WEEK     JOB: PHOTOGRAPHER

LOCATION: NEW YORK CITY

WHEN IAN AND I had first arrived in New York City only two weeks earlier, everything seemed foreign. It’s amazing how you can get comfortable in a city so quickly. I recognized street names, saw familiar faces, had my favorite grocery stores, knew where to find a great sandwich. The Bed and Coffee had become our home, and Anne our friend. We’d chat about the art of pie baking or wow her with our knowledge of fashion-industry buzzwords. And she’d encourage us to learn more than the first line to all the random songs we’d sing. If it got late and guests hadn’t arrived, Anne would go home and leave it up to us to check them in, show them their room, give them a tour and the list of recommendations for nearby places to eat. It was comfortable and exactly what we needed. Whenever the door closed behind me, everything would become quiet. As if entering a library, I couldn’t help but take a deep breath, switch gears, and begin to relax.

It was through Anne that I found my last job in the city. I’d mentioned that I’d like to try being a photographer, and she happened to have several friends in the business. She gave them a call and set us up with her friend James, who lived a few blocks away. James was a photographer/filmmaker who has worked all over the world, shooting commercials, film shorts, documentaries, and features.

James, Ian, and I met for coffee one night during my week as a fashion buyer. Immediately he struck me as an intriguing character. I got the impression he viewed the world from an alternative perspective, as if he spent a lot of time in the creative space in his own mind, and that his creativity is not constrained by societal norms.

James told us that a freelance photographer must be motivated to create his own work. Typically this requires an ongoing investment of time and money. If James has an idea for a photo shoot, he must scout the location, apply for permits, contract out the models, find the props, rent extra equipment, prepare the sketches, conduct the shoot, and perform post-shoot work on the photos, all before he knows the pictures will sell. Hopefully the shoot will be a success.

James agreed to work with me and suggested several tasks that I could undertake to help with a photo shoot.

On Monday morning, he explained my first task—scout out locations for the shoot, take pictures of the spot, write down its location, and then report back. He wanted “a modern, simple, sleek, clean look, with some depth to it.” He handed me a map of Manhattan and suggested some areas to start.

Ian and I debated taking the bikes from Anne’s place, until we pictured Ian with one hand on the bike and the other on the camera trying to capture the shot while navigating a swift yellow current of taxicabs. We opted for the subway instead.

We spent the majority of the day walking around the midtown area, and I took pictures of various locations I thought somewhat resembled what James had in mind.

Back at the apartment, James flipped through my findings in silence. Turns out I’d misinterpreted his vision and didn’t do a very good job. He liked a couple of them, but because those spots were in busy public areas, it’d be difficult to set up a shoot without acquiring various permits.

The other important task James gave me was to purchase the props needed for the photo shoot that Friday evening. He envisioned businesspeople, typically seen in serious roles, put into a more playful setting. “You always think of businesspeople being so serious, giving press conferences and having board meetings,” he said. “I’m trying to show how they are just regular people. They were children and they had fun and played with rubber duckies—so there is always a way that you can have access to that part of their personality.”

The shoot would be a fun multitasking theme. The model, dressed in full business attire, would be in the shower trying to manage his entire morning routine—eating breakfast, reading the paper, writing emails, hailing a cab—all at once. That would be contrasted with the model, still in business attire, being playful in the bathtub with various toys, as if a child again.

James handed me a long list of random items for the shoot: three men’s suits, ties, dress shirts, newspapers, a rubber ducky, shower cap, nightgown, umbrella … the list went on.

The same day James gave me the list, an article about One-Week Job was published in The New York Times. I received calls from publishers asking if I wanted to write a book, production companies who wanted to create a reality show, agents who wanted to represent me. My email inbox filled up with various job offers, media requests, and letters of encouragement. Suddenly, my role as a photographer became secondary as I tried to stay on top of everything else: organize future jobs, respond to emails, answer my phone. At the end of a long day, we passed a secondhand store and I managed to find three full suits in the size James wanted. I thought this would be the hardest part. I’d easily have time to get the rest of the props before 3:30 P.M. the next day, when we were to meet at James’s apartment.

The next morning I woke up, had breakfast, then sat at the kitchen table with my laptop to catch up on emails. Ian worked on his computer across the table.

