Load

First, bump into a spindly man with a case slung over his back on your way to grab lunch. Realize that you’ve knocked him into a puddle and his trench coat is now several shades darker. Apologize profusely. Offer to take him out to grab a bite with you, to which his hands will rustle in his pockets for a while before he accepts. As you walk, notice that his watch is turned on the inside of his wrist. Ask him why this is. He’ll say: “It’s part of my job, same reason I always carry this case with me.” Ask for a glass of water and a fried snapper sandwich once you sit down at the lunch counter. Your companion will ask for a shot of whiskey. One of the servers will glance suspiciously at the man’s meter-and-a-half-long case and ask what it is. He’ll respond that it’s a tool with the potential to change the world almost instantly, as though he’d already sensed the weight of the question on the server’s tongue. 

Note that the man’s skin appears to have been stretched taut across his bones, so taut that whenever he opens his mouth a flash of white crosses his cheeks. The man, with his coursing hair hidden under a fedora, will ask why your face looks like it was nature’s attempt at a Jackson Pollock. Gently put down your sandwich and reply that you’d just finished shooting some birds in a nearby forest. He’ll grin at this, the corners of his mouth drawing upwards like a bow. He’ll comment that his lanky frame causes him to be quite clumsy, making it difficult to get close to animals without scaring them away. He'll then ask you how you conceal yourself. Talk about setting up a blind, concealing the shape of the body with natural brush, and finding a shaded position that won’t draw attention. He’ll smile again.

Aim

Over the next few weeks, meet the man for lunch nearly every day. Decide that he knows a lot about concealment as well. Also begin to realize that he has a strange obsession with politics. He’ll say things like: “What do you think about Eisenhower winning the election?” or, “This country is a loaded rifle, and he’s just poured in the powder.” and, “Have you heard that he’ll be passing through here on Thursday?”

These seem like important questions. 

One day, notice that one of his eyes has a bruise around it like an inky monocle. He says “accident at work” before your lips even part. The next day, his right thumb will be the same deep purple as an evening sky.

After several weeks, all the man will have to say is “the usual” for the servers to pour out a shot of whiskey. You’ve never once seen him eat anything. His face screams with emptiness. Again, he’ll notice your stare and reply before you can ask. “My profession is one which requires steady hands, sharp eyes, and a strong mind. It’s not one which I feel is worthy of being rewarded with comfort. I carry my hunger with me, along with my case, as a reminder.” Respond that your job also requires steady hands, and point to the meter-and-a-half-long case you’ve also laid under your chair. However, there’s a lot of waiting in it, because you only have one chance to get the right shot. Sparks will ignite in the man’s eyes; something will fill his long-vacant face. He'll examine the latticed strap marks around your neck, glance at your two cases next to each other, and let out a burst of laughter.

Talk about all sorts of things from that moment on. “I love it when you get that perfect shot,” he’ll say, “when you freeze someone’s expression and all the thoughts running through their mind in an instant. It’s artwork.” Nod your head vehemently to this. Agree that it’s one of the best feelings, seemingly freezing a life with just a shift of your finger. “Do you use a stand when you’re out in the woods?” You prefer to just use your arms in case your subject moves, but you agree that a stand undoubtedly helps with shaking. “I can’t do wildlife, they’re too jittery. I find people much easier. As long as they don’t see you, you can get them while they’re in their most natural state.” 

Suddenly, all expression will be wiped from his face like a slate. His eyes will swing like pendulums for a moment, then he’ll lean towards you and whisper, “How do you feel about getting some more shooting practice in? How about… with the President?” Stare down at your case. Run your hands over the strap marks on your neck. If you were to take the shot, it would be the most important of your life: it would silence those who’ve spurned your work. Shake the man’s papery hands. Your index finger is curled slightly. 

Prime

Plan to shoot Eisenhower the next day. The man will show you the exact route that his motorcade will be taking and all the potential spots to set up. Settle on the roof of a fifteen-story condominium with a view of the street so clear you can see it wind for miles like an asphalt river. He’ll signal when to shoot by sending a flash using his watch from the building across the street. That night, order two shots and give a toast for good luck tomorrow.

While lying in your bed, waiting for the sun to rise on the day you’ll shoot the President, you’ll finally understand why the man seems so frail. Pictures of everything that could go wrong have been flooding your mind, drowning you in your worries all night. Hear your stomach beg to be filled. Ignore it. Hold your shaking hand up to ground yourself in reality, but notice that it appears to be glowing with a slight purple hue. Turn your head to the side to see that the horizon is the same color as the man’s bruised thumb. 

Begin to stumble over to your post on the roof under the cover of the dawn. You wouldn’t want anyone to know where you are, after all. That would ruin the authenticity of the shot. As you reach the roof of the condominium, the bruised horizon will begin to open up and bleed. Then, from the building across the asphalt river, you’ll see the man’s silhouette on the other side of the street. He’ll motion for you to find cover and set up. You’ll need to act quickly; this is a one-shot job. 

Fire

Wait for the President’s motorcade to reach you. Spread the legs of your tripod over the ledge of the roof. Nearly drop it. Trip over your case; hold your breath for minutes at a time. Furiously wipe your lens so that your fingerprints won’t obscure your view while you’re taking the shot. Forget if you’ve already wiped it and do it again.

Far down below, the thrashing of your heart is drowned out by applause. Steady your hands, slow down your breath. Sink into the rhythm of the street. Find the President’s face through your lens. This will be your greatest headshot. Listen to the tempo of the claps; watch his hands wave as he conducts the crowd. He raises both arms — the tempo quickens, the dynamic soars; a crescendo, it builds up and up — mezzo forte, forte, fortissimo, and then… a light from the other side! You shoot. The harmony below crashes; the sections shatter — chaos. The Secret Service is piled on top of the President like little black ants on a crumb of bread. You probably should’ve covered your camera’s flash bulb, but none of that matters now. In your hand is the likeness of the President on a tiny square of film. A cover photo. 

The perfect shot.