Debra Pickett

I had a long cab ride this afternoon, from River North up to Albany Park, and, as luck would have it, my driver was chatty and friendly in all the best possible ways. And, after a couple of minutes of good-natured banter, he launched into a tale that I fully expect someone to develop into a great novel someday.

In addition to driving the cab, Peter is a photographer. This weekend, he was completely booked with parties and weddings. So he had only a short break between a Saturday afternoon wedding and another engagement. He was going to briefly visit a friend and stopped off at a convenience store to pick up something to drink.

While he was inside, someone broke into his car. And, along with the usual cash, CDs, etc., they took a bag that held some of his equipment and . . . the film containing the wedding shots.

It was not a total loss -- he had two rolls of film in his jacket pocket -- but it was pretty close. Everything he'd shot of the ceremony was gone.

I should mention that Peter was not nearly this straightforward in telling the story. In fact, he did not make it clear, until the story was over, that he was the photographer. (He started off with, "Let me ask your opinion on something," then told the story in third-person narrative.) At one point, I thought he was actually the groom.

Anyway, his question, asked only half-jokingly, was, "Would you kill the photographer?"

He'd decided to refund all of the couple's money, to give them prints of everything he could and to provide a large, framed version of the formal portrait shot he'd taken of them at no charge. But this, he knew, was no real substitute.

(I suggested that giving them the portrait first might soften the blow a bit before telling them about the loss of the rest of the photos.)

As he dropped me off at my destination, he asked, "Will you come to my funeral?"