Camera Shy

It is 3:30 PM on a balmy Friday afternoon and school has just let out for the weekend. My best friend Annie and I stroll down Plandome Road with no particular direction in mind. Our mood is jubilant, carefree. We chatter about the three most pressing matters in the life of a high school freshman; the boys we have crushes on, upcoming house parties occurring over the weekend and looming midterms. All, in that exact order.

Plandome Road in our hometown of Manhasset, NY is just a stones’s throw from our all girls, Catholic High School and offers an array of shops, restaurants and activities: Manhasset Bowling for the young and old alike, Gino’s Pizzeria offering up the best slice on Long Island, Plandome Caterers with their succulent fried chicken sprinkled with seasoned salt and an old school town Pharmacy run by two gentlemanly brothers. On some occasions when in need of a “glow up,” we skip Plandome Road and head over to A&S dept store where Annie and I try on makeup in abandon, then endlessly critique each other’s color choices.

Another after-school favorite is JJ Newberry’s, whose lower level houses an exotic pet department complete with African frogs and tiny turtles. Though not on Plandome Road it is worth the trek to the other side of town as the lunch counter offers a special draw…”Pop a balloon containing a secret slip of paper and pay from 1 cent to 99 cents for our famous Banana Split!” Spoiler alert: Not once did either of us ever get the one cent balloon but that did little to deter as we twirled on our swivel stools scooping up spoonfuls of banana, hot fudge, and whipped cream, still a bargain at 98 cents.

But this fateful day, we do not go to JJ Newbury’s but continue down Plandome Road making a sharp right on Park Avenue, with a mission in mind… The hope of sighting a glimpse of a Sophomore boy Annie likes, whose family happens to live on that very street and according to Annie was often spotted playing basketball on his driveway.

Walking furtively but with purpose we pass a small storefront. Phillipe Photography, a shop that in my recollection seems to have been there forever. Gazing in through the panoramic and spotless glass window, several family as well as solo portraits are strategically positioned on handsome easels. Gazing out smartly at passerbys, they make it impossible for one not to pause for a second look.

“Hey, isn’t that Billy Bradshaw?” Annie asks me, pointing to one of the large, four color portraits positioned artfully, center stage of the window. She opens the shop’s front door and I follow, curious to see if it is in fact Billy, a star Lacrosse player at the boy’s high school, whose female admirers span several towns, all within a ten mile radius.

Entering the studio we are greeted by a stark silence. A small black box sits neatly upon a handsome desk with a note card propped up neatly against it. “I am working downstairs in the studio, please press intercom if you need help.” Fondly, Philippe

I glance at Annie who knowingly and steadily returns my stare. There is a glint of mischief in her eyes. It was as if we both came up with the same idea at that exact same moment in time. The “please press intercom” command, was all we ever needed.

The next few minutes remain both mixed and jumbled in memory. Knowing it is wrong but throwing caution to the wind, I press the intercom. When a deep voice responds, “Yes, may I help?” we shriek into the box, uttering a series of indecipherable words followed by peals of laughter. We then tear out of the store, fleeing at the speed of light down Park Avenue. One thing I do remember clearly; Annie’s crush standing on his driveway, playing basketball, watching the whole scene unfold.

What transpires next is quite possibly a miracle of athletic feat. The elderly photographer, with the speed of a gazelle, somehow manages to ascend the stairs of his subterranean dark room in seconds, quite possibly setting a new Olympic record in the process.

He catches us halfway down the street and with a look of utter triumph, grips us each securely by the arm.

Leading us back into the studio we stand before him, hearts pounding. He stares stonily weighing his options, before he finally speaks. His voice is steady, yet tinged with rage. “You two! You come into my studio and say terrible words into my intercom. I must call your parents immediately!”

Heads hung, we await our sentence wordlessly. I can swear I hear Annie’s heartbeat. Suddenly, an alarm sounds from the dark room below and Philippe pauses. “I will be back momentarily! Do not DARE move!” As he turns his back to us and jaunts down the stairs, I turn to Annie. No words are needed. The message is delivered telepathically between us. We jump up and race out the door, this time in the opposite direction of the photographer’s studio taking refuge in the hall of a dental office nearby.

Success! We make it to safety and vow to avoid Park Avenue for the rest of our days.

Fast forward, one year later.

I am sitting in the kitchen of my home and my mother enters. “Don’t make plans for Saturday. I am getting a family portrait done for your father’s birthday. There is this wonderful photographer, on Park Avenue. His name is Phillipe. He will be coming at 10AM…

As my soul leaves my body, I weigh my options. First, feign illness on the morning of the portrait, but that will never fly with my strong Irish mother who would no doubt drag me out of bed before letting me miss the sitting. Second, come clean and tell my mother what happened. Never. Third, pray that Philippe has had so many clients, he simply won’t remember me. This option seems the least plausible of the bunch. Wouldn’t a portrait photographer have a knack for remembering faces?

In the end, he never said a word. Either he indeed did not recognize me as one of the intercom villains or chose to be professional and not resurrect the unpleasant past. Though I like to think in the end that in addition to his speed, Philippe turned out to be man of compassion.

I am not proud of that long ago day I entered the studio and yelled into the intercom, but chalk it up to the sins of youth, and a lesson learned. That beautiful color portrait taken by Philippe of myself and family currently hangs in my living room. Studying it just yesterday I note that my hair is curled and styled in a way completely different than I had ever worn before. I am smiling broadly.

No doubt from relief.

*The photographer’s name and studio along with others mentioned in this story are fictitious.