Four for a Quarter: Fictions

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The photo booth is just inside off the boardwalk, away from the crowds. The backs of the white benches swing over the seats. You can sit facing the ocean or sit facing the storefronts. Out on the white cluttered beach, two Amish couples wade in the sheeting waves. Their shoes and socks chest high. Skirts tucked between bare legs. Their blue brilliant against the white sand and sky. Four of them. Two men and two women. They have come a long way. Everyone else pretends, I pretend, we are not looking. They toss bread to the cloud of gulls.

THE CHILDREN'S MUSEUM

It is educational. The photo booth is made of clear glass panels so that the lenses and the machinery that develops the photographic strips can be seen. I twirl the piano stool inside to the right height. I imagine that they have replaced the camera too with one that takes X-rays, and my souvenir will record a transparent me. My heart will be an opaque dollop in the airy cage of my ribs. I watch the coin I drop travel through the machine, and the ghostly parts begin to ratchet and twitch. Outside a small crowd has gathered to watch.

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