ACK SNAPS
By
Luc Iver de Vil
Jack Snaps
By Luc Iver de Vil
Copyright 2013 Luc Iver de Vil
Authors note: All characters in this work of fiction are 18 years of age and older
To my wife, friend, partner, lover and supporter. My thanks to her for her dedicated assistance in getting my books published.
Preface: While working as a newspaper reporter I befriended a photographer, Jack Snaps, who joined me on my rounds, getting me into all kinds of hairy situations.
JACK SNAPS
Jack Snaps. The ill-reputed Jack Snaps. Not to say he was a criminal, or a bad guy, just very unlucky, and careless to a large extend!
I am proud to tell the world he is a friend of mine, despite all the baggage that goes along with it. In my life going from job to job, profession to profession, I met many characters, those people that stand out in life. Not because they are rich, or have achieved fame for anything, they are just extra-ordinary normal people.
At one stage of my life of job jumping I found myself with the impressive title of ‘Advertising Manager’ on a small country newspaper operating from a small town on the banks of a river in the Orange Free State. This title was actually meaningless, as the full complement of permanent staff existed out of four people; the Editor, the Receptionist, who also took the small adverts, the bookkeeper, deputizing as the Editor's wife, and myself. Then there were three or four contributing freelancers, a retired school teacher and some bored housewives. Only half my responsibility was finding and creating advertising, the other more interesting part was reporting, on anything and everything.
So, all of us did everything! Sold advertising space, wrote reports, took photographs, wrote columns under assumed names and titles, collected money, and even delivered our own newspapers. After the space for an advert had been sold, creating the ad was my problem, like it was the Editor’s problem to check my spelling and grammar.
As photos took up a fair amount of space, I loved using them in my creations. It made thinking up catch phrases unnecessary, a very difficult exercise when hung-over.
My photography wasn’t too bad, but doing that complicated bit in the darkroom was slightly above my abilities. I needed help, and that’s how I met Jack Snaps.
In the beginning of me working in that village I was puzzled as to how such a small town could support three photographic studios. There was the one run by a very good looking woman whose front room was always filled with sexy young girls, the one run by an oily character who was constantly being visited by unsavoury looking out-of-towners, and Jack's studio.
On consulting them on darkroom techniques I got the distinct impression that their knowledge rivalled mine. Months later when reporting from the local court I found out why, the good looking lady and her sexy girls were providing a totally different service to the rich farmers and poor lawyers of the county. The few photos that were actually taken in that “studio” ensured a regular income from the married farmers and lawyers, not willingly paid, and that done outside the knowledge of their wives.
The greasy guy? He was supplying ‘happy-making medicines’; some to smoke, some to swallow and some to inject. Neither was he or his medicines on any government approved list.
And then there was Jack Snaps! His studio was as genuine as he was. He knew more about what can and what can't in a dark room than anybody that I have ever met. Jack was very keen to assist, for a small fee, of course.
On entering the studio I found it to be fairly tidy and clean. The walls were covered with photographs, portraits, family groups, animals and nature scenes. The right hand wall, as you entered, was fronted by an old glass showcase, in which was displayed cameras, picture frames and all sorts of photographic paraphernalia, and served as counter as well.
Behind this counter, hovering over a pre-second-world-war cash-register, I saw Jack for the first time. He was approximately 1.7 meters tall, with a stocky build, and a stomach that did indicate a close friendship with beer. Jack had long curly, reddish brown hair that obviously experienced shampoo regularly, but hardly ever met with a comb or brush. This was underlined by a massive red beard, in a similar condition.
In between the beard and hair set a pair of glasses with a thick black frame, from behind which glared bright blue eyes.
Jack was a cripple; he didn’t have a left arm or hand, just a short little stump with two fingers. His right leg was in irons, every morning he had to encase this leg into sort of cage of iron bars, held into position by a strap around his hips and fasteners to his shoe. This all was as a result from suffering polio while a child.
He was dressed in what I learned over time to be his standard uniform. Brown corduroy trousers, dark woollen shirt with the left sleeve cut off, so his stumpy arm and two fingers could be used occasionally.
In a gruff voice I was asked as to how I could be assisted. I explained my dilemma and we came to an amicable agreement. That evening our ‘contract’ was celebrated in the pub, that was to become one of the centre points of our friendship.
I quickly learned that money was a very scarce necessity in Jack’s life. The studio brought in a minimum of cash. Wasn’t it for Jack’s father and a small disability pension, he would not have survived.
Jacks father was a wealthy, well known and respected individual in the local community. He owned many buildings in the town, including the one in which Jacks studio was situated. In assistance to his son, Jack never was charged rent, but was responsible for the water and electricity accounts, which was never paid by my friend anyway.
On a regular basis the municipality cut the water and electricity supply to the studio, but being very handy with just one hand, a screwdriver and pair of pliers, Jack always reconnected. This brought many summonses, lawyers’ letters, and a very angry old man, highly set on his good name and reputation. Fortunately this reputation to protect brought forth the cheque book, the bills were paid and severe lectures were given. Until the next time!
On the outskirts of the village, in a rundown house on a smallholding, also owned by his father, lived Jack. He used only three rooms in the house; the kitchen furnished with a small gas stove, a massive fridge, a wooden table and two chairs. Utensils were limited to one cooking pot, a frying pan, an electric kettle, two cracked plates and three cracked cups. If you looked carefully you possibly could find amongst all the old newspapers and magazines lying around one teaspoon, two knifes three forks and about seven overflowing ashtrays. If you were lucky you sometimes found a rusty can opener as well, lost in the pile of empty cans in one corner.
The huge fridge was mostly bare too. A few cans of beans, sweet corn and fish were occasionally found.
In contrast the bedroom was always clean and tidy, well furnished with a double bed, two wardrobes and three comfortable easy chairs. So was the bathroom, clean, tidy and well equipped.
Jack’s dad was totally against drinking, that is drinking anything stronger than coffee. This aversion to alcoholic beverages caused us many problems, seeing that Jack was over fond of beer.
Before we met, Jack did not often go into any of the many pubs in the small town, so I was told. (Strange how watering holes are always over populated in small places, is it not?) Jack did his beer drinking at home, and in secret. This lead to one of the many times Jack was disinherited by his father. One day while Jack was out with me on a ‘news gathering assignment’ in a neighbouring town’s favourite pub, the old man decided to inspect the house on the small holding.
He was a brave man, he did something I never contemplated doing, he opened the door to one of the sealed bedrooms in Jack’s living quarters. Opening that door couldn’t have been easy, considering the weight that had piled up behind it! The old man s
olved a mystery that puzzled me a long time. ‘What happened to Jack’s empty beer bottles and cans?’
Jack had been tossing then into the unused bedroom! Over the years the bottles and cans had been piling up, and up, and up, in the furthest corner, nearly two meters high, slanting down to block the door, eventually semi blocking it from opening.
Jack did own a car, not the latest, not the prettiest, actually it was a panel beaters worst nightmare, but functional. Obviously this vehicle had to have an automatic gearbox, as the driver did not have a left arm and hand. Somehow Jack got his right leg, irons and all, wedged onto the accelerator, and steered with his right hand. Sometimes the irons on the leg got hooked up which lead to some hairy high speed travelling, skipped traffic lights and ignored stop signs! And if it could get worse, it did!
Jack holding