Homage to my Gralab Timer
He called himself “Trace”.
The story goes that he got that nickname in Vietnam because of his penchant for loading his machine gun with all tracer bullets (rather than every 5th round) when he was a “lurp” (from LRRP - Long Range Reconnaissance Patrol) in that war. Tracer bullets were used so the shooter could see where the rounds were going, and adjust aim as needed. I never understood the benefit, because tracers also would let the enemy know from whence came the bullets. Glad I missed that one: dodged draft by high lottery number.
Trace claimed he packed his gun with all tracers because he got a kick out of how it freaked out the enemy. He explained it with a peculiar laugh, a memory likely transformed with the passage of time. In my movie version of this scene, it’s a creepy giggle, much like Tommy Udo’s, the character played by Richard Widmark in the 1947 film noir thriller “Kiss of Death”. You remember that one, right? Among other nasties, Udo pushed an old lady in a wheelchair down a staircase. Great flick.
He had a crazy vibe about him, but to be fair, in an alternate movie version, his character was more like the photographer in “Apocalypse Now” played by Dennis Hopper. Trace was actually a well-regarded photographer’s assistant in Boston in the mid ‘70s. Probably in his late 20s at the time. That’s how I remember the guy that sold me my first darkroom trays, bamboo print tongs, timers and an easel before he left town. That purchase of used gear kickstarted Darkroom Number One in a three-room apartment on Prince Street in Boston’s North End. How a guy with an Irish last name ended up in Boston’s Little Italy? For another time.
This Gralab Model 300 is roughly 9 by 9 by 3 inches and was placed on the wall within arm’s reach above the darkroom sink. And it had one mighty disturbing flaw: a heart-stopping buzzer, better suited for a prison break alarm. It was a 60-minute timer whose hour and second hands had a bit of fluorescent material at the tips so one could see them to reset in the dark. And all I ever needed when processing film in total darkness, with the sleep-inducing sound of running water, was a sensible ding-ding in case I nodded off. The on/off switch at the top of the timer has been frozen in the off position, gift-wrapped in rust, for almost half a century.
And no, it’s not for sale. Still works, but I’m not quite ready.
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