Paparazzi on the Pedway

I tried. Honestly, I tried to avoid them. Had even voluntarily forwarded pieces of myself captured by other soul stealers. Then had thought, Well, that's done. But no . . .

In the weird light of 7 pm—while Nigel was locking church doors across the street after the dispersal of the rehersal party for one of tomorrow's wedding channel spectacles—when i'd just stepped into my suspended space after a marathon editorial consultant brianstorming session, the phone rang. Tell me again why I have a telephone or feel the need to answer it.

It was Kyle, here's local paparazzi stringer, with orders to capture me. He wanted me, not then but later, about 9 pm, against the colour of upriver sunset. He'll call later, closer to the time. If I can do it then, great! If not, he'd call Saturday morning.

I step out the front doors of the apartment building—a renovated ex-baptist church—into this golden glowing dusk. It's as if I'm surrounded by the glow of too weird pixi light.

I turn and walk towards the river. Seeing flashing lights as I pass the library boardroom that consumed my day (and my mind), I approach the pedway bridge. More colour here than anticipated. Among the people with cameras on the pedway is a lone guy with a tripod—shades of imaginary si-fi horror Day of the Tripod flick through my head. Below the pedway several of Fredericton's finest do spot safety checks on the cars and truckes trapped, propelled forward by their own momentum on the closed loop Pointe Sainte-Anne Drive. Surreal Mod Squad lights against orange sunset clouds.

Kyle is a former student of Karen Ruet's at the craft college (NBCCD), and he said that he's just been photographing her. More comfortable behind the camera, Karen usually goes squirrelly or shy when one is trained on her. It will be interesting to see what Kyle captured. He works with a Nikon, two flash units, a homemade softbox made by cutting a rectangle for the flashhead in the bottom of a white plastic yogurt tub.

My back to the sunset, I'm to look directly at him while he takes and takes. One flash doesn't work so he switches. Tourists and locals—none that know either of us—are clearly curious about why I'm being photographed but they don't ask us anything as they try to walk around the space containing me and Kype doing the photographer's dance. Then he says he'd like to shoot more pics of me in the light of my apartment building's entrance.

Guess that I was right about the paparazzi stalking me!