Chapter 1: Chicago

AUGUST 28, 1968 is a day I don’t remember much about, but I’ll never forget. I sort of remember gaining consciousness and everything hurting. I was lying on a sidewalk gripping my smashed camera.

“Can you get up?”

I looked up to see a cop. He had a club, but it wasn’t raised to hit me. He grabbed hold of my shirt and dragged me to my feet.

“What the hell are you doing here? Your people are in jail.”

“My people?”

“I recognize you. The photographer back during the riots in April.”

“Officer Macalister? Oh, yeah. I was just trying to get home.”

“Where’s home?”

“Around the corner over there.”

“Get to it and get someone to clean you up. There might not be any ambulances available for a while.”

“I was just taking pictures. I wasn’t protesting or anything,” I said. I flinched as he tapped my chest with his club.

“You enter a war zone, you’re going to get shot at. Now get going.”

He gave me a shove and I stumbled around the corner and to the door of our building. I got inside and waited for the elevator. I didn’t think I could climb even one flight, let alone four floors.

I got the outer door of the suite open and just fell on the floor. All the individual room doors were closed. I didn’t know for sure if my roommates had even checked in or not. I hadn’t met any of them. I just couldn’t move any farther to get into my room.

I had a lot of fuzzy dreams that night. Weird. But here I’ve dumped you in the middle of the story again without even telling you who I am or how I ended up laid out on the street in Chicago. I should start back in June.

I’m Nate Hart. I’m eighteen years old and will start at Columbia College Chicago in September. I’m a photographer, but just looking at the class catalog at Columbia has shown me how much I have to learn about my art, even though I’ve got a pretty good business going in Tenbrook—a small town in northwestern Illinois—and a branch studio in Chicago.

I moved to Tenbrook two years ago when my mother became the first female Methodist minister in Illinois. Her name is Rev. Joyce Hart, but I call her Reverend Mother Superior. My dad, Rich Hart, is an electrician for a housing development in Huntertown. My younger sister, Kat, will be thirteen in August and is going into eighth grade this fall. I have two older sisters. Deborah is 26 and married to Sergeant John Lindal. He’s currently in Vietnam. They have a three-year-old daughter named Cameron. The next sister, Naomi, is 24. She’s a lieutenant in the Women’s Air Force. She’s just waiting for the day when they let women be pilots. I hope she’s still able to walk and see by then. Even when that day comes, I doubt they’ll let old women in the cockpit.

My mom’s brother, Uncle Nate Mayer, has always been a real champion for me and gave me my first camera for my twelfth birthday. I think it was all through his promotion of my work that I ended up with some wealthy patrons who have supplied me with a lot of photographic materials and equipment. And a lot of my models, too.

Probably the most notable thing about me is that I have five girlfriends. Christine is just the love of my life and a great partner in the studio. She is equally loved by my second girlfriend, Ronda. Ronda never intended to become my girlfriend when I suggested we share Christine instead of fight over her. It just sort of happened.

Anna was my first girlfriend when I moved to Tenbrook. Then she broke up with me, but continued to work on the yearbook photos with me. Then she became my bookkeeper—something I didn’t even know I needed, but she kept my taxes in a reasonable range. For taxes. After she started hanging out at the studio a lot, we just grew closer together and ended up boyfriend and girlfriend again. Then there’s Elizabeth. She was one of my first models in Chicago and by the end of the day, she’d convinced me that the darkroom wasn’t part of the studio, so we could have sex there, and her model persona was Starr and Starr wasn’t going to date me. Elizabeth was. And suddenly, I had a girlfriend in Chicago.

Finally, I have a wonderful, beautiful, and sad girlfriend named Patricia. Sad because she married her high school sweetheart, my best friend, in a rush before he was inducted into the army and sent to Vietnam. He died there without even knowing his young wife was pregnant. I know I’m just a substitute for Tony, but I care for Patricia as much as I can and she’s become my girlfriend, even though she’s eight months pregnant.

I guess I’ll just say that I claim to be a draft resister, though so far there’s nothing to resist, since I have a student deferment. I bought a VW microbus so I would have transportation with room for my gear and my girlfriends if I need to run to Canada. The draft board denied my application to become a Conscientious Objector because it’s not doctrine in the Methodist Church. The real reason is because the racist son of a bitch I helped get fired from his job as village constable somehow ended up serving on the draft board and made sure my application was denied. At least he didn’t get his way and have me classified I-A. I’m maintaining my student deferment as II-S.

