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.