He gazed intensely at me while I filled up my car with gasoline.  The sentinel
was sitting there on an old, black vinyl bench that was possibly retrieved from
a landfill or rescued from the foot of some hill.  His sad green eyes were
surrounded by layers of deep wrinkles.  His hair and beard were long and
untamed, reddish-brown tinged with gray.  He wore a faded green US Army
jacket with no name on it.  A black civil war hat protected his head, circled
with a white cord, knotted in front.  Here was a ghost from the 1800’s, sitting
on the porch of a quickie gas mart, biding his time.
 I had just finished a long day of photographing the splendor of the Red
River Gorge in Eastern Kentucky.  My gas gauge and stomach both let me
know that I was low on fuel.  On my way back to I-64 I stumbled onto the
gas mart sitting next to an old white church.  This was the entire town of
Slade, Kentucky.  The gas mart was a split log cabin, newly constructed,
covered with gaudy neon beer signs and cigarette ads.
 As I pumped the gas, I noticed him watching me.  His eyes followed
me into the store.  As I paid for the gas, a candy bar, and a cold drink, I
worked up the nerve to talk to him.  Outside the door, I greeted him and
asked permission to photograph him.  After a few attempts to interpret his
gruff, choppy accent, I deciphered a “suit yourself.”  I quickly jogged back to
the car to grab a camera, hoping he wouldn’t change his mind.  Luckily, the
medium format camera back showed two more exposures remaining.  Upon
returning to the porch, I metered quickly and fired off two hand-held shots.  I
tried unsuccessfully to get his name.  Between stuttering and unintelligible
noises he finally choked out “Don’t you know who I am?  I’m the Mayor of
Slade.”  Unsure of his mental health and my safety, I said my good-byes and
drove out of the dusty lot.  His stare followed me down the road.  As he
disappeared from my rearview mirror, I prepared myself for the long drive
home, back into Yankee territory.