Shooting the Moon Read Online Free PDF Page A

lab.”
    He picked up a large white plastic spool from the counter. “You ever see one of these things? It’s called a film reel. The hardest part of the job. You’ve got to get the film from the cartridge onto this baby, and you’ve got to do it blind.” He pointed to a door on the other side of the room. “You sit in that little closet over there and make it happen.”
    â€œIn the dark? What if I ruin the film before it’s even developed?”
    Sgt. Byrd reached into his bag and pulled out another film cartridge, which he handed to me.“You can practice on this one. I’ll shout directions to you through the door.”
    â€œI don’t want to ruin your film,” I protested.
    â€œAin’t nothing but a thing, my young friend,” said Sgt. Byrd. “I’m all about the process. The end product is less important to me. You ruin some film, big deal. I’ll take more pictures.”
    I took the film, the film reel, a canister, and canister cover into the closet and closed the door. I was in complete darkness. “Okay, what do I do first?” I asked, fumbling around, trying to feel what was the reel, what was the canister, holding on to the film cartridge for dear life.
    He walked me through the process: I unwound the film from its spool and slid one end of it into a slot on the outer edge of the reel. The tricky part was loading the film onto the reel, which meant catching the edges of the film on the reel’s teeth. This took me about twenty tries and a lot of hot-blooded cussing to accomplish. Once I finally got the film loaded, all I had to do was insert the reel in the canister and cover it. That part was a cinch.
    â€œI think I’m ready to open the door now,” I told Sgt. Byrd.
    â€œIs the canister lid on tightly?”
    â€œI think so.”
    â€œThen emerge and let’s see how you did.”
    Sgt. Byrd was full of high praise for my work. “I’ve never seen anyone figure out how to load a film reel that fast,” he told me. “You’re a natural, kid.”
    I felt the heat rise to my cheeks. I’d never been called a natural at anything before. I was good at several things: throwing a football, unknotting knots, multiplying fractions. I could draw hands that almost looked real, except the thumbs were never 100 percent right. But no one had ever noticed a pure, natural-born talent in me before now.
    â€œYou ready to try your brother’s film?”
    I nodded. “Combat ready.”
    A shadow seemed to pass over Sgt. Byrd’s face. “Let’s call this a combat-free zone, how ‘bout it? Combat-free, duty-free, fancy-free. Land of the free, home of the brave.” He smiled and handed me TJ’s film. “Time to get to work, what do you say, pal?”
    â€œOkay,” I told him. “I think I can do it.”
    He patted me on the shoulder. “Oh, you can do it all right. Like I said, you’re a natural.”
    He was right. I was.

five
    TJ started taking pictures in junior high school, when we were stationed on an Army post in Bad Kreuznach, a small German town an hour or so from Frankfurt. When you’re an Army brat stationed in Germany, you’re in for serious sightseeing duty. You’ll be dragged from castles to river cruises to medieval cities that are damp and cold even in the heart of summer. Your parents will feel it is their solemn obligation to drag you to these places over and over, whenever relatives come visit, whenever it’s a bright and shiny Saturday and there’s no football to be played, whenever you complain because the TV stateside is so muchbetter than the lousy Armed Forces Network.
    There are a couple of ways of dealing with your life as a constant tourist. If you’re like me, you’ll develop a serious comic book habit and never leave home without at least five Archies, three Beetle Baileys, and a Little Lulu or two tucked into