Everyday, I come in contact with a number of people. None of them pay me. I pay them.
I go to the dentist, the food store, the gas station, all sorts of places where I buy goods or get services. Some of the people know me and call me by name. Others call me, “sir,” a surname I despise, because it makes me feel old. I don’t deserve the respect of being called sir and I don’t have a title. I know the names of those I see regularly for personal services and always call them by name. They are professionals, maybe not the lords of their domains, but independent, trained craftspeople.
I usually don’t talk with the people I meet in food stores, restaurants or gas stations unless they have a drill in their hand, a pair of scissors or are selling lottery tickets. How can I not? The relationship is so personal. They talk and you talk. They ask if they are hurting you, which they could. They make you more attractive or more appealing. They touch you personally, your hair, your car, your teeth, things which if not maintained can make me look shitty, not be able to eat or be an unsafe driver. And, a winning lottery ticket could change my life.
It’s different than a food store where they ask paper or plastic, credit or debit, do you want the receipt.
They look at me; I look at them. My camera always at my side, I feel compelled to shoot them. Not as they work, because I cannot have my gums cleaned or my beard trimmed and hold the camera, but posed in their place of doing business. Some let me. But, it’s a challenge. They are working. They have to clean their stations. Prepare for the next person. Relax. Smoke a cigarette. Text. I get a moment. I have to find the light, a comfortable setting the shows the environment and let the do the camera its thing.
