A Day Of Ordinary Magic in 2003…

It was late fall of 2003 in Kansas City, Missouri, and the cold had that vicious, bone-deep sting that makes you question your life choices. My old man, in a common act of generosity—or perhaps delusion—had handed over his sacred 50mm Nikon lens a few weeks earlier. I was dying to screw it onto my F3 and see what kind of sorcery I could conjure with it. The ’38 Ford was ready, my fingers were numb, and the city, grim and frozen, was begging for something worth remembering.

I dialed up Kevin Lee, that degenerate bastard always ready for a little hellraising, especially if it involved fast cars, bad weather, and the kind of back alleys you don’t walk into sober. We tore off into the cold, hunting for some forgotten urban relic to immortalize the old Ford against. The air cut like glass, and the whole city felt like it was suspended in time—like it was waiting for something, maybe us, maybe nothing at all.

But as always, fate had a few sucker punches waiting. I’d left the damn camera in the car overnight. Rookie mistake, a real boneheaded move, but I was too high on anticipation to care. Every roll of film in my bag was frozen solid—little bricks of cellulose. The camera, at least, might have been warm enough to save the roll inside. I wasn’t sure, but hell, we were already committed. There was no turning back now.

So I jammed those frozen rolls under the hood, hoping the engine heat would thaw them out while we prowled the streets like lunatics. The Ford growled as we tore through the city, a blur of headlights and cold pavement. I wasn’t praying for a miracle; I was demanding one.

By the time we found ourselves deep in some back-alley wasteland, the film had slipped off the ledge and disappeared into the streets—gone forever. All I had left were three measly frames from the roll in the camera. Three shots, frozen fingers, and a hell-bent determination to make those bastards count.

The alley was a gift from the gods—steam rising from a manhole, the kind of gritty, surreal scene that would make any sane person think they’d stumbled into a noir fever dream. It was perfect. I took two shots right there, locked in, knowing those frames would be something special. The Ford, the steam, the grimy city—pure, unfiltered drama.

But that last frame? I was saving that for something big. A week earlier, I’d spotted a set of railroad tracks on my way to work, the kind of place that worms its way into your subconscious. I’d been daydreaming about shooting the Ford there ever since. It was supposed to be perfect, like the culmination of every half-baked idea that led up to this night.

When we got there, the light was magic—golden, soft, wrapping the whole scene in a glow that felt almost surreal. One shot left. All or nothing. The moment was heavy, loaded with expectation.

And wouldn’t you know it, that shot on the tracks turned out to be completely ordinary. A dud. Just another frame, nothing more. But those two shots from the alley? They’ve followed me like ghosts. I’ve squeezed more life out of those two frames than any other photo I’ve ever taken. This weekend, for the first time, I printed them. And it hit me—sometimes the magic isn’t where you think it’ll be. It’s in the mistakes, the lost moments, the unexpected.