I sold myself short. At the end of Blackwelder St. Shapour sits outside at 3pm waiting for his driver. Rain or shine, torrid or tepid, he’s always out there. Dressed like a boss. One day I time it right and ask to take his portrait. Weeks go by, I print a few in the darkroom, and hope to give them to him the next time I see him. When I finally do, he asks “How much do I owe you?” What a sweet heart. I tell him nothing, and that it was a pleasure to take his photograph. He smiles and thumbs through the prints, stopping at the last one. It’s my favorite. An artsy little number that doesn’t include his face. “This one’s no good,” he says. I think to myself, “that’ll be $50.”

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