ofadam.com

DAY ONE

The Southwest Chief pulls into Lawrence, Kan.

One week ago I took the Southwest Chief for the very first time. I’ve ridden Amtrak before, becoming my preferred way to make the short trip north to Chicago, but this was a different experience. While the inter-state train felt like a long bus ride, the cross-country trains are more of an “it’s time to discover the western frontier!” experience.

A lot of that was helped by a 4 hour delay after my train derailed en route to pick me up in Galesburg. De-railed. Thankfully it wasn’t too major, but enough to push back my entire schedule by four hours. People were mildly annoyed, but nothing compared to an all-out riot you’d witness in an airport terminal. We bonded, we told stories and we boarded our train in the darkness of night. The elderly gentleman next to me was slightly odd, but I felt bad for him when he missed his stop by over two hours. He was a little annoyed, but joked that he might “get a free ticket out of this, though I doubt it.” Bo picked me up in Lawrence, Kan. at almost 5 in the morning.

Mural and me, in Lawrence, Kan.

DAY TWO

West through Kansas

After lunch at Rudy’s Pizza, we began our tedious drive to western Kansas. If you ignore everything in the lower portion of your view (everything on the ground), you’ll be surprised. The sky, especially during the summer, is incredible. Peoria has far too many trees and hills and buildings to properly enjoy it. It also misses the magical location Kansas occupies, where the Rocky Mountains tug and pull at the clouds until they resemble dream-like cotton balls.

Bo shakes his afternoon treat

The first place I visit once in Hays, Kan.? The Hays Daily News, of course! Maybe it was a hard day at the office, but it felt oh so very awkward. That’s not what I expected, especially after giving my heart and soul to the paper just this last summer. Old bosses were grim, staffers were “ehhhh” and I was soon getting the hell out.

Micah, very serious

That night, we grilled. Bo might make some of the tastiest burgers I’ve ever devoured, and the copious amounts of wine and champagne just made things even sweeter. Suddenly, all in one backyard, very nearly everyone I missed was mere feet away from me. Later, we did a ritualistic late-night coffee run, a routine that might be the most vivid memory I have of college.

Jordan, flying

Scott, Micah and Rita… and couch

A game of trust?

Scott really does love Bo

Blurry Katie and amused Rita

Erin Ivey, May 2006

Since moving to High Street in Peoria, I’ve met relatively few of my neighbors. The three housemates living in my historic house were the only ones I got to know. Thankfully, clothes get dirty, and I met a girl next door (but not like the similarly titled movie) while changing laundry loads in the basement.

She does a lot of things and has a lot of interests, so I won’t get into those here. I was lucky to have breakfast with her last Saturday, along with her friends Sam and Chris. She lives on the 3rd floor of the mansion next to mine, with her recording studio in the tower above it. A tower, one that you must climb into using exceptionally steep stairs. It has windows on all four sides, affording her a view of the entire neighborhood and an unobstructed view of the skyscrapers downtown.

And she’s a musician? Click click!

Hello, Erin!

I’ve often thought that a mean look really helps those in the journalism industry. Sure, you might initially make people uncomfortable, but it’ll nicely deal with any sort of 14-year-old image you may harbor. Look at my boyish face and tell me that’s not true.

I can handle being questioned if I’m from a student paper. It’s hard to tell the difference, even though the Bradley photographers rarely leave their campus. The problem starts when the public believes they can press me, make me fearful of them and hopefully make me give up. I’ve had it happen more than my fair share, from police officers to over-nosy soccer moms.

So imagine me at a high school baseball game about 30 minutes north of Peoria. I’m on assignment, capturing photos of their star pitcher and his major league scout dad. I shoot the kid with my 400mm lens, an intimidating piece of equipment larger than my thigh. Then I turn it on the crowd, hoping to get a nice clean shot of the dad using his radar gun to clock his son’s pitches.

This was fine for about 30 seconds. A small group of parents approach me, asking, “the game’s over there. what are you doing?” I just smile and keep shooting. Then they press harder. “Why are you shooting girls? You should be shooting the game, you know.” Hmm. Of course. I once again assured them that I’m not shooting any girls and keep making images. But they still aren’t satisfied. It’s time to turn on the passive-agressive switch. Faux whispering, pointing and the complete package. And that’s fine; I still got my assignment done. I’d rather stay mum about advance projects anyways.

Up and down, like an oscillating wave. I’m at the crest.

Almost two weeks have blown by, with nary a mention of them in this space. I had a few Chicago Associated Press assignments, conversation that made me feel ill with realization, and even a moist oatmeal cookie. Those are so very rare some weeks.

I’ll start off with something scary. While at work one afternoon, I was packing up my equipment for an evening assignment that might require transmitting pictures back. I grabbed my cameras, and then my laptop bag. The 15″ PowerBook nestled inside had a fantastic opportunity. With zipper wide open, the silver laptop flew a few feet across the room, spinning and twirling like some dizzy slice of steel. It landed on the tile floor, using its front corner as a contact point. Still wanting more, it bounced high into the air and landed right on the screen.

Are you okay? I should have warned that this story might be inappropriate for children, nervous photographers and even bosses. I looked at the laptop laying on the floor, aware that my director of photography had bolted out of his office and was now staring at me. “Is everything okay?” he asks. Matt, another photographer standing right next to me, replied for me: “Oh, that’s just Adam’s head hitting the floor.”

Miraculously, the only damage was a smashed corner, right by the slot disc drive. It still accepts CDs, making it only a cosmetic problem. The intern now holds that amazing laptop, thanks to more equipment swapping this week. I have a second chance; a shiny, perfect laptop again.

I think I need to find a new place to drink tea. After becoming rather disgusted with One World Cafe, I’ve been spending my hard-earned money across the street at Starbucks. The neighborhood place just wasn’t cutting it, with their large dining area and tiny, cramped coffee arrangements. The food is absolutely wonderful; possibly the best Peoria has to offer. But the coffee has a burnt, bottom-of-a-sock-drawer taste… and their tea is almost an afterthought.

So I’ve put up with the ridicule from my peers, sitting at a bar sipping from my paper cup of tea. Why don’t they use real dishes?

The last straw was tonight, when a loud girl plopped next to me, bit into her cookie, and exclaimed, “hello? hellllllloooooo? umm, this is stale.” My knuckles were white.

—

Photo courtesy Baylor College of Medicine Archives

I read an older article in the alternative newspaper The Houston Press a few weeks ago, one that explored how happy the “Boy in the Bubble” really was. Most figured he felt lucky to be alive at all… but do you really believe that?

Read for yourself. It’s long, but so very worth it.

“Why didn’t they do something to me before I was old enough to care?” he asked. “When I was three, I wouldn’t have cared. When all this mess started, didn’t they ever think about or realize that they were dealing with my life? They made decisions without ever thinking about anything except what they wanted to do, not about all this crap that I’m in.

“I am a mouse surrounded by ten cats, and there are no dogs to chase the cats away …. Where do you suppose I could get some legal advice?”

- David Vetter, a few months before his 10th birthday

Bursting the Bubble by Steve McVicker