The other thing is that I developed my own style of glamour photos, combining a glamour look with miscellaneous props we pull from the attic of an old general store. For some reason, models really dig it and will travel all the way across the state to take off their clothes and have me create some kind of dramatic scene with a piece of junk to photograph. And some of those photos have won prestigious awards.

Not all my models come from across the state. I have the singular honor of having seen twenty-two of the twenty-seven girls in my graduating class naked while I took their pictures. I have a copy of each of those pictures in a private album that I sometimes look at late at night.

I guess I should get to why I was laying on the sidewalk unconscious, but to do that, I’ll have to go back as far as my first trip into Chicago of the summer to take photos of several models I had appointments for. That would have been back in the middle of June.

The first thing I had to do when I got to Chicago was go to the registrar’s office at the college and get a Selective Service Student Certificate filled out. They were happy to do it and finalize my financial aid package, which was pretty good. There was a Methodist Church scholarship fund for preacher’s kids and it covered over half of my tuition and fees. I got an Illinois State Scholars Grant that covered most of the rest. The last thousand that I’d need to cover housing and meals was covered by my student loan. Damn! College was expensive.

Mr. Leonard, the registrar, gave me a copy of the form they would send to the Selective Service in Huntertown. It had my name and selective service number on it. The college had to have the selective service number on file for every male student. I didn’t even need to fish out my stupid draft card. The relevant part of the form said, “The student identified above [me] has been accepted for admission for a full-time course of instruction which will commence on or about September 3, 1968 and will end on or about May 16, 1969, and is expected to receive a degree on or about June 1972.”

It’s a good thing that the college registrar had to send the form to the Selective Service. Just holding my copy in my hands made me so mad I nearly tore it up.

I was spending the night with Beth at her house. We ate dinner in the kitchen—just the two of us—and then went to her room to make love. We sat and talked about all kinds of things until late. She read the Student Certificate and knew to just hold me in her arms. With the certificate, the countdown to when I would be eligible to be drafted started. It gave me a maximum four-year deferment, one year at a time, unless I quit school or graduated early. Fat chance of either of those happening.

“Put that aside for a while, lover. I’ve missed you and I want your attention now,” Beth said.

Well, that certainly put things in perspective. On one hand was a letter to the draft board that was already out of my hands and technically, I didn’t need to worry about for four years. On the other hand, my seriously cute and funny girlfriend, wearing almost nothing, was asking me to pay attention to her. What would you do?

I made love to her. Her parents had been kind enough to let me stay there for the week, while I worked in the studio. It would be rude of me not to take full advantage of their hospitality. Right?

Sliding into Beth’s hot pussy affirmed that I’d made the right choice.

I was up early and Elizabeth padded into the kitchen to get me some breakfast before I took off for the studio.

“Goodbye, honey. Have a good day at work,” she giggled as she gave me a kiss. I took my camera case and headed for the microbus.

I was looking forward to my first client. Nancy had grumbled a little about needing to show up at nine-thirty, but she was there at the appointed time and I ushered her into the studio.

“This place is full of junk!” she said when we reached the studio floor.

“Props,” I said. “I never know what will connect with a model when I’m working with her. We’ll find something that tells your story.”

“You’re going to take my picture with junk? I thought you was all legit and a famous newspaper photographer.”

It was obvious that she was not happy about how shabby my studio looked. I might need to create a little more separation between the storage area and the photo area. I led her over to the wall where my most recent Chicago work was displayed.

“I don’t photograph for newspapers most of the time. The Trib declined to publish my pictures after Martin’s death because I wasn’t ‘where the action was.’ But they were good pictures.”

“Hammer has the picture you took of him and that cop framed and shows it to everyone he can.”

“What I really do is take a kind of glamour photo that brings out the hidden aspects of a woman.”

“Like her titties, huh?”

“Well, that is often part of what happens. It’s not necessary if that makes you uncomfortable. The style is called Attic Allure and I’ve photographed nearly fifty models and have won the State Fair championship.”

“These are good pictures. Just not what I was expecting. I mean ... We sort of left things hanging when you bugged out of town. If you just want to fuck, we could go to my place. As long as we’re careful and quiet.”

