you’re the employee. Now let’s make that portrait, shall we?”
18 MARCH, 1932
Goodnight, Texas
Yes, well, I shot Tolley Phillips’s portrait just as he requested, and for my efforts I got called into Mr. McGillivray’s office this morning.
“Sit down, Ned,” he said from his chair behind the desk, and I knew right away that I was in for it. “I’ve known you for a long time, lad. You’ve always been a good boy.” He held out my photograph of Tolley and dropped it on the desk in front of me. “It seems quite unlike you to pull a stunt like this.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” I said. “But that’s how Tolbert asked to have his photo taken. I think he just meant it as a joke.”
“A distinctly bad joke,” Mr. McGillvray said. “A sick, perverted joke.”
“Yes, sir,” I admitted. “I didn’t think it was very funny, either.”
“But you took the photograph, didn’t you, Ned?”
“Yes, sir,” I said. “Because Tolley asked me to. And he’s your guest.”
“Tolbert’s father is an old and dear friend of mine,” Mr. McGillivray said. “He was not in the least bit amused by your tasteless photograph of his son.”
“No, sir, I don’t imagine that he was,” I said.
“I’m afraid that I have no choice but to let you go,” Mr. McGillivray said.
“Let me go, sir?” I asked, stunned. “But I was just following the wishes of the guest.”
“I think you must understand, lad, that I cannot have my employees intentionally humiliating my guests in such a manner.”
I’ve never been fired from a job before and I could feel the blood rising to my face, not just from the shame of it, but also from anger at the casual power which the wealthy yield in dismissing others from their lives. “But I wasn’t trying to humiliate anyone, Mr. McGillivray,” I said. “Honest. I was only doing what the guest asked.”
“You could have refused, lad,” he said. “You showed very poor judgment.”
“I’m just an employee, sir,” I said. “I’m taught to do what my employer and his guests ask of me. That’s always been my job.”
“That will be all, Ned,” Mr. McGillivray said. “I’d appreciate it if you’d pack your bags tonight and leave first thing in the morning. You can collect your final paycheck from Mr. Cummins before you go.” Mr. McGillivray busied himself with the papers on his desk, as a sign that the interview was over.
I sat there for a moment, dazed, unable to move. And then I said: “Sir?”
Mr. McGillivray looked up as if surprised and mildly irritated to see me still there. “Yes, what is it, Ned?” he asked impatiently.
“The other day you said I was like a son to you, sir.”
The man met my gaze and held it. He frowned thoughtfully and shook his head with a brisk finality. “No, lad,” he answered pointedly, pushing away from his desk and standing, “I said ‘
practically
like a son.’ What you are is an employee, who has been fired.”
That was a good lesson to learn. And it was almost time to move on anyway.
26 MARCH, 1932
Eastern New Mexico
From Texas I am traveling south and west, through the choppy sandhills of eastern New Mexico—big, arid, empty country. The tiny towns are few and far between, and many of them have been abandoned, their storefronts boarded up and posted with signs that read FOR SALE, GONE BROKE, CALIFORNIA OR BUST . A cold winter wind moans through the broken windows of deserted homesteads, and in the fields, the dried stalks of last season’s failed wheat and corn crops sprout brown and withered from the drought-cracked earth. It is lonely country and I am lonely in it.
I’ve stopped for the night in an abandoned clapboard farmhouse outside Pep, New Mexico. I don’t think its previous owners will mind. Still, I can’t shake the odd sense I have that they’re going to come home suddenly and discover my trespass. I walk quiet as a thief through the silent, empty rooms, imagining the
18 MARCH, 1932
Goodnight, Texas
Yes, well, I shot Tolley Phillips’s portrait just as he requested, and for my efforts I got called into Mr. McGillivray’s office this morning.
“Sit down, Ned,” he said from his chair behind the desk, and I knew right away that I was in for it. “I’ve known you for a long time, lad. You’ve always been a good boy.” He held out my photograph of Tolley and dropped it on the desk in front of me. “It seems quite unlike you to pull a stunt like this.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” I said. “But that’s how Tolbert asked to have his photo taken. I think he just meant it as a joke.”
“A distinctly bad joke,” Mr. McGillvray said. “A sick, perverted joke.”
“Yes, sir,” I admitted. “I didn’t think it was very funny, either.”
“But you took the photograph, didn’t you, Ned?”
“Yes, sir,” I said. “Because Tolley asked me to. And he’s your guest.”
“Tolbert’s father is an old and dear friend of mine,” Mr. McGillivray said. “He was not in the least bit amused by your tasteless photograph of his son.”
“No, sir, I don’t imagine that he was,” I said.
“I’m afraid that I have no choice but to let you go,” Mr. McGillivray said.
“Let me go, sir?” I asked, stunned. “But I was just following the wishes of the guest.”
“I think you must understand, lad, that I cannot have my employees intentionally humiliating my guests in such a manner.”
I’ve never been fired from a job before and I could feel the blood rising to my face, not just from the shame of it, but also from anger at the casual power which the wealthy yield in dismissing others from their lives. “But I wasn’t trying to humiliate anyone, Mr. McGillivray,” I said. “Honest. I was only doing what the guest asked.”
“You could have refused, lad,” he said. “You showed very poor judgment.”
“I’m just an employee, sir,” I said. “I’m taught to do what my employer and his guests ask of me. That’s always been my job.”
“That will be all, Ned,” Mr. McGillivray said. “I’d appreciate it if you’d pack your bags tonight and leave first thing in the morning. You can collect your final paycheck from Mr. Cummins before you go.” Mr. McGillivray busied himself with the papers on his desk, as a sign that the interview was over.
I sat there for a moment, dazed, unable to move. And then I said: “Sir?”
Mr. McGillivray looked up as if surprised and mildly irritated to see me still there. “Yes, what is it, Ned?” he asked impatiently.
“The other day you said I was like a son to you, sir.”
The man met my gaze and held it. He frowned thoughtfully and shook his head with a brisk finality. “No, lad,” he answered pointedly, pushing away from his desk and standing, “I said ‘
practically
like a son.’ What you are is an employee, who has been fired.”
That was a good lesson to learn. And it was almost time to move on anyway.
26 MARCH, 1932
Eastern New Mexico
From Texas I am traveling south and west, through the choppy sandhills of eastern New Mexico—big, arid, empty country. The tiny towns are few and far between, and many of them have been abandoned, their storefronts boarded up and posted with signs that read FOR SALE, GONE BROKE, CALIFORNIA OR BUST . A cold winter wind moans through the broken windows of deserted homesteads, and in the fields, the dried stalks of last season’s failed wheat and corn crops sprout brown and withered from the drought-cracked earth. It is lonely country and I am lonely in it.
I’ve stopped for the night in an abandoned clapboard farmhouse outside Pep, New Mexico. I don’t think its previous owners will mind. Still, I can’t shake the odd sense I have that they’re going to come home suddenly and discover my trespass. I walk quiet as a thief through the silent, empty rooms, imagining the
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