Best Photo

When Sally and Joseph met, it was dislike at first site. That was in high school. They were both working on the yearbook committee. Sally’s father was a well-known artist who specialized in neo-modern-impressionist-interpretive art. That meant he used non-traditional materials to create works that Joseph said compared favorably to the works of Tumba the elephant or Keebo the chimp. Sally’s mom was an activist. She was an activist against just about everything developed since 1835. As far as Joseph could tell she wasn’t an activist FOR anything.

Joseph did not have an artistic heritage. He had an ‘eye,’ a natural talent.

Mrs. Van Den Handel, photojournalism teacher and yearbook coordinator, entered Joseph and Sally in a statewide photo contest. Their competitive tension escalated their mutual trash talk to heights never before reached. After one particularly heated exchange which ended nose to nose, witnesses Michael Ado, the basketball team captain, and Barry Marshall, the star running back, stared blankly at one another.

“I didn’t understand a word of that. Did you catch that, my brother?” said Michael.

Barry shook his head. “I’m gonna have to dig out my Daddy’s Funk & Wagnal’s,” said Barry. “I can see how this is gonna end.”

“Blood and guts?” said Michael.

“Nah, man. Terminal lip lock,” said Barry.

Mrs. Van Den Handel rejected Sally’s and Joseph’s first five attempts as too trite and gimmicky. Joseph stopped thinking about how to beat Sally and set his sights on composing the best shot he could capture.

He went to the Veteran’s Retirement Village for a human interest photo. After an awesome image of Billy Hansen, the World War I fighter ace, Joseph saw Sally, camera in hand, chatting with Roberta May, nurse and veteran of World War II, Korea, and Vietnam; one of the few women to ever receive the Purple Heart. Sally saw Joseph, too.

The next day, barely day, at 5 a.m., Joseph warmed himself over his Coleman at Overlook Point waiting for the first glint of sun to sparkle off the Taylor River below. At the first hint of purple, he set up his tripod and watched orange fringes flex and stretch up from the horizon. Electric blue filled in the background. A yellow shaft split the blue and gave him the impression of a yellow laser blasting downward from Heaven. A rare flash of green followed and lingered just a second longer as purples, reds, blues and yellows began to dissolve the purple-black of night into the dawn of the new day.

As Joseph was packing up his tripod, a flash of light caught his attention. There was a reflection of sunlight off a mirror-like surface on the ridge line opposite his. Or a lens. Joseph focused his telephoto at the source of the reflection. A camera was, likewise, focused on him. Sally peeked over the top of her lens and gave him a tentative wave. Then she ducked behind her lens again. Joseph lowered his camera and stared across the expanse. Then he raised his hand in an equally tentative wave.

Late that night, Joseph heard the report of a fire at the Spencer Arms Apartments on his police scanner radio. He grabbed his gear and rushed to the scene. He got some great candids of the firefighters, the smoke and flames. He got way too close and felt the hot embers on the back of his hands and neck, as a timber gave way and fell.

That was also when he heard the small cry. He yelled for a firefighter. He screamed and jumped up and down, waving his arms. They couldn’t hear him. But, he heard the scared plea for “Mommy.” For “Daddy, please help me!”

Joseph stared into the blaze, trying to localize the voice. Again, “Mommy! Daddy!”

Another timber fell and the screams of terror became non-stop. Joseph grabbed a cotton cloth he used for cleaning his equipment from his kit bag, soaked it in a puddle, wrapped it around his face and plunged into the shell of the burning building. Time seemed to stop as he zeroed in on the screams, which were becoming more and more interlaced with coughs. And then, there she was, maybe six or seven years old, dressed in My Scene jammies that were at the same time soaked and smoldering.

Joseph took the wet cloth from his face and draped it over the little girl’s hair and face, making an attempt to tuck it into the neck of her jammie top. He scooped her up and ran. He felt as if his body was under the command of Barry Sanders. It would suddenly stop, cut left, burst forward, spin left, cut right, leap over this, step around that. He saw red and white flashing lights and headed for them. His shoulder smashed into something. He spun 360 and kept running. His shoulder felt really hot! He lunged out into the night air and gasped a lung full. He hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath.

He tripped over something and fell, landing on his burning hot shoulder. Instinctively, he rolled onto his back to protect the precious package he was carrying. The heat burning his shoulder was gone instantly, replaced by slick, sticky mud.

He sat up, rolled to his knees, and uncovered the little girl cradled in his arms. She was whimpering and in shock, but she was breathing. Joseph stood and carried her toward the nearest firefighter.

Sally won the photo contest. It was a picture of a young man, still more boy than man, muddied and torn, steam rising from a mud encased shoulder. He seemed to be emerging from a fog bank. He was carrying, and appeared to be cooing to, a bedraggled, soot covered little girl.