It started out as just an image.

The parking structure had been visually enticing to the Photographer, with rectangular beams of light emptying into the night fog. It wasn’t typical fog, rather an icy mist suspended in the air, searching for surfaces to crystallize on. His gloves were cut off at the ends to allow his fingers to manipulate his equipment, and this is where the cold began its attack on him. Still, he proceeded slowly, approaching the structure from a distance, stopping every so often to check the scene through his viewfinder.

Finally, he reached what he felt was the correct spot. Now he had the proper intimacy with the building. It was just him and his subject, the cold became a footnote to his mind and the city behind him was a backstage area. It was just him and his subject…and the Security Guard pulling up alongside in a minivan.

The Photographer glanced over briefly as the Guard stepped out of his vehicle. Then he turned back to his camera. He knew he couldn’t ignore the Guard, so in his friendliest voice he offered a greeting as he adjusted the settings for the exposure. “Hi there.”

“Mind telling me what you’re doing?” was the response. The Photographer was a little taken aback by the Guard’s incredulous tone, as if some kind of personal injury had been done to him. It wasn’t necessary to look over at the Guard to know that he was standing with his hands on his hips in his best authoritative posture.

“Taking a photo.” He pressed the button and heard the slap of the camera mirror flipping up, and then the click of the shutter. The Photographer had the next thirty seconds to deal with the Guard until the exposure finished.

“Taking a photo?” The Guard spat the words as if the idea was repulsive. “For who?”

The Photographer stared at him dumbfounded, wondering how to answer such a ridiculous question. “For me,” he finally said.

“Well, I don’t know if you know this, but there’s been a problem with terrorists lately, and I’m not saying you are one, but we can’t have you taking pictures here.”

Perhaps being reasonable would be better than being confrontational. “Well, I understand, and if you’d like, I’d be happy to show you my identification.” The Photographer had heard his shutter click and knew that his exposure was done; still it wouldn’t hurt him to be civil, and perhaps he could take another photo.

“No, for security we can’t have you taking pictures here, this is private property. You can go take pictures from across the street.”

The Photographer shook his head as he began folding up his tripod. Perhaps at some point, being confrontational is better than being reasonable. “You know, just for future reference, I highly doubt that a terrorist would take the time to set up his camera on a tripod at night and sit around for an extended period of time trying to compose his photograph.”

“Hey, I don’t know who you are,” the Guard retorted, “you could be anybody.”

“Well that’s why I offered to show you my identification, so you would know who I was.”

The Guard really didn’t like that. “Yeah, well….I think it’d just be better if you went to take your photos across the street.”

The Photographer could not help but dwell on the absurdity of the Guard’s logic. Yes, Mr. Guard, you’ve done such a good job, the building is much safer now since I would actually have to use the zoom on my lens from this side of the road. You’re so brave, Mr. Guard, you busted a long-haired hippie who was trying to subvert the American way of life, and hopefully the rent-a-cop agency will reward you with a medal of valor. You know, Mr. Guard, you must have amazing instincts, because I’m actually a wannabe terrorist who’s trying to sell pictures of parking ramps to Al-Qaeda so they can plan where to sprinkle nails so that when cars drive across them their tires will pop, and in that fashion they will eventually be able to bring the entire automotive transportation infrastructure of the U.S.A. to its knees. Of course, I have to this point failed to sell any pictures to Al-Qaeda because they said that all of the pictures I took during bright daylight hours when it’s easy to take photographs just walking by with a digicam were not artsy enough.

Of course he said none of those things at the time. What else could the Photographer do? He set up his tripod from across the street not because he really felt like taking a picture from there, but simply because he wanted to spite the guard and show him he would not be intimidated. But that wasn’t nearly enough. He wanted to spill his temper onto the night, to vehemently shine the light of reason into the miasma of authoritarianism, to declare that he would not be contained by a culture of paranoia.

Then it occurred to him. He would use his photo as a podium. He would publish it, he would write a story to go along with it. He would turn it into a focal point to express his disgust with the perpetuation of a hyper-paranoid police-state mentality. He would ask the question:

Are we going to let this happen to our society?