Photo Studio

After finishing up at the bank, Henry made another trip to a photo studio. This type of business, which would nearly vanish from streets and alleys in the 2020s, was still quite common in the 1990s.

Especially in Los Angeles, the city that cradled Hollywood, the film capital. Every photo studio had stunning portraits and artistic shots displayed out front.

Maybe it was a particularly exquisite beauty, or a charismatic man who could pass for a magazine model. Some studios even featured photos of current stars or aging celebrities from their younger days.

Everyone wanted to use such striking images to draw in the men and women flocking to this movie capital.

If tourists came, they'd leave with the best memories of their youth.

And if aspiring young men and women showed up, needless to say, standing out in an audition hinged on that crucial first impression.

Without a polished photo first, you didn't even qualify to climb onto the red couch. Behind this glamorous world lay a reality that was just that dirty and cutthroat.

For Henry, fancy portraits were secondary, but he did need to get himself some ID photos.

The one Old Tom had taken back in Alaska had terrible lighting, making him look like he'd just crawled out of hell—a face that would repel both people and ghosts.

Slap a height chart behind him and a nameplate in front, and it could pass for a mugshot or a prison intake photo.

Seeing that mess, Henry didn't even bother asking for the negatives. The photos on his driver's license and passport were stamped with embossed seals, or he'd have swapped them out immediately.

But now that he was in Los Angeles, if he wanted to register with the Actors Guild or get in with a Talent Agency, he needed at least a basic ID photo. Even applying for other jobs required a headshot. So he had to get one taken.

This wasn't the world two or three decades later, where you could whip out a phone, find a white wall for a background, snap a few shots, transfer them to a computer, Photoshop them, and print them out in color.

In the 90s, digital cameras were still stuck in labs. And because of the size of electronic components, they couldn't compete with traditional cameras at all. Image quality was out of the question.

The mainstream was still film-based traditional cameras, and most people didn't have the skills to develop photos themselves—they had to bring them to a studio.

So if you wanted photos, finding a photo studio was a must. The one Henry picked was close to the motel he was staying at, making pickup convenient.

As soon as he walked in, a greasy old white man came right up to him. With a big belly, the man chuckled, "Welcome, welcome. What kind of photos are you looking for today?

"A wedding set for a couple is six thousand six hundred, a family set is four thousand two hundred, an audition headshot set is three thousand eight hundred, and a personal artistic portrait set is two thousand two hundred.

"Outdoor shoots require an extra day's pay for the photographer and assistant, and I guarantee at least three rolls of film for you to choose from. If you bring in a second customer, I'll give you twenty percent off. Act fast if you want in."

What the hell! What's with all these packages?

It felt like I wanted to buy a little scooter, and the first thing I see is a row of Ferraris, Porsches, big Bimmers, and Maseratis—who's trying to bankrupt who?

Stunned, Henry hesitated and said, "Uh, I just want an ID photo."

"Hey, kid, don't you want to leave a memory of your youth?" the chatty old white man kept pushing.

"No, just an ID photo." Henry said it firmly this time.

"Hey, think it over—youth only comes once. When you're old and wrinkly, with your teeth falling out, you'll regret not letting me take your picture today." The old white man wouldn't give up.

But Henry thought to himself: I've already been through two adolescences!

He didn't want to start an argument, though. Los Angeles had more than one photo studio. Henry decisively turned around to leave and find another.

"Wait, OK, OK, just an ID photo, no artistic shots. What a waste of my skills—You know how many people beg me to take their pictures, and I turn them down?" the old man said.

If the old geezer hadn't thrown out that "three years without a sale, one sale feeds for three years" pricing, Henry might have believed him.

Let's put it in perspective: the average monthly salary for a blue-collar worker in the United States was around three to four thousand. When Henry got his photo done at Old Tom's, the initial asking price was only two thousand.

Comparing that, it's easy to see how outrageous this studio's prices were.

But since the guy had called him back, Henry stopped to hear the price. He said, "I want twelve 2-inch photos and twelve 1-inch photos. How much for that?"

"Final offer, sixty."

Henry didn't haggle—he just turned to leave again.

"Wait, wait, you're not happy with that either? Then you tell me how much," the old white man asked anxiously.

"Thirty, with half the deposit up front."

"Fuck, are you a Jew? Go ahead and try other studios—see if anyone gives you that price."

"Too bad, I'm sure I'm not a Jew." I'm a goddamn alien!

"Fifty, can't go lower."

"Thirty." Henry wasn't in the mood for some back-and-forth game. Take it or leave it.

But the old white man didn't give up. "Forty—that's just material costs, I'd be working for free."

Henry turned around for the third time, ready to leave.

As he walked away again, the old white man really panicked. He shouted, "OK, thirty, I'll take your photo at a loss. Fuck, I wish you were a Jew, and that the Führer had done his job properly. Too bad there was no D-Day."

Well, Henry didn't know the going rate for ID photos, but judging by the old white man's reaction, he figured he was still overpaying.

He fumbled around in his pockets, scraped together fifteen in cash, and slapped it on the counter.

Standing at the counter, Henry spotted something that brought back memories. He pointed at the computer desk behind it, where a brand-new, bulky CRT monitor sat on top, with a horizontal tower case underneath.

Seeing the STARK brand name, Henry asked curiously, "From Stark Industries? What kind of CPU does this computer have?"

The old white man, who'd looked disappointed, suddenly beamed and said, "Oh, kid, you know your stuff. This PC uses Intel's latest i486 processor, with 4MB of RAM and a 120MB hard drive.

"The graphics card is a VGA card. Not a 4-color CGA or a 16-color EGA. Can you imagine how beautiful a 256-color VGA card can make the picture look?

"And it's got both 5.25-inch and 3.5-inch floppy drives, plus a CD-ROM drive—runs like lightning. Stark Industries' premium gear—most people can't easily get their hands on it. Dell or IBM at the same price point just can't beat Stark's personal computers."

...Well, Henry didn't even know where to start with that.

He said dryly, "Yeah, no kidding, I'm about to piss myself from the shock."

New book—request for follow-up reads, collections, and recommendations. Thanks~