This past summer, I visited my local camera shop to buy some film and look around. Before they moved to their current location, they had a couple of long glass cases/countertops displaying all sorts of used camera gear, and I used to go and browse/drool. They changed locations, and, because of some strange zoning ordinance, they were unable to buy used cameras from people; they could now only trade for cameras, so their selection began to dwindle.
As I looked through the case, my eyes were snagged by the latest Holy Grail of a camera (at least for me): the Konica Autoreflex (or Autorex, depending on where you get it). It was produced in the 1960s, and the thing that was so intriguing about this camera was the little switch on top that allows the user to change between half and full format. And it was only $80! I hesitated, because if there's anything that the wife thinks I have enough of, it's cameras. Or books. Or CDs. Or shoes. But mostly cameras.
I cautiously asked the wife about the camera, and she said I could trade away some of my other cameras to get as close as I could to the price. Fair enough, I thought. I started rummaging through my camera drawer, and made up my mind (after some serious mental debate) which cameras I was willing to part with. Mind you, I had spent hours online learning about the different cameras I had collected, and more hours online crossing my fingers during the latest auctions, or sifting through piles of worthless junk at thrift stores to try to build up my collection. I had been lucky enough to score some of the cameras I had read so much about: there were a number of rangefinders, point and shoots, etc., that I had come across. I thought I had it made. I packed about ten of them up into a box and hauled them off to the camera shop.
I put them on the counter and went through them one by one, and with each camera I produced, I was immediately shot down. "No, we couldn't buy that. No, that one would never sell. No. No. No. Okay, maybe we could give you $5 for that. No. No." So, I'd sifted through most of my collection, and I'd managed to come up with $5. I swallowed hard, went home, and decided to pull out the big guns. I really wanted that camera.
Round two: "No. No. Wouldn't sell." I told her about a Leica I had inherited from a lady in the ward whose husband had passed away. "I don't know if it would sell--I'd have to see what kind of batteries it takes" (this, of course, was smart on her part--the camera takes old mercury batteries which are now outlawed in the U.S.). She would buy the little Pentax I had picked up at Savers for $10--it's a great learner's camera, and I've taken some of my favorite pictures with it. But I wasn't about to part with it. She only wanted cameras that were basic, manual, and that would sell to college or high school kids taking Intro to Photography courses.
The internet nerdlingers were wrong. All these cameras I had collected, slaved over, researched, and obsessed over were, at least for my current intentions, worthless. I was so bummed. I talked with my wife (this is roughly day three after first seeing the camera--I was banking on the fact that no other camera obsessives would make their way into the shop and recognize what it was before I was back), and she surrendered to my charms: I could purchase the camera, then sell the others online. I drove back to the shop, so excited that the camera was to be mine.
It wasn't. It was gone. The lady, who knew how excited I was about the dang thing, up and sold it. I was bitter, frustrated, and angry that I didn't get there sooner. I was also cheesed that my sweet camera collection (and the internet camera gods) didn't pull through for me. But I imagine it was for the best--actually, I just managed to pick one up and have seen a number for sale recently on eBay. I have yet to finish my roll of film (it takes twice as long to finish a roll, since the shots are half as big), but I got a faster lens and a camera which was, I think, in better shape. At least that's what the internet tells me.
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