Echos of Manipulation

Noelle

“Why do we have to dress like this? There is no way anyone would take one look at us and think we are actually boys.” Ana grumbles as she fits a baseball cap over her short brunette bob, tucking in the loose strands.

Ana and I have been best friends since our days together at the same foster home. She showed up at the Smitt’s when I was ten, and she was eight years old. She was so young and scared, and Mr. Smitt was anything but a fatherly figure to any of the foster kids that had been in and out of that place. On nights when Mrs. Smitt wouldn’t feed us, I would sneak out and try to get her something to eat or drink. This usually resulted in my punishments, but I would do it again in a heartbeat for her. She’s my ride-or-die and as close to family as I have.

By the time I had turned sixteen, I had emancipated and took her with me, and the rest is history. We both worked two jobs for the longest time to afford to live on our own in New York City, but we were able to get ourselves through university, and as of this year, she and I successfully started up our own photography business. I don’t know what I would have done without Ana; she is the colour of this world. I don’t know how, but she still manages to see the good in people and give others the benefit of the doubt. I love her little ray of sunshine, and I’ll do anything to protect it.

We have been refining and working on our photography and medium of choice since we were in foster care. Still, we only took it to a more professional level while in university for photography when we began winning awards in various contests and competitions.

We opened our small studio for AN Photography six months ago and have been working nonstop to take our business to the next level ever since. Ana’s photography medium is people. She has her artistic pieces that we display in the studio and sell, and then she also takes on clientele, photographing families, babies, pregnancies, weddings, and so much more to bring in revenue. Meanwhile, my medium is a little more rustic and a little less than legal. I like to photograph moody scenes, scenes that normally don’t ever see the light of day. The places have their own mysterious story to tell, but if I never snuck in or adventured out there, they would never see the light of day.

“Well, do you have a better idea?” I respond, to which she just rolls her eyes at me. I know the disguise doesn’t do much to hide who we are, but it works well enough that if any cameras were to see us, they wouldn’t be any wiser, and I would much rather have the cops looking for some miscreant boys than give them a lead on who we may be.

“Yeah, how about we don’t sneak into a random warehouse in the middle of the night like complete lunatics?!” She says, her arms raise in exasperation.

“I told you, you don’t have to come with me,” I offer with a nonchalant shrug while I tie my thick, naturally ginger hair up into a bun so I can hide it under my beanie. But I am going. The man who called is willing to pay big for the project—an offer I, we, can’t refuse. Besides, if I get thrown in jail for the night, it’ll just be good publicity for AN Photography, especially for my division.”

Ana doesn’t like that my medium is one that could get me ticketed or put behind bars for petty crimes, but she understands my need to have these haunted places revealed, and their stories told. She also sees how lucrative it is, telling the story of the haunted, the dilapidated, and the abandoned in photos seems to strike the interest of many across the United States. With our plans to go international next year, it’s important to have a diverse portfolio for both her side and my side of our studio.

“Yeah, but then who’s going to be there to get your ass out of prison or to let you know when the cops have arrived. Besides, it’s AN Photography, not just N Photography. If you are going to do something badass, the least I can do is make sure you have a getaway car ready.” She grumbles, and I can’t help but giggle as she glares playfully at me.

“It won’t be more than an hour at most. We will be in and out before the cops even have the chance to realize it,” I tell her, shrugging on my oversized black jacket. When I pull the hood over my head, my entire head is consumed by shadows, my last defence to hide who I am.

I grab my camera bag and walk with Ana toward our little 2010 Honda Civic, which is parked in the garage next to our apartment complex. A man bumps into me and grumbles about how I should have been watching where I was going, but I continue to pull Ana through the crowd while she types furiously on her phone.

“I fucking hate how stuffed New York City is.” As we turn into the garage, I mutter, “We have at least an hour of driving to get out of the city at this rate.”

It’s not even considered rush hour, but there are cars packed tightly together as they try to enter or exit the city. The honks of the various cars become muted as we walk down to the underground lot. The smell of wet cement, dirt, and piss fills the air. There is a used condom tied and lying limp in the corner, and I can’t help but fake gag.

I throw my arm over Ana’s shoulder and say, “New York City! The city of dreams, promises, and piss.”

Ana snorts her laugh as we wander to the silver Honda Civic we managed to park on the first floor near the back of the lot.

“That’s what they say,” she says.

“Let’s get this over with, I want to be up at six in the morning to catch some of the subway goers, and I have a bachelorette shoot in the evening,” Ana says, and I toss her the car keys, which she catches swiftly and unlocks the car.

