NOTHING WRONG WITH YOUR CAMERA

 

The man in the camera store was not the only customer who appreciated cameras. He was, however, the eldest and most audible. You could tell from his trousers that, in his youth, they were worn fitted, slightly above the waist, and held firmly by a faithful belt now coming to the end of its days. His hat was not confidently set on his head, but it matched the grey long-sleeved shirt he wore. The hearing aid he usually carried was absent. This became apparent within minutes.

 

It was a rainy spring afternoon. The store floor screeched as wet shoes tried to secure the best purchase their pockets could afford. Outside, rain streaked the large front windows. Inside, rows of cameras sat beneath bright lights, each claiming, in one way or another, to be better than the one before it.

 

Then the man’s voice rose, bringing several ears to attention.

 

‘Why do we have to change it if it’s not broken?’

 

The sales attendant, a young fellow with a company badge clipped to his chest, smiled politely.

 

‘You don’t have to change it, Mr Mallory. Unless you want clearer pictures and up-to-date standards.’

 

‘Of course, I want clearer pictures. I love collecting proof of scenery often overlooked. But it gets frustrating when I’ve got to keep relearning everything almost every year now.’

 

‘Tell me, Mr Mallory, what’s the challenge you have with changing cameras so we can help?’

 

Mr Mallory leaned back and allowed some time to pass before responding.

 

‘Okay, I’m gonna have to bore you by taking you to the start of it all. Hope you don’t mind.’

 

‘You’ve got my attention all the way.’

 

The attendant said this with the confidence of a man who believed the story would last two minutes.

 

A chubby lady with wet hair stood by a display cabinet, apparently comparing lenses. She had become as interested in the conversation as everyone else within earshot. Mr Mallory folded his hands as he continued.

 

‘I’m eighty-two now. Ever since the age of eight – my God, that’s going back a few years – I've had a Box Brownie camera. Little black square thing. Eight photographs on a roll. Black-and-white.’ He giggled.

 

‘You know, I felt like the most important being in the world whenever I held that camera. My first dog was my favourite model.’

 

‘What was your dog called?’ asked the attendant.

 

‘Bobby. Bright one, he was.’

 

Briefly, Mr Mallory looked beyond the store walls.

 

‘Had him six years before a car hit him.’ The attendant nodded.

 

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

 

‘Wasn’t your fault.’ Mr Mallory waved a hand.

 

‘Anyway, after that, I joined the Air Force. Got myself a Kodak camera. Colour photographs this time. Oh, I thought colour was magic. Trees, flowers, rivers, clouds. Anything I laid eyes on. What a thing colour was after growing up with black-and-white.’

 

 The rain intensified against the windows. Customers continued to enter the store, carrying folded umbrellas and dripping coats.

 

‘Then what happened?’ asked the lady by the display cabinet. Mr Mallory brightened.

 

‘Well, that’s the problem, isn’t it? Something always happens.’

 

The attendant glanced momentarily towards the entrance as another customer walked in, then returned his attention to the old man.

 

‘I had a Yashica after that. Then a Canon. Then another Canon. Every few years, there’d be something newer. Faster. Sharper. Smarter.’

 

‘And you wanted them?’ asked the attendant.

 

Mr Mallory considered this.

 

‘Funny thing is that I did.’

 

The answer seemed to surprise him.

 

‘People talk as if companies force us into change. Sometimes they do. But half the time we’re chasing it ourselves. We hear there’s something better, and suddenly what worked perfectly yesterday isn’t enough anymore.’

 

The attendant laughed. ‘That still happens.’

 

‘Aye. It certainly does.’

 

Mr Mallory pointed towards a gleaming camera displayed behind glass.

 

‘That thing there probably does twenty jobs before breakfast.’

 

‘Something like that.’ The attendant smiled, revealing a broken tooth.

 

‘My old Canon just took photographs.’

 

The lady by the cabinet spoke again. ‘Maybe that’s all a camera should do.’

 

The three of them shared a brief smile, and it seemed as if the rain was the loudest thing in the room. Then Mr Mallory’s expression softened.

 

‘You know what my wife used to say?’

 

The attendant shook his head.

 

‘“Nothing wrong with your camera,” she’d say. “But one day they won’t make parts for it anymore.”’ He chuckled.

 

‘Used to annoy me every time she said it.’

 

The attendant noticed the change in the old man’s voice.

 

‘Was she right?’

 

‘Usually.’

 

Now Mr Mallory was losing the gleam in his face, no matter how hard he tried to keep it.

 

‘Lost her six years ago.’

 

As the attendant lowered his eyes, the lady by the cabinet stopped pretending to inspect lenses. Mr Mallory looked out towards the rain and continued.

 

‘Funny thing is that I can still remember the exact photograph I took the day after we met. Germany. Summer afternoon. She was standing beneath a tree. Didn’t know I was taking the picture.’

 

His fingers moved unconsciously, as though holding an invisible camera.

 

‘I’ve got thousands of photographs. Mountains. Gardens. Churches. Birds. Seascapes. But if the house caught fire and I could save only one picture, it’d be that one.’

 

Nobody spoke for several seconds. The attendant no longer seemed concerned about sales targets. The customers entering and leaving the store became little more than movement in the background. Eventually, he said, ‘Can I ask something, Mr Mallory?’

‘Go on.’

‘Is it really the camera that’s bothering you?’

The old man looked at him, then at the rows of cameras surrounding them: newer models, faster processors, better sensors, smaller bodies, each replacing something once considered modern. And then he rubbed his chin.

‘Maybe not. Maybe I’m just tired of learning everything all over again.’

The attendant nodded and said, ‘That’s fair.’

 

Mr Mallory stared through the rain-streaked window. People hurried past outside with their heads lowered against the weather.

‘You spend eighty years figuring things out,’ he said, ‘and then the world changes the instructions.’ The lady by the cabinet let out a small laugh.

‘The world never stops doing that.’

‘No.’ Mr Mallory smiled. ‘It doesn’t.’

The attendant reached beneath the counter and produced a camera. It was not the newest one, nor the most expensive, but it was sturdy and sensible. He placed it gently on the table.

‘What about this one?’

Mr Mallory picked it up, turned it over, and found the controls. His fingers settled naturally on the buttons. He looked more comfortable than when he first walked into the store.

 

Outside, the rain was beginning to ease.

 

‘You know,’ he said, ‘I think I can manage this one.’

 

The attendant grinned. ‘Excellent.’

 

Mr Mallory nodded thoughtfully, then looked around the store: at the bright displays, at the cameras, at the customers, at the world carrying on around him.

 

‘Mind you,’ he added, ‘if they bring out another version next year, I’m coming straight back here to complain. But I’ll keep the camera.’

 

The attendant laughed. And so did the lady. Even a customer passing behind them smiled. Among all the upgrades, r
eplacements, and newer models waiting their turn, the old man seemed perfectly in focus. He held the camera like it already belonged to him.

 

Don’t Forget to Be Honest!

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