John slid his right hand into the pocket of his dark bluejeans and leaned hard
against the wall.  He struck his pose which, like his demeanor, was relaxed.
He explained that the metal band surrounding the finger on his left hand
would be visible on the wall as a tribute to his “old lady.”  John was not the
original star of this show.  Destiny intervened.
 Wandering the back alleys of Dayton, Ohio, I nervously nestled my
camera closer to my body.  My eyes darted from side to side looking
simultaneously for beauty and for phantom thugs.  The filtered sunlight
illuminated a wall behind a defunct bar like a spotlight.  Peeling white paint
and rough plastered craters gave the impression of a war-torn battle zone.  A
river of stained concrete flowed down the middle, cracking with age.  The
texture and hues were irresistible to a black and white photographer.  I
snapped an obligatory shot then continued down the alley feeling cheated.
 Two blocks down, John emerged from a dilapidated doorway and a
star was born.  He was a tall, thin man with thick and leathery skin.  A denim
cap hid his short gray hair and cast a shadow over his eyes.  He wore a
long-sleeved denim shirt with shiny metal buttons.  His jeans were like John
himself,  wrinkly and old.   His keys hung from a wide loop in his belt,
sparkling in harmony with a large golden belt buckle.  He was rough and
tumble from his cap to his dusty work boots; a man who had done a lot of
living.
 I approached him slowly, introduced myself and asked if I could take
his portrait in front of the wall.  He agreed.  He explained that he was doing
some odd jobs for a friend who owned a run-down apartment building.  I
didn’t press him for more.  At the wall, he posed with no input from me. After
two quick snaps, I shook his hand.  I could feel the years of hardness in his
callused grip.  He said his name was “John.”  As I started off down the alley,
he half jokingly asked me not to show the pictures to the “authorities.”  I
shook my head no.  He laughed; I smiled.