Alvah Bernstein (ferrotype) wrote in burn_town, @ 2011-11-10 20:36:00 |
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Entry tags: | city slicker, fastest gun in the west |
The rugged-looking men standing outside the saloon eyed the newcomer warily as the man took great pains to set up his camera tripod in the perfect spot, first setting it down in one place, looking through the viewfinder, then moving it a few inches to the right, checking the frame, then moving it to the left once again, so on and so forth. The newcomer was a tall, thin fellow, clean-shaven and smartly dressed - obviously not from around these parts. He muttered unintelligibly to himself as he continued to set up the camera, then when he appeared to be satisfied with its placement, let out a cry of triumph. In the end, it was placed squarely in front of the very men who were staring at him, and the newcomer straightened up, pulling out a rumpled piece of paper from his trouser pocket and a fountain pen. He tilted his head and stared back at them curiously, as though they were creatures in a zoo rather than human beings who could pummel him at any moment. He tapped the pen against his lip thoughtfully, and then, when inspiration finally struck, he put it to paper and began to scribble away furiously on the page that was already flush with slapdash observations.
The following was written, barely-legibly:
week II
still entranced by savage beauty of West
twnsflk - primitive sort of charm; endearingly inhospitable - perhaps they have something to prove?
saloon, gathering place; drink, gamble, asstd sin (GIRLS!!)
stoic ruffians outside bar - seem to accept my presence; I will assimilate soon enough, get +stories once build more trust & rapport with locals - learn culture by immersion
ask S. to tag along on law enforcement... things. bribe? (booze? girls?)
purchase butter
Once he had finished penning this note to himself, he haphazardly folded it back up into a small packet and put it back in his pocket, fingers smeared with ink. He absent-mindedly wiped his hands on his trousers (smearing them with ink as well) then took a look through his camera once again.
"Ah, perfect."
Before he could take his perfect snapshot, however, one of the men outside the bar took this opportunity to ruin it by moving from where he had been loitering and moving toward the photographer, looking none too pleased as he did so.
"An' jus' whaddayou think yer doin'?" the saloon patron said, then spat at the stranger's shoes.
The newcomer was unfazed. He smiled at the man and explained, "As a documentarian, I want to make sure my notes are as thorough as possible, so that I can later expand on them accurately and - "
The grizzled man cut him off. He narrowed his eyes at him. "You some kind of idjit?"
"Idiot? Me? Ha ha, that's a good one. Me? No. I'm Bernstein. Alvah Bernstein. I'm a journalist." He held out a conspicuously uncalloused hand to the local.
The local man just stared at it, looking as though he was considering breaking it rather than shaking it.
It took Alvah longer than it should have to take the hint, and even once he did let his hand go slack again, it was only to fidget with the camera once again.
"You know, journalist? Writer? You may have seen my War correspondence in the New York Times? ...Oh, wait. I keep forgetting that you're... oh, never mind. I'm related to the Sheriff. Now, would you mind getting back up onto that veranda? This will only take a few minutes... "
Much to Alvah's annoyance, the local didn't budge. He frowned. Stubborn bastards, the lot of them. Still, there had to be some way to get this shot.
"Pretty please?" he tried.