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.." I figured I oughta start with my name, since proper introductions hadn't come up yet. "My name is Rachael and..." Rachael, huh?" He chuckled. "No need for any of that. I'll be calling you 'girl' or maybe 'bitch' from now on, depending on circumstances." Oh." I licked my lips, not really knowing how to respond to that. "I guess uh, well ... okay."I wasn't sure I was going to like being called bitch all the time, but girl was sort of acceptable, in a way. He was older than me, a lot older, maybe even older than my dad, who was 53 and pretty old, in my opinion. The man had a strong jaw and deep set eyes, but otherwise it was hard to get anything from his profile. Thin lips, not much for smiling I supposed, and short iron grey hair. He wasn't fat or skinny, but just average in build and dressed like a farmer, with a flannel shirt and jeans. He smelled like fresh cut hay too, or so I imagined, not really knowing what fresh cut hay smelled like. It could have been alfalfa for all I. It opened a whole new vista for me, photography, black and white , color, lighting, shades, wow. His name was Sam, he called himself a "photo journalist", and when he drank, which was often he regaled us with stories of people and places he'd been and photographed. He showed us some of his journals, he'd been a photographer during the "War", he even had pictures of celebrities and politicians he met. While we were going through some his journals he went in the kitchen to get another beer, and I picked out a journal that sat in a separate box. There was a picture of a lady posing in front of a "burlesque parlor" I was about to open it when Sam came in and said "Whoa partner, you're a little young to be looking in there." He took the journal and handed me another from his Army Box. Here, he said, check these out." On a really cold Saturday I was in Gregor's neighborhood looking for work, I'd applied at the Grocery Store, and a couple of other businesses when I passed.
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