I'm in Cherokee, Oklahoma, today. I have a few hours before meeting with the circus sponsor, and will use the time to regale you with a strange tale from Arkansas City, Arkansas, where I spent the past weekend.
Just as the rosy fingers of dawn tickled the landscape on Saturday I jumped eagerly into my Ford Taurus station wagon to drive around looking for photo ops. As many of you know, I've developed an avid, probably unhealthy, interest in photographing the country as I travel through it. What would this dusty town in the midst of the sun-baked prairie show me that I could add to my album? Downtown was deserted at this hour; not even a tumble weed blowing by. There were several murals that tantalized me, so I grabbed my trusty Kodak and snapped away. Then went back to the motel in time to get the last hard-boiled egg and stale muffin at their free continental breakfast. I know the history books say otherwise, but I think the old saying 'not worth a continental' comes from these meagre meals.
Anywho. After I'd finished flossing the pill bugs out of my teeth I set off for Walmart to have my digital photos developed. At first all went well; there was no line waiting at the developing machine and my pictures were done in a trice. Turned out pretty nice, too. That early morning sun always does the trick. So I took my photos to the photo clerk to ring me up. She was a middle-aged woman, gaining weight and losing momentum, with long gray hair done up in a bun that threatened to unravel at any moment. She peered at my photos over the lip of her glasses with a disapproving grimace, reminding me of the librarians I had to deal with in days of yore as a child.
"Sir" she asked mildly, "are these pictures of our downtown murals?"
"Certainly" I replied heartily. "Fine artwork, some of em'."
"I can't let you have these back."
If life on the road teaches you anything, it teaches you that the ridiculous is always right around the corner, with no lights or turn signal on. So I merely stared at her, mute, waiting for the inevitable nonsense. She obliged.
"The law clearly states that you cannot take photographic images of signed artwork unless you have the written permission of the artist." She said it as if memorized by rote from a handbook. I suspected this was not the first time she'd said it, either.
"But my dear woman" I remonstrated, going into Ronald Colman gear, "surely those lovely murals are for the general public to enjoy and take back home as photographic memories for their albums. I have no intention of using those pictures for anything but a reminder of my visit here."
"No, I'm sorry. I'll have to confiscate them."
At this point I was ready to shout: "Okay, lady, but I still got 'em on my SD card and I can make copies anywhere else I damn well please -- so there, nyaaah!" However, I wanted to see just how far I could take this photo farce. So I asked to speak to the manager.
A tubby fellow wearing black sneakers and an insincere necktie bellied up to the bar in a few minutes, inevitably asking "What seems to be the trouble?"
I explained the idiocy to him. He feigned deep thought, rubbing his double chins until I thought the friction would set them on fire. He then went to the back of the photo center to thumb through a spiral notebook that undoubtedly contained the Walmart Prime Directive. I had to beat back a wild impulse to grab my contraband photos and make a mad dash for it, with all the attending hubbub and police cars chasing after me ala Dukes of Hazard.
"Well . . ." he drawled, "I'm probably breaking the law here but you go ahead and take them. Just leave me your name and a phone number where you can be reached." And don't leave town, I thought he was going to add. So I gave him a fake name and phone number and crept out of the store, slinking to my car, eyes darting hither and yon, like a registered sex offender near a playground.
I admit I'm a tad nervous right now. What if that manager found out it was illegal to take those pictures? What if he tried to call me, found out he'd been duped, and has now contacted federal authorities? I could be on America's Most Wanted any week now! Better lay low for a while. Maybe Mugsy and the gang will take me in. If I don't make it back to Minneapolis, tell my children I love them . . . . . . .
A new home for Mom, no cleanup required. All starts here.
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