We get into the car, and she starts the engine. The Civic reluctantly starts, her engine chugging and making a concerning clunking noise. However, with the cost of living in the city, we don’t have the money to take the car for maintenance just yet, so she will have to make another couple hundred miles before that. Perhaps after tonight’s gig, I will allocate some money toward fixing her or buying another used car, and we can sell this one.

Shifting into first, Ana takes off, and we pull out of the underground onto the busy streets of the city. Several taxis honk while pedestrians shout profanities as we aggressively pull ourselves into traffic, but we continue on as if nothing happened. We could wait days, months, or even years at the entrance of the parking lot waiting for the opportune moment that wouldn’t have people getting angry, so you just have to slowly pull out until the angry people of New York cuss you out, but accept you are merging onto the street.

As expected, it takes an hour to finally get out of the city and toward the outskirts of the city where the warehouses of interest are. The client that was looking for a new sepia collection was very specific about which warehouses they were looking for and the mood they were going for. They want as many interesting photos of the inside and outside as possible, whatever that was supposed to mean, but with the fifty grand he’s paying me, I will make sure he has more than fifty ‘interesting’ photos developed and printed. That’s a deal, considering most of my edited, framed prints sell for upwards of thirteen hundred dollars during the auctions. Honestly, the man on the phone was a little weird, but this is New York City, so what can I expect? Hell, not too long ago, Ana took a photo of some man dressed as a rat on the subway hanging from the handles that hang from the subway ceiling just three days ago, and that is tame compared to some of the other shots she has taken.

I look down at the GPS on my phone, it has taken us into the middle of nowhere. All we can see are industrial plants off in the distance and cornfields, lots and lots of cornfields.

‘In the next mile, turn right,’ Siri finally chimes in with instructions for us.

“I don’t know about this,” Ana says with a nervous inflection, but she still follows what Siri tells her. She turns onto the country road that supposedly leads us to the warehouses we are going to photograph.

“It’ll be fine. Besides, you are going to stay in the car and call me if anyone shows up. I will be in and out in an hour.” I tell her as I adjust my camera bag on my lap.

“Why did we have to come at midnight? Of all hours,” Ana mutters to herself. I know she worries about my photography. We had a hard time growing up, but at the end of the day, we always had each other, and I don’t think I would ever be able to live without her. I know Ana thinks the same, that she wouldn’t be able to live without me, but the truth is, she would. She is organized, our finance girl, and makes friends easily. She has that personality that draws people to her, like bees to honey. As for me, I am the total opposite. Her sunshine personality makes up for my perpetual moody rain cloud when it comes to bringing in new clientele, advertising and selling our works, and the overall face of AN Photography.

It’s shocking how many people love and are willing to bid exorbitant amounts for the moody photos I take.

If it weren’t for the fact that I bring in the most revenue and take care of design and business planning, I would feel like a freeloader with how much Ana does. I have offered to take some of that work off her plate, but she has insisted that it would be best for the business if she were to be the one everyone sees and interacts with. I couldn’t agree more with her on that.

“I want some shots with the full moon. Plus, I think these warehouses are still in use, so this way, we avoid being caught.” I tell her as we pull into the dark driveway that leads to a tall, gated complex with four warehouses. Our headlights are the only thing that provides any lighting in this area. There are no streetlights or houses or people walking on the street. The whole place is eerily quiet. Goosebumps rise along my arms as I open the door to the civic.

“Stay here. If you see anyone, call me and ditch. Don’t get caught,” I tell her. Her brown eyes are wide with worry.

“What about you?!” Her voice cracks, and she looks around the car as if something is going to jump out of the bushes at us. This far out of the city, we are more likely to get mauled by a raccoon family over police officers or anyone, for that matter.

“I won’t make it back to the car on time if anyone shows up. You get out and don’t worry about me. I will call once I’ve managed to get out, and we can reconvene.” I tell her before shutting the door and stopping her from talking me out of this shoot. The man will be paying me fifty grand for fifteen quality photos, so you bet your ass I will be putting my all into this and coming home with rent for the rest of the year for the studio and our apartment and leftover money to launch the international sales marketing plan.

A crisp autumn wind threatens to take my hood off as I walk toward the tall fences with barbed wire at the top while listening for any signs that there are any guards or people around the complex. I squint into the moonlit darkness as I survey the surroundings. I had already done some research on the warehouses prior to coming here, and according to my quick Google search, these warehouses have been abandoned for over ten years, and the last people to own them were the Italian Mafia, where they trafficked people and drugs for over a century.

