He took my camera away. He put it in a plastic bag and sealed it, giving me only my memory card and a piece of yellow paper as proof that it is mine.
He took off his round glasses, shook his head in dismay, and re-adjusted his grey ponytail.
"Unfortunatly, there's a $50 estimate fee," I was told. I gulped. Some sacrifices, even monetary ones, need to be made. I have a credit card. It would be okay.
But then he continued, "I'll call you on Thursday with an estimate."
"Thursday? As in next week?" I asked, in complete disbelief. Monetary setbacks are one thing, but I can't deal with stolen time. Didn't he understand? I have drunken debauchery to photograph here! I'm going out this weekend! I have a birthday coming up! And most importantly, my hero, Douglas Coupland, is doing a reading at the U of T next week! This can't be happening!*
"Yah, but that's just for the estimate. You won't get your camera back until the following Thursday. In two weeks," he added, clarifying.
"Well, uh, maybe I'll just continue using it as is?" I suggested, weakly, hopefully.
"Sweetie, it's only going to get worse."
All this for a slightly dislodged piece of plastic and a zoom that won't work quite properly. I'm distraught, to say the least.
*This is a dire situation that fully warrants the use of excessive exclaimation marks.