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At the top of the steps, I knock lightly on the russet-colored hardwood door of Foster’s apartment on this Sunday afternoon, as we scheduled. The door swings inward, revealing Foster dressed in a gray hooded sweatshirt and a pair of denim pants, covered by a generic red-and-white-striped cookout apron. Strands of damp hair haphazardly lie across his brow, accentuating his sapphire eyes lacking the omnipresent dark frames.
“Hey,” he says, adjusting his hair back into place. “You’re right on time.”
“There’s a saying that punctuality is a virtue.” I lift my right shoulder, adjusting the strap of my camera bag.
He narrows his gaze. “No, there isn’t.”
“Sure there is—according to the preachings that I’ve read.”
“Preachings? I’m starting to wonder where you learn some of the things you spout.”
“It’s all in theProstitute’s Guide to Vegas,” I say, like it’s the most obvious statement in the world. “Time is of the essence when you get paid by the hour, and clients are calling out God’s name while worshiping your body at a budget price. There are even coupons for regulars.”
Foster’s mouth twitches, the corner betraying the hint of a smile. “I might need to get a copy of that book.”
“Feel free to borrow mine.”
“So generous of you.” He steps aside. “You’re so full of shit. C’mon in.”
I enter the apartment, scanning his residence for the first time without alcohol or hormones interfering. The small white living space is sparse but neat, showcasing an overstuffed sofa and a side chair, and at the room’s center is a television of average size, in comparison to what I’ve seen in other college man apartments. The walls are bare, save for a very large antique-finished framed print of the periodic table of elements.
Should have seen that coming.
The furnishings are typical for a male apartment—simple and muted. Nothing stands out. This place is a blank canvas begging for some color.The open floor plan flows into a kitchen at the right with a small prep island in its center.
With my tripod and camera bag in hand, I follow Foster into the kitchen area. On the dark granite countertop of the center island rests three large clear glass beakers of different sizes and configurations, filled about three-quarters full with water.
“So, I take it, this is where the magic is going to happen?” I ask, stopping in front of the trio of glasses.
“Yeah. I’m not fully set up yet, but you should get the best lighting in here.”
Dropping my bag to the ground, I slug out of my coat, lay it over one of the barstools, and begin to set up my equipment while Foster opens up the kitchen window and then pulls out a large glass bowl from a lower cabinet.
“How’s this going to work?” I question, attaching my camera to the top of the three-legged base. “Do I need to do anything?”
“No,” he responds, shutting off the faucet once the bowl is sufficiently filled. “I’ll conduct the…experiment, and you can just take the pictures.”
“Will it be really fast, or will I be able to get a few shots?”
“You should be able to get plenty. The burn lasts a significant amount of time—about thirty seconds—but I’ve set up four environments in case you don’t get everything you need the first time.”
“Four sounds like plenty.” I raise the height of the neck on the tripod.
“I hope so.” He laughs. “I only have enough materials for four.” Placing the clear bowl next to the beakers, he continues, “I’ll be right back. I need to get the secret ingredient.”
“It’s not illegal, is it?”
“No, but these things are really hard to come by this time of year.”
I peek after Foster as he makes his way around the partition and enters his bedroom at the end of the hall. Two other doors down the narrow space remain slightly ajar. One at the end of the apartment is clearly the bathroom, and from my previous visit, I recall the other as being a second bedroom.
I duck back into the kitchen area when Foster emerges from his room with a small cardboard box in one hand and Scotch Tape in the other. Behind the camera, I adjust the lens, focusing on the container farthest on the left, assuming we will begin with that one.
“Where’s your roommate?” I ask, straightening from my bent position.
Foster opens the brown shoebox. “I don’t have one.”
“Then, why do you have a two-bedroom? Extra storage place? Mad scientist lab?”
