methinks

The W612

I sat in my bedroom thumbing the defects of my new tripod for the last time. It was junk, a toy, hardly better than a crooked tree branch. The head wasn't level. The mounting bracket was loose. The legs were flimsy and unsteady. Other than holding the camera off the ground, it didn't do anything a tripod should. But I had bought it nonetheless and had been brooding over it for a week since. But the time for brooding was done. It was time for the return.

Pacing in my apartment, I began hardening myself for the battle to come. Faulty tripods are not easily returned. Faulty tripods sold dear to ignorant foreigners are all but impossible to return. I infuriated myself with thoughts of money wasted. One hundred Yuan. That's ten days of food. That's fourteen DVDs. I practiced my squint of sour disgust and warmed up my over-the-head fist shake. When I was certain my rolling-eyes of utter disdain were ready for action, I snatched up the so-called tripod and thundered down the stairs into the dregs of feeble-hearted humanity. They felt my fire and feared it. Victory would surely be mine.

I paused before the camera shop door, masked my rage - this was to be an ambush return - and entered as casually, as problem free as always. I slipped over to the accessories section on the left, the tripod dangling ever so nonchalantly at my side, to speak with the man who sold it to me. Early forties, bald, pudgy, exceedingly effeminate, I knew this man was not my real enemy. He was just a pawn, someone to soil his hands with customers. The real battle would come from the two old witches rooted behind the register in the back, their balloons of hairdos streaked with gaudy highlights. They were the type of women who would haggle over pennies. The type who knew the exact amount in the till at any given moment. The type who don't take returns.

I had no sooner spoken the word "return" to the pudgy man when the witches began slithering secrets to each other. My Chinese is not so good, but it sounded like, "We haves spents his moneys on bat's brains and toad's warts to makes our potions. We can'ts gives hims his moneys. No my lovelys, we cant's." Then with their heads still bent in conspiracy, they shot their gaze at me. They were waiting for me to break, to fold, to show my weakness. But I had come prepared. I thwarted them with my rolling-eyes of utter disdain, grabbing their gaze and casting it aside with my glance. They shuddered at my strength and trilled to the pudgy man, "Stalls him!"

"Perhaps you'd like to look at another model, sir."

"No thanks, I'd like to return this one."

"Perhaps this unit is defective, sir. We'll have someone run to the warehouse and get a new one. Then we'll see."

I would never fall for the upgrade-return, where you "return" something but only after buying something more expensive. Only amateurs would succumb to such a trick, but he had me cornered with the defective-unit argument. I was resolved to not accept a replacement, but I had to wait until the lackey returned from the so-called warehouse. He wasn't willing to discuss the issue further until he did. The pudgy man called out the model number to an underfed young man, the witches said something more to the boy, and he ran out the door at a pace only fear can keep. I tried to stop the charade with my squint of sour disgust, but the wheels were already in motion. I'd have to wait.

They left me to stand alone for nearly fifteen minutes, sizing me up, looking for my weakness, hoping I'd drop my guard when at last the boy returned with a replacement. A quick glance revealed that it was equally flawed; I made my case to the pudgy man and readied my over-the-head fist shake. But I never needed it. The pudgy man smiled - an odd, knowing smile - and conceded. "I am sorry for the trouble, sir. Here is your one hundred Yuan back." My heart wanted to swell with the pride of victory, but my mind told me something was wrong. It was too easy. The witches were silent. The pudgy man smiled still. I knew I must take the money and leave quickly before they had time to work their witchcraft. I shoved the money in my coat pocket and turned to exit. But I was too late, for there he was, directly behind me...The Professional Photographer.

He was not old, but he was worn. Worn by wind, by rain, by war, by a life hunting for honest images. He wore a leather jacket with creases to match his face and a tattered canvas bag over his shoulder, the tools of his trade. He looked at me with his right eye wide open, his left eye squinted nearly shut, as if he was permanently framing his next shot. Maybe it was his squinty eye, or maybe it was his silent, half-cocked grin, but he had the presence of a great pirate captain, that twinkle of the eyes that says, "I know I'm gonna win, but it won't make me enjoy this fight no less."

"This is no good. Too light," he said, picking up the tripod I had just returned.

"I know," I replied.

"It can't stand up to the winds here. We have some big winds around here."

"You're right."

"Plus it's just weak all around. It's junk."

"Yeah, I know. I just returned it."

"So what are you going to get instead?"

"Nothing," I said with faltering confidence.

"Nothing?!" he blasted, "A photographer has to have a tripod. You have to get something."

"No, I don't think I need it. I don't take those kinds of pictures," I said trying to convince us both.

"Don't need it?" He paused for a moment. "Yeah, you're probably right. You don't need it."

With that sentence, I was defeated. If he needed one, of course I needed one too. All respectable photographers have a solid tripod. My brain would struggle for a few more minutes, try to talk myself out of it, but if my heart had hands it would have started forking over the money right then. The witches saw my guard fall and began to writhe with delight in their seats. The pudgy man let out a descending arpeggio of girlish giggles. The photographer went on, "Of course, if you did need one, I'd recommend the W612 here. It's what all the professionals in China use. It's what I use." The pudgy man handed it to me. The W612.

Tubular aluminum, three-way head, geared and braced center column, single action leg locks. Nice. The photographer showed me what she could do. She had durability graced with versatility. It even came with a custom made multi-tool to tightly secure all its moving parts. It's what all the professionals in China use. It even said "Professional Tripod" right there on the tubular aluminum leg. I feebly asked the pudgy man, "How much does this one cost?" "For you, my friend, I can sell it for 250 Yuan." More than twice what I paid for the last one!

That jolt was enough to give my brain a chance to form arguments against buying it.

"It's too heavy," I told the photographer.

"It's not heavy. It's solid."

"I won't want to take it with me because of the weight."

"I carry it all day everyday."

"I am not that strong."

"Eat potatoes. You'll be strong."

That last comment made me start to think this man had been in the darkroom one day too many, but by this point resistance was futile. I had the W612 slung over my shoulder in it's custom nylon sack to see if it would be a burden to carry. I guess it wasn't because I gave back the 100 Yuan that had been returned to me plus another 130 (I talked the pudgy man down 20 Yuan), said goodbye to my photography mentor and walked out of the store the proud owner of the W612 Professional Tripod.

I didn't go straight home. I had to walk around town for a bit, test the bag out, let people know I knew a thing or two about taking pictures. I'd give a glance that said, "You think any old chump would cough up 230 Yuan on a tripod, a professional tripod. Not unless he knew what he was doing, that's for damn sure." I ate some lunch then got my hair cut. I could feel my skill increasing with every moment I carried the W612. After an hour of schlepping the thing around, however, my shoulder started to get tired. I thought about going to the market for some potatoes, but decided a rest at home would be just as effective.

I came into my house and slid the tripod off my shoulder like I'd done it a thousand times before, like it was natural and necessary for me to have such a tripod. I took it into my bed room and propped it up against the wall near my camera case. The sooner they got acquainted the better. They'd be doing lots of work together.

That was over a month ago, and I haven't touched it since. It's kinda heavy, and I just don't take those types of pictures. No sense in returning it though. I'd probably come home with a bigger one and a set of studio lights to go along.

Posted by dacriss at January 20, 2004 08:37 PM | TrackBack