Little Murders Page #4

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Well?

I began as

a commercial photographer...

and was doing

sort of well at it.

"Sort of well"?

You should see his portfolio.

He's had work in Holiday,

Esquire, The New Yorker, Vogue.

- Vogue?

- Whoo! Whoo!

It's an overrated business.

But after a couple of years

of doing sort of well at it...

uh, things began to go wrong.

I began losing my people.

Somehow I got...

my heads chopped off...

or out of focus...

or terrible expressions on my models.

I'd have them examining

a client's product like this.

Like that.

[Chuckles] A face...

Would be... really. The agencies

began to wonder if I didn't have...

- some editorial motive in mind.

- [Loud Rumble]

Which was not true.

But once they planted the idea...

[Mother]

Oh, I didn't mean to interrupt, dear.

How far better it is to strike a match

than curse the darkness.

My mother always told us that.

Go on, dear.

Well, my career suffered, but there

was nothing I could do about it.

You see, the harder I tried

to straighten out...

the fuzzier my people got...

and the clearer my objects.

Soon my people disappeared entirely.

They just somehow never came out.

But the objects I was shooting...

brilliantly clear.

So I began to do

a lot of catalog work.

Pictures of medical instruments...

things like that. It was boring...

but it kept me alive.

I suppose... the real break...

came with the S.C.M. Show.

They had me shoot 30

of their new models.

They hired a gallery

and put on a computer show.

120 color pictures of computers.

It got some very strange notices...

the upshot of which was that the advertising

business went thing-crazy...

and I became commercial again.

You must be extremely talented.

I got sick of it.

Where the hell are standards?

That's what I kept asking myself.

I mean, those people

will take anything.

Hell, if I give them a picture of sh*t,

they'd probably give me an award for it.

- Language, young man.

- So that's what I do now.

- What?

- Take pictures of sh*t.

Language. Language.

This is my house.

Oh, I don't mean to offend you,

Mrs. Newquist.

I've been shooting sh*t for over a year,

and I've already won half a dozen awards.

- Awards?

- Yeah.

And Harper's Bazaar

wants me to do its spring issue.

- Whoo! Whoo!

- Knock it off.

Well, that's a very

respectable publication.

It all sounds very impressive.

The news.

[Coughing]

[Coughing Continues]

[Man On TV] Who just got the master plan

of legislation that must be acted upon...

but others want to fight

for their pet bills.

[Man #2]

No, we didn't expect to have an agreement.

- We made progress.

- Well, I have to get up early.

[Man #2]

By mid-October is open to question.

Don't go, unless you feel you must.

[Man] The weather bureau says of the

storm she packs 75-mile-an-hour winds...

- south of New Orleans.

- [Ringing]

[Man]

Texas, Louisiana.

[Sighs]

[Ringing Continues]

[Man]

The situation is still critical.

- Hello.

- [Heavy Breathing On Phone]

Look, I don't know who you are, but you're

not dealing with helpless women now.

You people.

You young people today!

Destroy! Destroy!

When are you gonna

find time to build?

In my days we couldn't afford

telephones to breathe in.

You ought to get down

on your hands and knees and be grateful.

Why isn't anybody grateful?

[Chatter On Two-Way Radio]

I don't know what to do with you. You're

the toughest reclamation job I've ever had.

I know. Look, maybe you should

just retire on your laurels, Patsy.

I mean, you've reformed

five fags in a row.

- Why press your luck with a nihilist?

- Because you're wrong.

Every age has its problems, and people

somehow manage to be happy.

I'm sorry. I don't mean to bully you.

Yes, I do mean to bully you.

Alfred, if everything is so hopeless,

well, why do anything?

- Okay.

- Why get married?

Well, you said you wanted to.

- I find this a very unpleasant conversation.

- [Siren Wailing]

Patsy, let's not turn this into a critical conversation

because you're not getting your way.

- I'm for getting married.

- Oh, thanks.

Oh. So this is

a critical conversation.

Alfred!

He doesn't know how to fight.

That's why I'm not winning.

Alfred!

Damn it, Alfred. Aren't you willing

to battle over anything... even me?

Damn it, Alfred. Aren't you willing

to battle over anything... even me?

- There isn't much point, is there?

- Well, at least say you love me.

- I don't know...

- "I'm not sure I know what love is."

Okay, buster, you've had it.

I'm gonna marry you...

make you give me a house,

entrap you into half a dozen children...

and seduce you

into a life so... so...

oh...

[Groans]

So remorselessly satisfying...

that within two years,

under my management...

you will come to me with a camera

full of baby pictures...

saying life can be beautiful.

And ugly.

More often U-G-L-Y.

You're gonna give me

a piano to sing around...

and a fireplace to lie in front of...

and each and every Christmas we are going

to send out personalized Christmas cards...

with a group family portrait on the front,

taken by Alfred Chamberlain.

Mother, Daddy? Alfred and I

are getting married next week.

[Exhales]

You got yourself a fine young man.

And so accomplished.

We'll have to let Dr. Paterson

know right away.

- Who?

- The minister, dopey.

Mrs. Newquist.

Mrs. Newquist, listen.

When you speak to the minister,

you better tell him...

we don't want any mention

of God in the ceremony.

- What?

- I'm gonna have him arrested!

No God in the ceremony, hmm?

Getting a lot of turndowns,

aren't you?

Surprising, isn't it, how the name of God

is still respected in this town.

[Sighs]

Your father and me go back

a long ways, young lady.

He's done me a lot of favors.

Got me tickets to shows.

I'd like to help him out.

My mother... thank God

she's not alive today...

landed in this country

65 years ago.

Four infants in her arms.

Kissed the sidewalk the minute she got

off the boat, she was so happy to be here...

to be out of Russia alive...

across the ocean alive.

More dead than alive,

if you want to know the truth.

Sixteen days in the steerage,

15 people got consumption...

five died!

My father... thank God

he's not alive today...

came over two years earlier...

67 years ago.

Worked like a son of a b*tch

to earn our passage.

Pardon my French.

You don't want God in the ceremony,

so you're probably familiar with it.

My father worked 14 hours a day

in a sweatshop on lower Broadway.

Number 315. Our first apartment

was a five-flight walk-up...

four-and-a-half room

cold-water flat...

with the bathtub in the kitchen

and the toilet down the hall.

142 Hester Street.

Three families used the toilet...

an Italian family,

a colored family...

a Jewish family.

Three families with different faiths.

But one thing each of those families

had in common.

They had in common the sacrifices

they had to make to get where they were.

What they had in common

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