“Nancy, I don’t fuck in the studio and I don’t fuck models. I like you a lot and always have, but I’ve always just been the guy with the camera to you. There’s no reason to pretend any different. We’ve both changed a lot in the past two years. Why don’t we catch up while I take your portrait? No big production, just a great picture that shows what a beautiful girl you are.”

I led her to the stool and arranged the lights. I fussed with her hair a little and made sure there were no shiny spots on her face.

“You going with the full afro look?” I asked.

“I keep it tied up on top. Keepin’ it smooth is too damn much work. I’m thinking I might shave it all off like Hammer does,” she said.

“If you do, I want another session with you. I’ve never photographed a bald woman.”

“You cracker.”

I got behind the camera and took a couple of frames, then adjusted the lights again. Taking a picture of a black woman was a new experience for me in the studio. I’d gotten some good pictures of Nancy with my old 35 when we were out together as freshmen and sophomores, but I had never stopped to consider exactly how light affected her image in the studio.

“I did like you a lot,” Nancy said. “We sure had some fun dancing.”

“I want to thank you for that. It really helped with the girls when I moved.”

“You got a girlfriend?”

“Yeah.”

“That why you don’t want to mess around with me?”

“No. I think they’d be okay with it if we did something. I just am not in the market for more right now.”

“Whoa! They’d be okay? How many girls you got?”

“Um ... Five, I guess. No telling what will happen this summer when we all scatter to go to college.”

“Hammer thought maybe you were queer and that was why you didn’t make moves on me. Either that or you really had your eye on Theresa.”

“Is Hammer your boyfriend now?” I asked.

“What? You really somethin’. Hammer’s my brother. We didn’t live together when we were in high school because of ... lots of stuff. He just wants to make sure I don’t blow my chances to get an education like he did,” she answered.

“Damn! I did not know that.” I turned her position and tilted her head a little. “How’d Hammer blow his chances at college? The dude is super smart. I was surprised to find him leading the gang.”

“Ain’t just one gang, you know. Jeff and Eugene control the whole thing, but Hammer has worked to keep his boys in the neighborhood out of trouble most of the time. They agreed to be part of the Rangers to help protect them from other gangs. It ain’t like there’s a world of jobs waiting for smart black kids on the South Side. Then he got Alleeah pregnant and you know he wouldn’t turn his back on his responsibilities. He dropped out of college and started running protection for the locals. Got in trouble and served a couple months in jail. Just enough to keep him out of the army.”

“I always admired him, even though I never really knew him much.”

“He knew you. He started protection back in high school. He went down to Selma to march with Dr. King and found out about the peace movement within civil rights. He made sure the white kids in school didn’t get hassled by the black kids or the Puerto Ricans. He was gonna become a lawyer, but couldn’t keep his pants zipped.”

“He marry her?”

“No. But he takes care of her and his little boy means the world to him.”

“I think we got some nice portraits. Want to go for something more glamorous?”

“Is that how you talk a girl out of her clothes?”

“No. I told you nudity is not required.”

“Might want to.”

She looked up at me and stuck her tongue out a little. This was more the playful girl I’d gone out with as a freshman and sophomore than the more jaded version she’d been projecting. I moved up next to her and put an arm around her waist.

“We sure had fun dancing,” I said as I spun her under my arm and did a few steps around the clear area of the floor.

“Now I’m almost sure I might want to.”

“What do you have to change into? Anything light and danceable?”

“Yeah. Even though I’ve got bigger boobs, most of my dance clothes still fit.”

“Privacy screen over there,” I said as I started repositioning things for our shoot. I could really use one of the big backdrops in Tenbrook now. But I’d have to work with what I could find. I went rummaging around in the junk to see what was there.

I found an old bicycle, a school desk that was bolted to a rail with the bench seat, and an old victrola with the big horn on it, but no guts inside. There was an old leather suitcase, a sign for Coleman’s mustard, and a carpet sweeper. Finally, I found a brass bell suspended from a hook on a stand. I looked at the assortment I had and sighed. No single theme emerged. It was just a collection of junk.

