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I had it all figured out by the time I finished high school. First, I would graduate from college with a double major in journalism and photography, and then do some free lance projects to get my name out there. Soon the regular assignments would come my way, with National Geographic or some similar gig. I knew I was good with a camera; I have the "eye." People used to look at my photographs and ask why I wasn't getting rich selling them. So I don't know where it all went wrong.

But here I was, seven years later, standing behind a camera in a dilapidated high school gym that smelled like a mix of old sneakers and stale urine, taking yearbook pictures of a local graduating class. My boss took the month off, and he had no trouble leaving me with this dreary work. Face after face after face sat in a chair in front of my camera, bundled up in graduation gown and mortar board, a seemingly unending blur of anonymous, boring mugs. This was not Bali nor the rain forest.

The line of graduating seniors stretched halfway around the gym, slowly feeding one at a time past the rack of purple gowns, past the mirror kept handy for last second primping, past the table where bored teachers tried to match photo number to name (so Shanyqua wouldn't come out labeled Anthony in the book) and finally to the chair set before the lights, in front of the multi-colored background, where I would preserve their smiling images for posterity. Next!

...

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