Famous Lines, part 2

  

     They shoot the white girl first. She posed flawlessly, obeying the photographer's commands with ease. This obviously wasn't her first time. I sat waiting for my turn, in excruciating silence. Silence, except for the clicks of the camera. The sound of the shutter sounded like a ticking bomb, counting down the moments until it was my turn. My stomach had the nervous feeling in it, and I was sweating even though it was cold in there.
      My back was beginning to feel sore from the metal folding chair when they finally called my name. I stood, and hoped nobody would notice me. But how would they not notice me? It was my turn.
     I kept asking myself why I had thought this was a good idea. The whole time, the photographer kept telling me to "Relax" and "Pose naturally," but the poses he was putting me in were weird. I couldn't figure out how to move my gangly arms and legs into a graceful position. I was painfully aware of every inch of my 6-foot frame. The positions they wanted me in were like putting a square peg in a round hole. Even my hair reflected my awkwardness. The photographer tried to arrange it several times to no avail.
     It felt like it took hours, but probably only took a few minutes. The experience was a nightmare. This is not the scene I dreamed of. Like much else nowadays I leave it feeling stupid, like a man who lost his way long ago but presses on along a road that may lead nowhere.