Then Nancy emerged from behind the privacy screen and I just stopped to stare at her. I’d seen this outfit before. She wore a miniskirt and a blouse that was layers of chiffon. I was pretty sure, though, that when I’d seen her wear this before, she wore a bra under it. As the layers of chiffon shifted, I could see glimpses of her breasts wobbling and her nipples sticking out.

“Wow, Nancy. I wasn’t expecting this!”

“I figure you’re going to get me naked eventually. No sense in making it difficult.”

“You look sensational.”

“Anything like what you imagined all those times you were trying to look down my blouse?”

“No. A thousand times better.”

“You admitted it!” she laughed. “You were trying to look down my blouse. What am I supposed to do with all this junk?”

“That’s what I was trying to figure out. Usually, something just calls out to be included in the scene. Nothing is speaking to me.”

“Why don’t you just put this stuff aside and let me pose in front of the backdrop as if I’m dancing. Do some kind of Attic Allure magic with the lighting. If I see something there that inspires me, I’ll grab it.”

“I think you’ve got a good idea.”

She did have. She posed, then moved, and posed again. She always wanted me to take her picture when we went out, so she was used to striking poses. And she looked good doing it. I increased the backlight so I could see through the chiffon layers better. I moved in for closer shots. I was right beside her when she stopped and pulled off her top completely. Then she unzipped her miniskirt and let it drop to the floor. She wasn’t wearing anything else.

“I knew you’d get me out of my clothes,” she said.

“Nancy! I didn’t do a thing.”

“I know. I got tired of waiting.”

“Damn, you look good.”

“I bet I feel good, too,” she said moving up next to me. “What do you think?”

I thought that was an invitation and I hefted each of her substantial boobs and rubbed the nipples. They stiffened dramatically.

“It’s a good thing there’s no sex in the studio,” she reminded me. I moved away and looked at her beautiful black body against the white backdrop. That wasn’t going to do at all.

“I need to change backdrops,” I said. I switched over to the black backdrop and turned out all the ambient light.

“You going to make me disappear!” she said. “I close my eyes and shut my mouth, you won’t see me nohow.”

“Not so, honey. The contrast with the white backdrop was too much. People would be looking at the background instead of you. With this backdrop, I can light you so that you are all that’s seen, kind of glowing against the black.”

“If you say so. Um ... I kind of liked it when you touched me, so you just move me around and put me where you want me. You know, touch me some more,” she said. I’d seen black kids blush before, so it wasn’t a complete surprise to me.

“You know what I remember? I remember that turn you did under my arm that always came back up against me.”

“This one?” she asked as she took my hand and turned under it, then spun tightly up against me. I held her there and raised her arm with one hand as I petted her bubble butt with the other.

“Can you hold this position right here while I step away to get the camera right?”

It took a few tries to get her positioned an optimum distance from the backdrop and have the right amount of light focused on her. Between each of the poses, I took her in my arms again and petted her luscious body as I moved her to a new position. I was getting closer and closer to the perfect pose. I stood behind her and pulled her hands so the left hand was on her right shoulder and the right hand held that arm. Her boobs were hidden in that position, but it was clear that she was naked. I looked through the lens and then had her turn slightly, leaning to her right. Just before I stepped back, I kissed her lightly on the lips. She looked a little startled and I rushed back to the camera to get the shot. I was sure that I had it.

My session with Nancy didn’t end with the last frame of film. I flopped in the easy chair and she put herself right on top of me. It was impossible not to respond and I thoroughly enjoyed her tits as we kissed.

“Hammer always said you’d be a good one to tie down, but you wouldn’t be interested in a black girl long term,” she said.

“I don’t know,” I said. “It’s hard for me to guess what would have happened if I’d stayed in Chicago. Life out in the boonies has definitely changed me.”

“Yeah. You are completely comfortable holding a naked girl in your arms and playing with her titties and pussy. You must have some really good teachers for girlfriends.”

“One thing they taught me was to never think of anyone other than the girl in my arms,” I said.

“Then keep thinking of what you’re playing with, because this girl is going to come on your fingers. Kiss me some more, Nate. For old time’s sake and the possibilities of a future that never happened.”

I could well imagine having been with Nancy if we’d stayed in South Chicago. But she’d backed off when we started to get close. I tried to kiss her one night and that was all. She pushed me away and we never went anyplace alone again. Now I was thoroughly enjoying kissing her and playing in her wet pussy.