No touching

Tom hated cameras. He hated having his photo taken. It wasn’t the posing, the flash, or the gushing smiles. It was the surgical extraction of time. That anyone with a camera could capture a moment and preserve it in a way that affronted the march of time. Tom hated that.

When he arrived at the mansion, he knew what was at stake. Not for his cause, but for his personal integrity. His face was tired and worn from waiting for time to chip away at change and create a smooth, polished stone of society. That same face would be plastered on the internet and in print.

But the politics of it, for the second time in his life, outweighed the personal integrity. He would surrender his face by being in a public place for the chance to shame the press, shame the photographers and the looky-loos for disgracing his American Hero.

As Tom pushed through the crowd, he saw familiar faces from the neighborhood. Older, thick men who, much like him, saw the media as circus—writers selling words cheaper than popcorn, crafting half-truths to pay their rent in New York brownstones. They all wore glasses and shouted and pointed at the cameramen.

Tom saw the game and wanted to play.

Hold your hand up to the camera. Don’t touch it, though. Don’t touch anyone. Just block the shot. Call them names. Shame them. But don’t touch them. Like an American optics strip club.

It was a morning well spent.