Remnants
Stu found himself prowling Baltimore’s darkened Inner Harbor alone at two in the morning on July fifth. Yolanda’s mother was visiting from Mexico City and they were spending time together, mother and daughter. Tiffany had gone out to enjoy the Fourth of July festivities with Kendall. Stu had considered calling up another girl to spend the holiday with but decided he would rather spend some time in the crowded masses alone. Thus, he went to Baltimore’s big fireworks show in the Inner Harbor by himself.
Music blared and fireworks exploded in the sky above him as he stood and watched from atop Federal Hill. He had been to the show in years past and it was always crowded, but it seemed especially populated now, probably because the show—like just about everything else—had been cancelled the year before due to the Coronavirus pandemic. Or because moderate crowds seemed enormous now after a year and a half of partial capacity. Now, most people had been vaccinated except for those who didn’t believe it was necessary. It felt perfectly safe to be in a crowd again, at last. The loud music and bright fireworks drew everyone’s attention. To Stu, the spectacle was nearly hypnotic.
Anticipation of the aftermath of the show was what had really drawn Stu out at a time when he could have nearly as easily remained home in his Federal Hill apartment with a movie like Born on the Fourth of July or a binge watch of Band of Brothers. With most of the crowd dispersed, and those remining now stumbling from one bar or pub to another, the streets were virtually empty of revelers now. Camera around his neck, Stu hunted.
He found remarkable beauty in the aftermath of the firework display. Thin, wide sheets of black ash from the fireworks scattered on the brick, on the concrete, in the grass, draped across overflowing trash cans like melting clocks from a Salvador Dali painting. Stu snapped shots of these bits of ash—remnants of the good time everyone had experienced during the firework display hours earlier.
A thirtysomething couple watched him taking pictures of the ash-draped trash can and stumbled his way, arm in arm.
“What’s the idea?” the man asked. “Why are you taking pictures of garbage, man?”
“Because it’s beautiful in its own way,” Stu answered.
“Are you nuts?” the girl asked—she sounded like she was attempting to sound ditzy. “The fireworks were beautiful. This is trash.”
Stu looked her in the eyes. They were bloodshot. “Sure, anyone can appreciate the fireworks—that was the center of everyone’s attention. The fireworks dazzled, everyone loved them. People ate their snacks and drank their beers and sodas. They consumed it all and had a beautiful time.”
“Got that right, buddy,” the man said with a laugh.
Stu continued. “But that was just the surface, the tip of the iceberg. Underneath it all—the foundation that allowed it all to happen—can be seen here. There was the part that everyone saw, and then there’s this part that only a few notice, the charred remnants of ash and garbage that allowed it to happen. This is the inside, the heart, the soul of what we saw on the surface.”
The man stumbled as he pointed a finger at Stu. “So, like, I want to eat a big, juicy steak, you think I ought to admire my shit the next day?”
The woman crinkled her nose. “Don’t be gross.”
Stu knew these jokers wouldn’t understand. But he understood. This mattered.
“Here, look.” He turned on the photo display on the back of his digital Nikon and showed off some of his photographs from the evening. Singled out, focused upon, seen out of the context of the world around them, the spotlight on the items alone, these pictures of things most people would subconsciously overlook actually appeared alluring. The ash, seasoned. The bottles and cans and wrappers emerging like a mountain from the green-striped garbage cans, pleasant. As Stu looked at the pictures himself, even he seemed a little surprised when he focused on them. He looked up to register the same enlightened expressions on these two strangers’ faces—if in part because they were under the influence.
“Wow, not bad,” the man said. “I’ll never look at garbage the same way.”
“Say!” the woman snapped her fingers. “You’re like those picture takers who took pictures of ugly things, like those starving women in the depression and bombed buildings in World War II, or homeless people on the streets. You take ugly things and make them look good.”
Stu cracked a smile. “They’re already good. Photographers just try to show them for what they are, warts and all. Everything doesn’t have to be photoshopped picture-perfect. There’s beauty—or relevance—in everything. Even the things people don’t want to look at.”
They got to the most recent picture on his camera—the one of the trashcans with trash and ash. The three of them looked at the picture, then at the real deal in front of them, then back at the picture. True, the photographer played a role in making it look more presentable, not just in pointing a finger at the subject. It looked better in Stu’s photo: the metal stripes of the receptacle had more sheen, the ash had a richer texture, even the bottles and cans and wrappers glistened in the light of the photo’s flash.
“That’s good stuff,” the man said, smiling.
“Yeah,” the woman said. “You should put your pictures in a museum.”
Stu laughed. “Like a museum of garbage? And wrecks and ruins.”
“No, really,” the man said. “I thought you were a freak when I saw you taking pictures of filth. But I got to hand it to you, that’s good stuff.”
The woman nodded. “Let’s go get a drink.”
Stu shook his head. “Nah. Thanks but no thanks. I want to get some more shots before the cleaning crew starts eliminating the evidence.”
“Keep up the good work,” the man said.
“See ya.” the woman giggled, and the two walked off to another club.
Stu exhaled a soft laugh. He’d always known it, but somehow this drunken couple at two a.m. in Baltimore’s Inner Harbor validated it for him: his work mattered. His collection, his photography, his unique perspective on these ugly underbellies—wrecks, ruins, and the castaway leftovers that others ignored—it all mattered. Before this encounter, he had been ready to call it a night, to stroll leisurely back to his little rowhouse apartment. But now he felt a new vigor to capture more while it was here.
The result was more than just a collection of about three dozen spectacular photos intermixed within the few hundred that he took. The result was—to his surprise—a dozen framed photographs on display in a show at the Creative Alliance in the Patterson Theater, seven of which sold. More validation that his collection and his work mattered.
© Eric D. Goodman
Eric D. Goodman is the author of seven books, including Faraway Tables (Yorkshire Publishing, 2024), The Color of Jadeite (Loyola’s Apprentice House Press, 2020), Setting the Family Free (Apprentice House Press, 2019), Womb: a novel in utero (Merge Publishing, 2017) and Tracks: A Novel in Stories (Atticus Books, 2011). “Remnants” is an excerpt from his most recent novel, Wrecks and Ruins (Apprentice House, 2022). Learn more about Eric and his writing at www.EricDGoodman.com.
The Loch Raven Review 