Ralph Byrd

At a gas station

in Long Beach,

he was filling up the tank

of his old wine-dark Caballero.

When I asked to take his portrait,

he was very suspicious, and suggested

I would use his photo and put it on

a false I.D. Then he asked to see my

driver's license, which I promptly

showed him, and assured him

I wouldn't use his photo in that fashion. He said, "I guess I would need to

trust you then."

 

I said, yes, it would require some measure of trust.

 

He then asked what kind of car

I was driving, and I pointed to my

green-blue Volvo parked nearby.

He smiled and said, "Anyone who

drives a Volvo is someone I can

trust." I laughed, and aimed my

camera.

 

"What do you want me to do?" he asked, his eyes unfortunately

cloaked in the shadow from his

cap. I said, "Just look at me,

and smile, if you want to." He did.

Then he told me his name,

and spelled it for me, to make sure

I got it right. And I did.

 

When I got in my car,

my radio tuned into NPR,

the very first thing I heard

was a news report about

the widespread occurence

of identity theft in America.

I reflected on Ralph's consternation

about this very issue, and about

the dark irony of so many people

worrying, with good reason, about identity theft, in such

close, even intimate, proximity

to people like Herb, pictured herein,

and Stu, both of whom were homeless

just yards from Ralph's concern,

and who sadly

have no real identity to steal.

Done