6:00PM: Friday, June 21, 2013
That is what the sign the man wearing the placard around him says. Beard Massages. He is followed by a gaggle of gigglers, leading me to surmise that he has lost some kind of bet. I take a photo of him from my car. I cannot stop. I am going to see the Rolling Stones.
OR not. Rather, I’m going to see the fans of the rolling stones.
Four men with an RV see me and my camera and call me over to take their photo. They want to look like the photo of the stones on the vanity plate in front of the RV. I arrange them and oblige.
“You’re good,” says one of them, “You could be a pro.”
“I am a pro,” I tell them. “I work for the newspaper.”
They are startled to have just posed for a newspaper photographer. “This might end up in the paper?” they ask.
“Yes,” I tell them, “It might.”
For some reason, they never suspected that I might be a pro photographer. I wonder what a pro photographer looks like in their imagination. Maybe not a woman with the sides of her head shaved wearing a black backpack. Or maybe it’s my apple cheeks. People tell me that I look trust-worthy, like a young version of a grandma, someone they can imagine serving cookies and being kind to animals. I often get asked for directions and strangers tell me secrets. They also pose for me.
This happens again and again though the 24 hours. People pose for me, for no reason at all. I adore them for it.