The hairs on the back of my neck rise as I approach the fence, and it feels like someone is watching me, but when I squint into the darkness once more to double-check that nobody is in the abandoned complex, I still see nobody. It’s probably just Ana’s eyes that I’m feeling.

I like the camera bag up on my shoulder before I pull out a pair of black gloves and a small set of wire cutters. I place the wire cutters into the pocket of my hoodie, then slide the black leather gloves onto my hands. I look back up at the top of the fence, it has to be double or triple my height. I’ve never been afraid of heights, but for some reason, as I look up at the top of the fence, my palms begin to sweat, and my mouth becomes dry.

You can fucking do this. Don’t let Ana down. It’s only a warehouse; you have been to creepier locations, and this fence isn’t even that tall.

With a quick mental pep talk, I begin my ascent to the top of the fence. It’s not like I haven’t climbed a fence or dealt with barbed wire before, but something about this place sends chills down my spine. Even though the place looks rather mundane compared to most of my other works, my gut is telling me something is off about this place.

The wire cutters starting to feel heavy in my pocket as I get closer to the top. I look back at Ana and wave her off to find a spot to park and stand watch while I am taking the photos. When the car slowly begins to reverse, I hold onto the fence with one hand and grab the wire cutters.

With the car’s headlights gone, everything is much darker, but it’s better if she isn’t around while I commit a petty crime. She doesn’t need to be found as an accomplice or charged with conspiracy; it’s the least I can do for her.

The barbed wire at the top is tangled together like the wires you forgot about in the bottom of a drawer after several years. It’s a complete, knotted, mess. I don’t even know where to start. I take my small pair of cutters to one of the wires that haven’t been knotted and cut. With a satisfying ’click’ it comes loose. Then I go for the next.

I don’t know how long I was working on the wires, but by the time I had cut every one of them and broken the knotted mess apart, my legs and the arm that was holding me up were aching. I can feel blisters forming on my hand, and I groan. Nothing is more irritating than blisters on your dominant hand, but at least there is a me-sized opening in the barbed wire.

I climb up on shaky limbs to the top and swing my legs over. I climb down just as carefully as I climb up, and when I’m on the other side of the fence, it feels like a massive weight has been lifted off my shoulders.

The gravel crunches under the weight of my shoe as I walk toward the closest warehouse. For an abandoned yard, there isn’t any plant overgrowth as I was expecting. Perhaps the gravel has kept the weeds from taking over the place.

Another autumn breeze cools me and sends a shiver down my spine. The breeze is almost crisp and cool, and the small hairs on the back of my neck stand up in alert of a predator, but when I look around, there is nothing and nobody. It doesn’t stop my heart from beating heavily against my chest, so I walk faster toward the warehouses.

Let’s just get this done with.

My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I pull it out. The light from the screen makes me squint as it illuminates brightly back at me—a text from Ana.

Ana: I found a spot just down the road. Let me know when you are ready to go and keep an eye out for my texts!

I roll my eyes but respond with a thumbs-up. She is the worrier out of the two of us, and even though we created this plan together earlier today, she always wants to reiterate our safety plans.

Sliding my phone back into my pocket, I kneel on the gravel to quickly set up my camera for the moody dark shots I’m looking for. When I’m ready, I aim my camera at the first warehouse and angle myself and the camera so I can get the full moon peeking out from behind it. A mist starts to form as the cool night air settles around the warm gravel. I use this to my advantage to get a couple shots of the three warehouses on the outside.

Once I am satisfied with the various shots, I realize that the next shots are what I’m most nervous about. I don’t know why I feel nervous. These warehouses look well-kept after being abandoned for over a decade. I have been inside rotting churches and crumpling barns where one wrong move could land me in a heap of trouble underneath several tonnes of rubble.

I change my camera lens before walking to the first warehouse. Goosebumps prickle my skin, and my teeth start to chatter with the pulse of adrenaline pumping through my body as I approach an old window. It’s dusty, so I wipe it with my sleeve and aim the camera to get a bit of the dusty window and the interior, like the person viewing the photo, is peering into the building. In the photo, you can see the interior of the building. It may be dark, but there is enough light from the moon to see the equipment and boxes.

Whoever abandoned the warehouses left everything, all the equipment used by the Italian Mafia for their drug operation. At least, that’s what I think this equipment is for. A shudder wracks my body, one that leaves tingles of displeasure in its wake, but I swallow the lump forming in my throat and push through.

I just need several interior photos of the three warehouses, and I’m done.