Staff writer Emorie Hayes purchases a film camera and is unexpectedly taught a life lesson.

Board the 1 train but get off at 96th Street. 

Transfer to the 2 or 3, or either that pulls up as you hop off the 1, rushing across the platform to reach the doors of the 2 before it speeds off into the sunset.

Don’t exit until 14th St., watching the children in their preparatory uniforms prance off the subway at 34th St.–Penn Station, their mothers hand in their own as they recount the fictitious adventures they encountered throughout their school day.

Board the L train, stare at the people across from you, and try not to memorize their faces. Try not to memorize the interactions they may or may not be having with the people beside them. Try not to spiral about how their day was, wondering if maybe they decided to have a cup of coffee before boarding the train. Or maybe they’re not a coffee person; maybe they went with a smooth jasmine tea, sugar sprinkled into the mug as they stir the heady drool that is the sweet, hot tea. Or maybe they woke up late and just barely made it. Maybe if this train is delayed, the rest of their day is off. 

Maybe you’re overthinking it.

Anyway, exit at Grand St; try not to get lost and exit at Grand St & Bushwick Av, SW corner, rather than the NW corner. 

Walk for about 2 minutes, a mindless bot to Apple Maps, as you maneuver your way through the crowd, the street names you’ve never encountered before until now.

And then turn left and look up at the store shop’s name: Brooklyn Film Camera

Get lost in it, thrown between the conflicting thoughts of “Can I even afford a camera right now? Am I even good enough at photography to drop a pretty penny on a film camera? What the hell is a roll, and why do I have to pay more money to get it processed?”

But, you walk in anyway, immediately thrown off by the pristine array of the store’s camera selections: an extensive selection of Polaroid cameras, funky cameras that look like they crawled out of your grandmother’s bedroom in the mid-80s, and some cameras that look like they once might’ve graced your mother’s hands during her high school years. 

So yes, you’re thrown off. 

You walk up to the employee at the counter, asking the most world-bending, eloquently put question that only a master photographer would ask: “I don’t know what a film camera is; can you explain?”

All of the other customers break into applause, and whistles are heard across the store as you humbly smile, settling into the intelligence of your question. 

The employee surprisingly doesn’t laugh at you but offers some beginner cameras, and you’re struck. 

On a couch in the store, you meddle in your indecisiveness, the confliction of whether or not you truly want this camera. 

You’re unfortunately the most impatient person you know, skimming corners to receive immediate results, previously preferring digital cameras to receive photos immediately, with no need to rely on anyone to do the work for you, and no need to put your trust into an individual to process photos that are so close to your heart, or else you would’ve never taken them.

But you want to branch out as a photographer; you want to take photos because amidst all of the chemistry, calculus, and lovely pre-med requirements you’re doing, you love the heady rush that comes with taking a damn good photo. 

So you walk up to the employee and say, “Thank you so much for your help, but I have to think about it. I’ll be back later,” knowing you will most likely not be back later. 

You walk not even a block before you’re hit with a feeling of doom—that if you don’t go back and buy that camera, you’ll regret it. So you turn around, feeling silly as you walk back into the store and purchase the camera and a roll of film, stomach churning a little as you see the price, but it’s scientifically proven that if you use tap to pay, it’s basically fake money. 

You take photos over the following days, when out with your friends, of the beautiful streets and of the small moments that you wish you could never leave. The small moments that you wish could be a lifetime. And with each moment, the addictive sting of a damn good photo sends you a rush, learning that maybe people were right when saying patience is key. Maybe the best return is after the wait.

Header via author