Halos in the Darkroom

The ad in the Help Wanted section said “Staff needed for a new photography venture to open June 1.” I needed a job.

The owner’s name was Gerald.

“I have only a sixth-grade education and I make $100,000 a year,” he told me, adding  “I can make money off of anything. A buddy of mine bet me $1,000 I couldn’t make money on a photography studio. That’s why I’m opening this place. I’m planning to win that money. I only have to stay in business three months to do it.”

Gerald decided to hire me for the front desk because I was well-spoken and looked cute.

He hired Bill, a friend of his, to be the photographer and two other “girls” to work the phones.

A few weeks passed and the studio was succeeding beyond Gerald’s wildest dreams.

While Bill and I were having lunch one day, I mentioned that I wished that I had more marketable skills so that I could earn a better paycheck.

“Tell you what – I’ll teach you to shoot portraits,” he told me. “Just don’t let anyone know. No one is supposed to get near that camera but me.”

The next afternoon, when business was slow, Bill started teaching me his craft. I learned to focus the camera, pose the subject, set the lights, and put folks at ease so they would look natural.

The next day, Bill did not come to work. I called and left a message for Gerald.  

When Clients began arriving, and the lobby was filled to capacity, I decided to shoot some portraits myself. Gerald showed up the next morning.

“I got your message about Bill. I checked around and found out he was arrested. He’s in jail.”

Bill, it seems, had broken into the appliance store next door and stolen two televisions. And he had seemed like such a nice guy!

Gerald was a nervous wreck.

“I’m gonna lose that bet for sure!” he complained.

“Maybe not,” I said hesitantly. “I shot some portraits of our clients yesterday. Bill taught me how to do it.”

“Are you kidding me?  Bill let a rank amateur use my expensive equipment!” Gerald was about to explode.

“Well, Miss Know-It-All, we’ll just see if those portraits you took sell. Nobody learns to be a photographer in one day!” he scolded.

That afternoon the proofs of the portraits that I had taken the day before arrived.

I must have forgotten to check the light meter. My first session had been with a handsome family that was wearing dark clothes, and I had used a black background for them.

All you could see in the proofs was their faces and their hands.

Other portraits that I had taken had similar issues.

To my surprise, however, the clients were thrilled.

“Highlighting our faces like that!” they exclaimed. “It’s art!”  

Gerald was both surprised and delighted.

“I knew the minute I hired you that I had struck a goldmine,” he enthused.

The next day, knowing that bright-faced pictures would eventually grow old, I remembered to check the lights and set them properly. I centered each of my subjects’ heads in the center of the lights behind them.  

When I received the proofs the next day, all the family photos were fine, but the individual photos caused a near riot.

Every one of them showed a halo around the head of the subject.

“You’ve made my baby look like the angel that she is!” one mother gleefully shouted.

“You have a gift, young lady,” said another.

I started getting appointments specifically for halo photos. They were so popular, I had a waiting list.

All good things come to an end, however.

An elderly lung cancer patient died shortly after purchasing his halo photo.

Two weeks after that, a poodle that I had photographed was struck and killed by a car.

My once satisfied customers were now making frantic phone calls, wanting to know if I could remove the halos from their photos.

Business came to a standstill. Gerald could not be consoled.

“I’m gonna lose that bet!” he moaned. “We still have a month and a half to go. I can’t believe I trusted you to be my photographer.”

We were bringing in no income. The only thing we could do was lower expenses.

At the end of August we closed shop.

We ended up with a profit of $245.94.

Gerald slapped me on the back. “Well, kid,” he said, “we didn’t make a killing, but I won the bet.”

He locked the door for the last time and handed me an envelope.

“Just my way of saying thanks,” he grinned before walking away.

I opened the envelope.

Inside was a button that had “Gerald’s Little Helper” stamped over top of a photo of a voluptuous woman dressed as an elf.

There was also a coupon for 10 cents off a milk shake at the Tastee Freeze.

I threw them both in trash barrel and went to look for a real job.