Floyd Kelly

You had to be there. I am the poor guy at Titan Channel 4 who got stuck being the lead cameraman for the grand opening of Titley’s Fig Shack. My producer, Brenda, had been just screaming in my earpiece, “Get me some energy, Gregory! This is the culinary event of the decade by far!”

The “event” shut down three city blocks with spotlights and fireworks. All for a “shack” with display cases showing off “Fig Lasagna” and the “Fig-infused Chucklin’ Onion.” There was a stage next to the dining area, with velvet Elvis paintings, plastic fig trees and a giant cauldron with fake fire center stage.

Mr. Titley, the owner, was up on stage, just bouncing and doing these little pirouettes. But, oh dear, his face was a broadcaster’s nightmare; one eye was normal, the other was an absurdly huge, watery orb you just couldn’t look away from. A human eyesore.

“Okay, Greg, here we go!” Brenda squawked. “Get a tight shot! I want passion! Power! Envy! Lust!”

I tried to frame a close-up. Impossible. The size difference of his eyes was so extreme my camera’s autofocus just kept pulsing, totally losing its mind. Useless.

“The secret!”, Titley announced, his larger eye bulging, “is the activator!” He struggled to hoist and empty a 50 lb bag of baking soda and a 50 lb bag of corn starch into the cauldron. A thick, white, dry sludge. “The final ingredient,” he declared, cozying up to a massive tub of vinegar, “the fig activator!”

“Get the reaction shot!” Brenda screamed.

He emptied the vat all at once. A hiss, then a fizz, then the whole pot just erupted in an unstoppable volcano of fig-scented foam. It rushed the stage, the pressure blowing a hole clean through the wall.

A plumber showed up, sighed, and had to climb through the new hole to get to the drain, which the crowd thought was part of the show and cheered even louder for. They went wild chanting “Titley!”

“Greg, get me a shot of Titley!” Brenda yelled. “He’s taking a bow! Get his face!”

I was still fighting the focus, just panning wildly, when through the blurry viewfinder, a single, clear image finally snapped into view. I thought I’d locked onto Titley’s face. It was perfect. Crisp.

“Got it!” I yelled back, triumphant. “Rolling on Titley! Great shot!”

I was so focused on keeping it steady that I didn’t realize what I was actually filming. It wasn’t Titley. It was a perfect, crystal-clear close-up of the plumber, leaning over through the hole in the wall, revealing a glorious, magnificent example of plumber’s crack.

Brenda was silent in my ear for a long moment. “Greg,” she finally said, her voice a mix of horror and confusion, “what am I looking at?” Another pause. “…You know what? Never mind. Hold that shot. It’s not causing any damage, it’s a metaphor for something, probably. It’s gold!”