This is my entry to the April Fools contest. If you like my story, please vote for me.
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A new twist on the old saying, 'There's no fool like an old fool'
My name is Fred Thompson and I grew up in a family of Cops. My grandfather Edward was the Sherriff of Madison County, IL, my father Ralph was the police chief of Sauget, IL, and my brother-in law Edgar was the 'Agent in Charge' of the FBI's St. Louis District office. I say was, because all of them died years ago in the 'Line of Duty'. I am the only one left who knows the dirty details, but I do not tell their stories, because it is are too painful for me to do so.
Much to the chagrin of my elders, I did not follow them into the 'family business' but chose a different path for my life. In 1977 I became an electrician, joining the apprenticeship of IBEW local 349 in Alton IL, three months after I graduated high school. A year later I married my high school sweetheart, and by the time I finished my apprenticeship, we had bought our first house, and had two daughters. Before I retired when I was 62, My girls had graduated college, married young men with great careers, gave us five grandchildren, and moved away, one to suburban Chicagoland, and the other to Beaverton Oregon.
I thought we would enjoy our golden years together and travel to all the places we dreamed about, but fate reared its ugly head. Five years later, I lost my best friend and the love of my life, when my bride of forty years lost her battle with heart disease. Three months after the funeral, I took out the Nikon DSLR she had given me for my sixtieth birthday and joined a local camera enthusiasts club. A year later, I had earned six first place ribbons from contests at the local university and the Art Guild for my 'work' and was convinced by my piers to become a 'Professional'.
I set up a studio in the basement of our suburban Alton, IL home and started taking portraits for my family and friends. The next Spring, I was visited by Mitch, a local professional who did photography for the local high schools. Because two other local photographers had gone out of business over the winter, he was swamped, and needed help taking care of the extra business he had 'inherited' from his former colleagues.
When he saw the camera, lens, and the lighting equipment I already owned, he said, "This will work perfectly." He gave me a memory card, sat on the stool he had placed between my camera and the background, and told me to take three shots of him. I did as he asked, and when we were finished, I gave him back the card. He told me he would be in touch and left.
As soon as he left, I got out my notebook, and copied the settings he had changed on my camera and lighting equipment so I would have a record incase anything got moved.
Three days later, Mitch called me back, and asked me if I would consider being his sub-contractor. He explained that all I had to do was photograph the students he sent to me, taking a dozen shots of each in four different poses according to his specifications. He would supply me with a dozen memory cards and send his customers to my 'studio' for their sessions. When I filled the cards, I would return them to him, and exchange them for another dozen empty cards. He would pay me $100 for each card I returned to him filled and give me 20% of the gross profits on his sales of finished products (print packages, framed prints, and albums, etc,).
I agreed to his terms, and Mitch and I entered into a partnership benefitting both of us that lasted three years. During this time, the extra income allowed me to upgrade my equipment and put some money in the bank. However, at the beginning of our fourth year working together, a phenomenon Mitch referred to as 'Mom-tographers' was starting to severely cut into our business, so he suggested that we end our collaboration. This was no big loss to me, because by this time I had starting to do other work for the local car clubs and dirt track racers.
The afternoon of the last Thursday of March, I walked into my favorite watering hole and saw a half dozen scantily dressed 'Biker Chicks' gathered around a guy wearing a cheap suit and a fake Rolex, who was talking to my friend, the owner of the bar. I had been taking photos for Chuck for several years, capturing images of the racecars he sponsored, adorned by the scantily clad waitresses that worked at the bar. He motioned for me to come over, telling the 'cheap suit' "This is the guy I was telling you about, he's the best photographer I know."
I was introduced to Ralph Greene, who said he was a 'Talent Agent' for an 'agency' out of Chicago, and they were planning on filming some music videos at a studio in the area. When I told them I didn't do videos, he told me they already had a videographer and a sound man but needed someone to shoot 'Promotional Stills' for posters and magazine advertisements.
When I asked him how much the gig paid, without missing a beat, he said, "There will be plenty of money 'down the road' if you can 'see your way clear' to work 'gratis' for now."
Recognizing this as a scam, I declined his offer and said, "When you want to 'get serious', give me a call," as I handed him my business card. I also gave cards to each of the 'ladies', and told Chuck, "Bring me two fingers of Glenlivet 12 on the rocks" and headed for my favorite booth, in the far corner of the barroom, away from the noise and distractions.
I was enjoying my single malt in relative quiet, when the prettiest, and only 'biker chick' who wasn't inked sat down across from me and said in a voice that sounded like an adolescent, "Are you really a professional photographer?"
I looked up from my glass into the greenest eyes I had ever seen in my life. She appeared to be barely five feet tall, her wavy hair was the reddest I had ever seen, her skin was the color of ivory, her small button nose turned up, and her sweet smile with perfect teeth warmed my heart. I smiled back at her and said, "I've been accused of being one, on occasion," and then in my best perv sounding voice said, "What's your name, little girl."
She answered in a little girl voice, "April Berry, what's yours?"
Intrigued, I answered, "Freddy," and smiled menacingly.
She gave me her best 'shocked' look and asked, "I hope your last name isn't Kreuger."
I smiled, and said in my normal voice, "No, it's Thompson, Fred Thompson. Is your name really April Berry?"
She smiled and said, "Yes I am. My father named me right after I was born, just before he disappeared from my mother's and my lives forever."
I frowned and said, "That was cruel. I have two married daughters, and two of my five grandchildren are girls. I don't know what I would do if I never saw them again, because they have always been the best part of my life."
She reached across the table and touched my hand saying, "I can tell you are a good man, but I sense a sadness in you. You have lost someone, haven't you?"
"I lost my wife a few years ago." I said quietly. She continued to hold my hand, and we just looked into each other's eyes for the longest time.
We were startled out of our reverie by the 'cheap suit' yelling, "Come on Slut, we're leaving."
She winked at me and said, "I'll be right back," and slid out of the booth. I watched the cutest ass I had ever seen in a pair of skinny jeans wiggle its way out of the bar, only to return five minutes later carrying an oversized backpack. She slid the bag into the booth, and slid in next to it, saying, "Now, where were we before that asshole so rudely interrupted us?"