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Constance McKeen slid the sparkling green Taurus into a parking bay at the discount warehouse complex on the edge of a tiny town she'd never heard of, some eight hundred miles from Chicago and home. She locked the doors and trunk with one push on the electronic key, sealing her prized cameras in the car's rear end. Screw Hertz, she thought. Ford Taurus indeed. Where's the Land Rover they promised? Or a convertable, even. Taurus makes me look like a suburban ditz. She lowered her DKNY sunglasses against the blazing noon sun and entered Hank's Emporium, company motto: If you can't see it, you don't need it, passing a rusty pick-up truck which may once have actually been red, parked in the shade of a magnolia tree. On the hunt for authentic down-home Americana for a photo spread for one of the glossies, Connie had nine days to come up with an unusual angle. After nearly a decade on the photo-journalism circuit, she now wanted to branch out, to be creative, fulfill all those youthful dreams simmering away on the back burner before they stewed to mush. She would be an Edward Hopper for the 21st century. Georgia O'Keefe and her flowers behaving badly would be as weeds compared to Connie's photographic documentation of a disappearing America. She strode straight to the cold cabinet and selected four bottles of mineral water from among the plethora of sugary sodas. At the snack cabinet she rejected the burgers and steak wraps, as they needed nuking in the microwave, and spurned the tuna on the grounds that inland America in the summertime wasn't the best place to expect ocean-fresh marine produce. She finally settled for a chicken 'n' cheese sandwich. "Nice. Monterey Jack with every damned thing," she observed to herself. Still, she could always prise away the orange plastic sheet and hope it hadn't tainted the chicken too much. If I was a vegetarian I'd die of starvation. Too much meat, that's what's wrong with America. As she lined up to pay, she cast a penetrating eye around in the hope of something that would jump out at her, something that hadn't been covered a milllion times before. Across an aisle, her gaze met that of what looked like one of the locals, but much poorer, more poverty-stricken in every sense. A huge man in a faded baseball cap and torn, grubby triple-XL vest, and flesh like a mass of maggots — pallid, uneven and pulpy. He didn't take his eyes off her. Probably just as curious as me. He followed her out to the parking lot and joined a lean ferret of a man with a squint, wearing denim dungarees and cap, who stood next to the pick-up. With two pairs of eyes following her (well, three out of the four available), Connie beeped the car locks open and dumped her shopping in the back seat, taking out one of the bottles. She drank deep as the sun beat down. Funny pair. Bet their teeth are shot, too. Let's see. Connie waved and smiled. "Hi, there. Sure is hot." "Sho is," replied Jeb with a grin, revealing a startling jig-saw of gum and yellowing ivory. George giggled and waved back. Thought so. Locals are friendly enough. I wonder ... Connie popped the trunk and searched for something. Moments late she emerged bearing her prized Nikon, lens cap already off. She waved it at the two men. "Do you mind ...?" Their smiles broadened as they nodded their heads in an affirmative and stood up straight, chests pufffed out, to have their picture taken. Connie shot the remainder of the roll and put the camera back in its case in the trunk. That looks great. Better not push my luck, though. "Thank you," she said, beaming a smile at them before cruising back to the main road.
CONTINUES ... << back to Jeb 'n' George Go Hunting, pg1 (c) Anna Chen 2001
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