March of 1846.

March of 1846. I hear a knock on the shed that’s been turned into a make-shift darkroom for the time being, but it seems as though I’ve grown to like the hobby I was forced into. I stared up at the man in a nice suit. He had a paper in his hand, but I didn’t need to read it. I knew he needed my submission for the competition. I took a breath and carefully removed three of my best film strips of the twenty on the shelf. I carefully packaged them in a box, most likely lackluster to those of my competitors. The man took the box with a smile. In return, he handed me the paper filled with information he had formerly held in front of my face(in an admittedly rude manner). He then turned away and continued on his route, collecting submissions from the other competitors on my street. There was only one: Thomas. I watched the man leave, strangely out of place, due to how formally he was dressed. Though I was happy my work in the competition was over, I couldn’t help but notice the bitterness clouding my thoughts. That man had taken three months of work to be judged. I can hear my father saying, “I told you so,” already. And that’s exactly what I heard when I explained my situation to him.

Four months ago, December of 1845, is when my father first saw the poster for the photography competition. He submitted me with only a day to spare. December 30th. There was only one problem: the competition required the traditional way of film development. It’s an outdated, much more difficult process. My father owned a camera capable of this method. My father owned a multitude of cameras, actually, and they were his prized possessions. It was only a bit of a sore spot, seeing as though I’m his child. I had never taken interest in photography, or the cameras I was never allowed to touch, but he figured it was, “about time you should learn.” My father, shortly after arriving home, took me to the shed I was never allowed to play near, and that I was never allowed inside of once, even when I begged. He finally took me inside after years of pleading, still nit-picking how far out my elbows stuck from my sides around his “fragile equipment,” but he explained the basics, handed me a book, and left with the words: “Three months.” The door eased shut to the rickety, dark shed in our yard, that I now stood center in, glancing around at the years-old memorabilia my father had hung on the plywood. This was, by all accounts, his safe space. “Three months.” Those words echoed in my head, not entirely sure what I was signed up for, but I couldn’t bring myself to deny my father a shared interest between us. They were rare.

Thomas was the kid a few doors down on our gravelly, hoove-torn street. His house lies in the cul de sac. It was visually nicer than the rest, but I know it wasn’t. At least he wasn’t, and I would know. Our fathers are best friends, always have been. I’ve spent a lot of time in forced proximity with the kid, enough to know that he, like his own father, has had a long winded interest in photography. This specific type. He had already bragged about entering. I know he must’ve already started. Thomas regularly shows his works to my father, and while I wouldn’t call myself jealous of Thomas, I can admit it would be nice to have that relationship with my own father. None of that mattered now. All that mattered was the fact I knew Thomas was competing, and this was a chance to knock his ego down at least one peg, though his ego, by this point, is probably as well fortified as the fence in front of his excessive home.

Over the next months, I learned how to develop photos. But I soon realized that wasn’t all that was happening. My first film strips were… clearly less-than average, but that never stopped me from calling my father to the shed so he could fawn over them. I asked my father for help where I (truthfully) didn’t need it, just to see the small glint of admiration in his eyes when he nodded and stood from his reading- which he’s never easily torn from. Me and my father grew closer over the months, but I also soon found I wasn’t faking my love for developing film anymore. It had become something I looked forward to. I didn’t grow closer to everyone, though. Thomas’s fallacious belief I had only signed up to spite him… was not entirely fallacious. Despite what I told him while I wagged my finger one Saturday morning, during which he and his trained, trimmed poodle were out on one of their pretentious strolls, one of my intents was to embarrass him, only second to getting the competition over with. Maybe it was his combative nature that inspired him to drive a new wedge between us. He was seeking me out to pick at me. It was grating, but at least he wasn’t making false, futile attempts at “becoming friendly” with me. He dropped the act and treated me with the distaste he truly had for me. Soon, the three months were over. And as stated earlier, my favorite, clearest, and most meaningful strips of film were robbed from me. I thought I’d be relieved to have it over with, but I had this uncomfortable sense of longing for them as I watched the man trudge to Thomas’s house. Three months passed by.

Nearing the five-month mark of this endeavor, I had been mercilessly working in the shed. It had soon become my life all the same as it did my father’s. I heard the mailman holler, as he usually did, knowing my father was usually some-odd thirty feet away in the shed-the only difference being myself instead of my father. I collect the letters. One is marked with my name. I open it with a shrug, read it, and place the paper back in its encasing with a shrug. I didn’t win the competition, nor did I expect to. I was signed up ready for it to be over. Thomas read his letter the same time I did. I could hear the shout of absolute, unbridled pride from the yard of his house. A small smile tugged at my lips when I glanced in that direction. Though I’ve never found myself being happy for the boy before, the sheer gratification of winning, when he works toward it every year, is impossible not to acknowledge. I walked into my house, and found my father in the den, his attention fully held by the book in his hands as always, and informed him of the loss. He gave me a small smile, never acknowledging the fact I had lost, and asked to see my latest work.