Before long, it was 1:00 P.M.— still plenty of time to go shopping.

Moments later I received an email: “Hey, I think it’s great what you are doing, but I can’t see your website. It seems to be down.”

I typed in “oneweekjob.com.” Sure enough, it was down. I looked across the table at Ian. “Hey, the site’s down. Do you know what’s going on?”

Ian tapped at his keyboard, then looked up at me. “Hmm, I don’t know,” he said.

Then I received another email. “I saw your project on Yahoo.com. Way to go!”

I went to Yahoo.com and saw the New York Times article about One-Week Job featured on the home page. My jaw dropped.

“Ah, Ian? Go to Yahoo.com.”

“What? Why?”

“Just do it.”

Ian tapped at his keyboard. I awaited his reaction.

“No way!”

“Yeah.”

My cellphone rang. “Hi, is this Sean? I’m Paul from Texas.”

“Hi, Sean, it’s Wendy from California.”

“Sean, if come you to Mexico City, I have a place for you to stay.”

As soon as I hung up from one phone call, the phone rang again, and again. I looked at my inbox and saw emails trickling in one after another—84 … 85 … 86 …

“Dude, we need to get the site back up.”

Ian hurried to put up a basic site that could handle the amount of traffic it received. It included the basic information about the project, how to offer me a job, my contact information, and the latest episode Ian had edited, from my week at the Georgia Aquarium.

And my phone kept ringing. Some called to offer me jobs, others to talk about their career journey, some just to see if I’d actually answer the phone. More book editors, more film people, more agents. It was surreal and exciting—I felt important.

Before I knew it, 3:00 P.M. came. I had a half hour to get the props I needed, or at least enough of them to give the impression that I had made a respectable effort. The phone rang again. This time it was James. “Sean, how’s it going with the list I gave you?”

I hesitated and looked around the room to see what items I could find at an initial glance. Vaguely I responded, “I’m not sure about the inflatable tube, but pretty good, I guess.”

He kept asking me specific questions. I continued to be vague and asked questions in return to clarify details about the objects he’d requested. He finally asked me straight out, “Sean, do you have any of them yet?”

“Yeah, I found the business suits. Umm, I also have the newspapers … ” I looked around the room. Nothing. “I’m really sorry, James, it’s been a crazy day, but I’m heading out now to get the rest of the stuff.”

It was too late.

“Sean, I want you to get in a cab and pick up a couple of apple crates I rented. Then come straight to my apartment and we’ll prepare for the shoot.”

“What about the rest of the props?” I said, not yet willing to admit defeat. I wanted to come through with the items and get to his apartment. I still had time.

“I’ll have someone else do it.”

There was disappointment in his voice. I felt terrible.

James didn’t mention anything about my failure until the next day. Ian and I went to his apartment to film an interview and say goodbye. Just before we left, he stopped me. “Sean, I want you to know that I was very disappointed in you yesterday. I had a lot planned. I was counting on you and needed you to come through.”

I explained how crazy the last few days had been with the media exposure the project had received. I dropped names like CNN, Good Morning America, The New York Times, BBC, and other media outlets around the world who deemed my project worthy of covering.

He wasn’t impressed.

I explained the important phone calls I received, the significant people who wanted to meet with me, and how much the project had grown since the beginning. But something didn’t feel right. My spiel had become routine. Somewhere in the midst of all the noise, I’d gotten away from my original intentions. I started to base the success of the project on the media coverage it received. When I’d gotten a call from Good Morning America a few weeks earlier, I told friends and family about it and remembered my proud sense of accomplishment when they congratulated me. It had felt good.

Now, as I stood there rambling, I saw myself through James’s eyes, and I looked transparent. I felt like a fraud.

Back at Anne’s place, Ian made toast and eggs for brunch while Anne worked at her desk next to the kitchen. The place was silent. I sat at the table, stared blankly at the plate of food in front of me, then slowly picked up my fork and began to eat.

“Are you okay?” asked Ian.

I looked across the table at my best friend.

An emotion buried deep inside began its ascent. My throat was constricting, and I felt like I was suffocating. I couldn’t speak. I quickly got up and went to the living room.

