The address was located in the Boyle Heights section of Los Angeles.  That area was most commonly referred to as East Los Angeles.  I got off the freeway and turned right onto Washington Boulevard, then pulled over and consulted my Thomas Brothers guide.  I found the address in a couple of minutes and looked at the apartment building.  It was a standard three-story brown stucco building with twelve apartments inside.  I looked at the four Hispanic men lounging on the steps of the building and considered whether or not I wanted to get out of the car.  They were obviously members of a gang. At the moment they were occupying their time by staring at me with decidedly unfriendly looks.  I finally decided that I needed the money enough to take a chance and got out of the car.  I made a big show of taking a package out of the back seat and approached the building.  With a smile on my face I told the assembled group that I had the pictures of the Gonzales baby and asked if they would they direct me to their apartment.  Since there was no immediate response, I took out the framed portrait from the top of the package and showed them the picture.  One of the men jumped up and said, “I will take you there,” pointing up the stairs.  As we walked in the front door of the building, the smell was overpowering.  It was a mixture of mildew, old cooking smells and urine. The apartment was located upstairs in the back of the building.

I was met at the door by a young Hispanic male who appeared to be in his early twenties.  He led me to a dining room table made out of an old door, complete with an empty hole for the doorknob.  The studio insisted that we show our photographs on a dark blue velveteen cloth, in the hopes that it would make the portraits appear more valuable.  I spread out the three framed sets of portraits and all of the proofs on the cloth and began my sales pitch.  As I looked around the room, I could not help but wonder if this young couple had any money at all.  Their furniture would be rejected by any Salvation Army or Goodwill organization.  It was mainly brown with some rust color mixed in and mostly torn with some of the stuffing showing.  I was sitting on a metal folding chair that was a permanent part of the dining area.  There was, however, a very nice television and stereo in the room. Maybe, I thought, they do have enough money to purchase pictures.

At this point, the wife entered from the bedroom and began looking at the photographs.  She explained that her husband did not have much English but, if I would tell her the prices, she would explain them to him.  I quoted the amount for the entire package, and finished with, “If you would like a smaller quantity of pictures, of course, the price will be lower.”  There followed a rapid-fire exchange of Spanish with the wife gesturing toward the photographs.  Finally the husband reached for his wallet and very carefully counted out three hundred fifteen dollars and handed them to me.  I filled out the necessary paperwork and gave the wife a receipt.  She was all smiles and picked up one of the framed pictures. “It would be best if my husband walked you out,” she said. “Gracias for bringing the photographs.”  Then she shook my hand.  The husband led me down the stairs.  At the bottom of the stairs there were now at least ten young men.  With smiles all around, I hurried across the street and got in my car. I won’t say I raced away, but I was not slow about my exit.

My name is Jacob, most people call me Jake.  I was passing proofs for a photographic studio that specialized in newborn baby portraits.  The photographer would take all kinds of cute pictures of babies wearing sunglasses, baseball hats, and other props designed to make parents want to spend outrageous sums of money.  I would go to work late in the afternoon and call on the parents in their own homes during the evening hours.  I would show the matted 4 x 5 photographs in an inexpensive oak frame and try to convince the parents that these once-in-a-lifetime pictures were worth two or three hundred dollars.  Some nights I made two hundred dollars before taxes; usually I would earn an average of one hundred fifty dollars.  The main drawback to this job was that I drove all over greater Los Angeles each night making four or five sales calls.  Besides, I really hated this job. My prospects had never looked worse.

I have been a photographer all of my life.  I worked for the Los Angeles Times, Associated Press, and more recently I had owned my own successful portrait and wedding studio.  My former studio was now the property of my former wife. I did not share in the profits of the studio, but I still had to shoot a wedding almost every Saturday until she learned the poses and the workings of the camera and lighting equipment.  Actually, she was entirely capable of photographing her own weddings at this time, but why should she bother when it was so easy just to call me.   I have always thought of myself as a better than average photographer.  Call it ego mixed with some talent, or just stubbornness, I have always been a photographer in my heart.  Telling proud parents how their baby was the cutest I had ever seen just did not fit my own personal image or career goals, especially since I had not shot the portraits.  There was one other aspect of the job I didn’t like.  I was not very convincing, so while I was not the worst salesman on the staff, I heard a lot of speeches from the sales manager of the studio.

The final straw finally came that next Friday morning.  I went into the office to turn in my sales figures and the money I had collected.  I then went up to the bookkeeper’s office to collect my pay.  Instead of the nine hundred dollars I had calculated was due me, I was presented with a check for four hundred dollars.  They had deducted money because some of the customers from previous weeks had not made their final payments. Often I would take a deposit of two hundred dollars on a three hundred dollar sale.  My paycheck would only reflect the commission on two hundred dollars. Since I was paid commissions when the money came in, I pointed out that I had never been paid on owed collections; therefore I should not have money deducted.  By this time the sales manager had joined the argument.  He said, “The company is disappointed that they did not get their money.  You did not make a solid sale.  The customer shorted us, so we are shorting you.  Your choice is to take the money and quit complaining, or quit.”   I took the money and I quit.   As I left the parking lot for the last time, I thought that two out of three wasn’t bad.  Now all I had to do was go home and explain to my live-in girlfriend Monica why I had walked away from our main source of income.

Monica was the best thing that had ever happened to me.  She was smart, pretty, and most important I was in love with her and she was in love with me.  Monica was five foot four and a very slight ninety-eight pounds.  She was in her mid-thirties and was ten years younger than I. She had this great reddish brown curly hair and a smile that would light up any room. She was my best friend.  After I got home we discussed the possibilities.

Monica and I did what anybody else who was unemployed with no money would do; we took off for a couple of days and headed for Las Vegas.  We stayed with an old friend who had a nice house in Henderson, Nevada.  Dexter was always glad to see us and let us stay for free.  Plus he always had plenty of good food. The perfect short vacation! After fighting the Friday afternoon traffic for five hours, we finally arrived at the home of our host just in time for dinner.  No casino hopping that night, just television and talk late into the night.  Most of the talk centered on our plans and dreams of opening our own studio, maybe even in Las Vegas.  After all a photographer with my talent was bound to be successful in that bastion of good taste.  We were going to make a fortune.