“I want to belong to the table of Salinger, Steinbeck, Hemingway and Kerouac” said Gavin out of the blue. His dark brown eyes were as wide as the looming moon that beamed its mild glow on us.
We were at the convenience store when he blurted that out. I was buying cigarettes and he was chewing gum after downing an acidic and steaming cup of brewed coffee. He said the coffee was “good, not great but still good.”
I asked “Why would you want to belong to the ranks of those guys? You’re not even a writer.”
“I know, I know. I don’t even have the right words to pass my college exams but reading those guys’ works and lives just makes me..” he paused as the words in his mind escaped him.
“And?” He left me hanging. I wanted to know what he was thinking. Gavin rarely talked to me about what he felt, maybe because I’m not one of the “guys” as I’m the flower among the thorns in our group. But when he did talk, I want to listen. Maybe it’s because I just think that he didn’t waste words on unnecessary things.
“They make me want to live out more, you know? Experience the world. Touch the texture of life with my hands, breathe in the breeze of the Riviera, grab bulls by their horns and maybe even drink whiskey in the morning and wash it down with a cup of freshly ground and brewed coffee.”
Gavin liked coffee. I don’t. It makes me tremble, no, it makes me quake.
“Then go. By all means. But just remember, don’t idolize those guys too much. I wouldn’t want you dying of alcoholism or depression. It’d suck for the guys to mourn over you while you’re in your coffin with a shotgun blast crater for a face.” I was referencing Hemingway. The man didn’t wait for life to take him. He took things into his own hands.
“Nah, I won’t. I want to experience now , you know? I want to live it” he said as he tapped his index and middle finger on the counter table. “I’d like to bring memories back home. I want to show you those things.”
I didn’t know where the conversation was leading to but I felt good at that moment. It was nice to hear of other people’s plans and know that you’re in them. It’s not a romantic feeling but it felt nice.
A pop of bright flash created a negative in the back of my eyes as I squinted.
“Hey! What was that for?” I snarled at Gavin. He whipped out an old instant camera from his calf-skin messenger bag. I hated him for that. He snatched the print from the camera and put it on the counter. The spill from his coffee lined the corner of the print. He took it away before I could even take a look.
“Nothing. I just want to remember the time I made my decision to see the world. I want you to be the first memory I bring with me. C’mon, let’s get out of here before I go for another double tap of coffee.”
He led the way while I followed. He was flicking that print while we walked. I wonder what it looks like?
LomoLit is series of fresh and original fiction made by lomographers, for lomographers. But if you want more reads to satisfy your analogue soul, then you might also want to check out our articles in The Analogue Reader series!