaned back, and smiled like he knew something but didn't want to tell me. "Drink your coffee," I said. I was thinking about how to speak. "Three kids came up here and wanted to help me paint the number on the curb. They wanted a dollar. You don't do things like that, do you?" This is a bit out of line.But I still watch him. He pretended to lean forward, the cup balanced between his hooks.He put the cup on the table. "I do things alone," he said. "It's always been that way, and it always will be. What are you talking about?" he said.

"I wanted to see how these things were connected," I said. I have headache.I know coffee doesn't do much for headaches, but jelly helps a little sometimes.I picked up the photo. "I was in the kitchen," I said. "Usually I stay behind the house." "It happens a lot," he said. "They just got up and walked away, didn't they? Now you got me, and I did it all by myself. What? Do you want this picture?" "I will," I said. I stood up and picked up the glass. "Of course you will," he said. "Me, I rented a room downtown. It's all right. I get out on the bus, and after I've done all the work around, I'm off to the next city. Do you see what I mean? Well, I've had Kid. Same as you," he said.

I waited with the cup in hand, watching him struggle to get up from the sofa. "They made me who I am," he said. I took a good look at the hooks. "Thanks for the coffee and for letting me use the bathroom. I sympathize." He raised and lowered his hook. "Tell me," I said. "Tell me the price. Take some more pictures of me and my house." "It's useless," the man said. "They're not coming back." But I helped him put the belt on. "I can give you a good price," he said. "Three tickets for one dollar," he said, "anything lower, and I'm going to lose money."

We go outside.He adjusted the shutter.He told me where to stand and off we went. We walk around the house.Be well-organized.Sometimes I look sideways, sometimes I look straight ahead. "Fine," he'd say. "Very good," he'd say, until we'd walked around the house and back to the front of the house. "Twenty. That's enough." "Not enough," I said. "On the roof," I said. "My God," he said.He looked back and forth. "Okay," he said. "You're in good spirits now." I said, "Everything. They moved everything."

"Look at this!" said the man, raising his hook again. I went inside and moved a chair.I put it under the carport.But not enough.I took another crate and put it on top of the chair. It feels good to be on the roof. I stood up and looked around.I waved, and the man without hands waved his hook. That's when I saw them, the stones, they made the barbed wire covering the chimney mouth look like a stone nest.You know those kids.You know how they throw stones up, hoping to throw a stone down the chimney. "Ready?" I yelled, picking up a rock and waiting for him to find me in the frame.

"There!" he shouted. I stretched my arms back and yelled, "Go!" I threw that shit as far away as I could. "I don't know," I heard him shout. "I don't do motion photography." "Again!" I screamed, picking up another rock. ① Polaroid (Polaroid), a camera that can image at one time. ② Bay Window (Bay Window), a large window protruding outward. ③ Many states in the United States require residents to paint the house number on the curb in front of the house.This helps fire and ambulance personnel quickly find the address they are looking for.