I Wish I Still Had the Photograph
There was a corner at an intersection I can't name anymore. I have two memories. Strong photographs in my mind's eye.
Mind's eye. That just seems a piss poor way to say it
I have a folder of photographs. Most are color. A few singed; and a few were taken out of the developer too early. They're stored in chemicals and electricity. I carry them in my head.
It was in Pensacola. The early 1980s. I think I was on an east-west road turning left onto North 9th, or maybe North Davis. It matters which. But not for this moment.
I had my window down. I often couldn't get the window to stay up. I drove a Chevy Chevette. The Bic Disposible of cars.
He leaned into my window. His face obscures my left peripheral vision. He wants to inquire about my relationship with Jesus. He's talking nonsense, or scripture. I don't remember the words.
I remember looking to my right. There's an old building. Not well kept. A business. Probably closed.
Spray painted on the wall is a peace sign following a name:
John Lennon
I told the man John Lennon was Jesus. The light turns green. I let go of the clutch. Jerk. He pulls back.
I drive away.
Later, I took a photo of that graffiti. I used a Canon AE-1 Program. I misplaced the photo.
That was 25 years ago.
