This is a picture I did not take
of four dressed-up young women, standing on a pedestrian overpass above
Cesar Chavez on an overcast Sunday afternoon, while a photographer
crouched on his knees and took pictures of one of them (with the sun
directly behind her, what kind of photographer was he?) and the other
three stood at the ready, nervously shifting their weight and giggling,
while twenty yards beyond the overpass, a smiling day-worker leaned
against the bumper of a dusty pick-up truck, arms folded across his
stained t-shirt and superior gut, looking up at the overpass and the
backsides of the young women, who stood suspended above him, silhouetted
against the sky.