"I AM A CAMERA"

The problem with a talking camera is that you can't shutter up

THEY'RE geniuses, these marketing execs. Geniuses. Now they make microwave ovens that'll talk to you. And Datsuns. "Set temperature," admonishes your oven in a motherly voice. "Fasten seat belt," cautions your car. If your Datsun can't tell you you've been living wrong, who can? I mean, what are friends for?

Of course, hanging out with a Radarange can be cold comfort. It's all right to have someone prodding you like that when you're on one of your self-improvement binges, but where is the oven that will show a little empathy? What Datsun has the panache to whisk you home from a party whispering, "So who knew you were a dancer?" What toaster will greet you with the always cheering words "Great shoes"?

And nothing's worse than traveling alone. That must be why Minolta invented the talking camera. It's a little automatic job, and you can get it with male voice or female voice, and if you set the button on the back just right, it'll say unprintable things in Japanese. Mostly, though, it abuses you. I purchased the female model—I was finally ready for a real relationship. I bought a book by Egon Von Fiirstenberg. I started dressing a little better. But when I tried to be suave, the camera would mutter only, "Load film."

"What was that, darling?" I purred. Egon always purrs. "Load film," it repeated in world-weary tones. "What do you take me for? A child?" I spluttered. "I wouldn't try to take a picture without film. Only an idiot would take a picture without film. I was just testing the light."

Then, with what I imagined to be magisterial calm, I said, "Look, can't you just go easy once in a while? Let the little ones go by sometimes. Okay. I didn't load the film. I'll load the film." I looked up. There was the Acropolis. Greek guides in blue uniforms were giving me sidelong looks—the sort of looks they'd give you if your wife had just downed a magnum of retsina and was making unspeakable overtures to the bouzouki player.

"Too dark. Use flash," the camera nagged. I tried to seem nonchalant. There were Americans everywhere, eyeing me and cackling. Their necks sagged under various Nikons and Leicas; they wanted me to think that they were on assignment for National Geographic. "Listen," I hissed at the camera. "It's one thing at home. But you're embarrassing me in front of all these foreign correspondents. I can't take you anywhere. ' '

"Check distance," she retorted. She knows how to dig in where it hurts. I was hearing derisive laughter all around me. What would she say next? "Focus it, ya big chowderhead" ? So I threw the camera down into the Athenian streets below, where it shattered into a thousand pieces. Ragged children gathered them up and within a few seconds sold them.

I'm not bitter, of course. There'll be other cameras, maybe even serious ones. But I won't take a camera home just because I like its looks and we both dig Cyndi Lauper. I want more than conversation—I guess you could say I want respect.

Stephen Schiff