All that I had set out to accomplish with the project seemed to have changed. I felt empty, lacking foundation, in search of myself yet again. I’d forgotten my initial reason for setting out on this journey. During my week with James, I’d been so worried about fielding calls and responding to emails from various media, agents, and production companies that I didn’t care so much about the job and only attempted to make it appear as if I was into it. James had kindly agreed to let me work with him, to show me his profession, and trusted me with important tasks to help with the photo shoot, but all I wanted to do was catch up on emails and make it through another week. Another down, sixteen more to go.

It hadn’t started that way. I had set out to find what made me happy. A journey far away to make me feel comfortable in my own skin at home. But no matter how many jobs I tried, cities I visited, people I met, or miles I traveled, the one thing that I could never escape was myself.

I took a couple of deep breaths, then returned to the table.

I sat down and slowly reached for my fork, but within moments emotion overtook me once more. I rushed from the table, grabbed my coat and scarf, and headed out the door into the street. I hurried down the busy sidewalk, around the corner, and turned to face a brick wall. I imagined strangers pretending not to notice as they briskly passed behind me in the street. I pulled my scarf over my head, looked down to the pavement, put my hands to my face, and bawled.

The next day we woke up at six, packed our bags, and stole out into the crisp Manhattan morning. I hailed a taxi, and we rode out to LaGuardia Airport as the sun rose behind billowing gray clouds. Our plane was scheduled to depart for Atlanta at 9:00 A.M. From Atlanta we’d take an overnight bus to Fort Walton Beach, Florida, where I’d be a firefighter.

We arrived at the airport with plenty of time. Having booked the tickets, Ian confidently stepped up to check us in. Fighting to keep my eyes open, I stood beside him and imagined myself fast asleep on the plane, waking up to the sound of “Please return your seat to its upright position.”

Agitated that it was taking longer to check in than usual, I returned from my daydream. It seemed that the ticket agent couldn’t find our names in the computer. There must be a very good reason, I thought. I looked at Ian. “Ian, why can’t she find our names in the computer?”

I could see him rebooking the ticket in his head as he dug out the confirmation number from his bag and handed it to the ticket agent. Moments later she found our reservation.

My sleep would have to wait. We were two weeks early.

After the initial surprise, we tried to rebook our tickets for later that day. They were $200 more than we had paid. Any chance of getting on standby? Nada. Well, at least we could get a fare credit for future flights, right? Nope. Turns out there was a $100 charge to change a ticket (the tickets themselves were only $90 each).

There was nothing we could do. We walked through the airport and tried to find a place to sit down and figure out our next move. I didn’t want to discuss it with Ian. I didn’t even want to look at him. I was tired and angry. We’d just wasted $180 plus the cost of a cab, we had no way of getting to Florida, and I had no job for the week.

It had already been a difficult few days. I felt like giving up. And this situation was about to put me over the top.

I opened up my laptop and went through my various job offers. I came across an email I’d received just over a month earlier from Irene and Darren, a married couple who owned a pizza place on Cape Cod called Sweet Tomatoes. They invited me to their small village of Osterville, Massachusetts. Osterville is only a seven-hour bus ride north of New York City, and the ticket was in our price range. I dialed Irene’s number.

“Hello?” answered a woman on the other end.

“Hi, is this Irene?”

“Yes.”

“Hi, Irene, it’s Sean Aiken. You emailed me over a month ago about the possibility of coming to work at your pizza place, and I’m wondering if the offer is still on the table.”

“Of course!” she said. “That’s great! When would you like to come?”

I explained our mishap at the airport, then asked, “I realize it’s the last minute, but I’m wondering if I could start tomorrow? There’s a bus leaving New York City at three-thirty, and we could be there shortly after ten tonight.”

“Perfect. We’d love to have you!” she said without hesitation. “We can pick you up at the bus station, and we’ll have a room ready for you guys when you arrive.”

Her enthusiasm was a welcome surprise and reminded me that it’d been a while since I last smiled.

When I’d dragged myself out of bed that morning on the Lower East Side of Manhattan, I thought that by the end of the day I’d be in Florida preparing to start working as a firefighter. But instead, in twelve hours I’d be in a town called Osterville, in the state of Massachusetts. The next day I’d be slinging pizzas.