The Man in the Old Truck

Sometimes we leave a place with more than a photograph.

The upside down image on the ground glass was almost composed. A slow and methodical process. The picture would be of a mighty oak looming over a small graveyard in a field. The leaves of the oak would be a stunning white over the cemetery beneath. I would be using Ilford SFX 200 film with the R72 filter to get that strong infrared effect. I was set up on the shoulder of a rural road, trying to work out whether I would use tilt or rise and, if so, how much of each.

I had to park several hundred yards away from the spot where I was standing behind my camera. The shoulder was very narrow and unsafe to park on. I walked here along the edge of the road with my tripod and a backpack containing my 6x17 panoramic view camera, lenses, and gear. It was a nice morning. I was taking my time and enjoying the process.

From under the dark cloth I heard the rumble of an engine. Then silence. A door opened, then slammed shut. I withdrew from beneath the dark cloth and squinted as my eyes adjusted again to the bright morning light. A visibly angry man was out of his old truck and walking down the shoulder of the road towards me. Behind him, his pickup was partly on the shoulder but still mostly in the road, parked at a hasty angle.

“What the [expletive deleted] are you doing?” he yelled as he walked up to me.

I stared at him. It was a rhetorical question. It was obvious what I was doing. I responded to him anyway. “I’m taking a photograph of that.” I pointed across the ditch at the field, the big oak and the cemetery.

“No you can’t!”

I was trying to process this. I thought if I could figure out who he was and why he was having an issue with me being there I could better deal with the situation and maybe diffuse it. I asked some questions. He ignored them.

“Well sir, yes I can, I’m on public property, and I am doing nothing wrong. I’m just here to take photos for my personal use, then I will leave.” I didn’t go on to explain that this was part of a project showing how small cemeteries like the one in the field in front of us were being swallowed up and hidden by urban sprawl.

“No the [expletive deleted] you won’t, you can’t take pictures of private property. You need to get the [expletive deleted] out of here!” he yelled.

This was reminding me of when I was eleven years old. There was a bully who was out to get me. He would sit on his porch and come out leering and yelling at me when I rode my bicycle down his street. He threatened me a few times. One time he threw a rock.

“Sir, yes I can, I said. Anybody can. Have you ever seen Google Street View?” I asked as I pointed at the smartphone in his hand. “This road and everything around it gets photographed all the time. Anybody can look it up and see it. Anybody can stand next to this road or ride by in their car and snap all the photos they want. Plus,” I added and pointed at the ground, “this is the public right of way I’m standing on.”

“I don’t care about any damn Google!” His voice was shaking. “You need to get the [expletive deleted] out of here. Now!” Then he added, “If I didn’t have a heart condition, I’d fight you!”

I had to unpack this. He was telling me that if he felt like it and his heart wouldn’t stop in the process, he would try to kick my ass.

“Sir, you couldn’t win a fight with me on your best day ever.” I blurted out.

He was livid. His face was turning very red.

I could tell by his body language that this was getting out of control. I reached for my phone. It wasn’t in my pocket. Not good at all. I had left it in my car.

He was still holding his phone. I asked him to calm down and suggested he call 911 so we could get a Deputy Sheriff here to sort this out.

“I will!” he shrieked, and he looked at his phone.

But he didn’t call 911. He knew exactly what the Deputy Sheriff would say. He did not want to hear it, just like he did not want to listen to me.

Instead, he said he was calling his son. He was fumbling with his phone, hands shaking. He was not finished trying to ruin my day. He was going to get junior to come help him since he knew law enforcement wouldn’t. It was clear to him that I had no way to call anyone for help and my transportation was up the road.

I said nothing. Looking past him I noticed, for the first time, a rectangular green sign across the road that read: “This Area Observed by Community Watch Citizens.” They are doing a bit more than observing around here, I thought.

Up to this point the scene might have been out of the funny part of a Coen brothers movie. You know what I mean: the funny part right before something violent happens.

I couldn’t expect junior to be any more reasonable than his father. There was no way my head was going back under the dark cloth even if I somehow convinced this man that he was wrong in trying to stop me or if I decided to ignore him and take the photograph. While watching him, I took the dark cloth off the back of the camera and stuffed it into my backpack. I left the camera on the tripod. I put the backpack on and lifted the tripod and camera to my shoulder. I figured I should try get to my car and my phone before junior showed up.

He cursed at me as I passed. Then added, “You better erase the pictures you took!”

I said nothing to that, and walked on.

Behind me I heard him open the door to his old truck. Then it slammed shut with a rattle of glass and the sound of metal striking metal. The engine fired up and revved. He was coming up behind me. I moved away from the edge of the road down towards the ditch, ready to hop across.

He was staring at me intently as he drove past. He had his phone to his ear.

I watched him go up the road. It was over. He was gone.

Then he stopped.

He pulled off the road behind where I had parked at the intersection. Was he blocking me in? I couldn’t remember if there was anything in front of me when I parked. He didn’t get out. He just sat there. I paused for a moment to consider my options and then started walking again.

Two hundred yards to go.

I was wondering if the man had a firearm in his truck. Probably. Getting shot was not part of my plan for the day. I was there to take a photograph of a graveyard, not end up in one. But I really didn’t think this would end with a gunshot. It would just be an effort by the man and his son to teach me some kind of painful lesson.

One hundred yards to go.

I kept walking. I watched him. He waited. I really did not want to walk past his truck and turn my back on him again. He was probably still on the phone with junior, telling him some lie to get him to drive here and fight me and that he better hurry the [expletive deleted] up. Maybe junior was at home in his pajamas wondering what his old man was raving about this time, a cup of coffee in one hand and his phone in the other. Maybe junior was almost here, his dad on speakerphone winding him up, the steering wheel in one hand and a baseball bat clenched in the other.

Fifty yards to go.

He waited. As I got closer I could see him leering at me in his rear view mirrors.

Twenty-five yards to go.

He turned around in the seat and looked at me through the rear window for a few seconds. He then turned away.

The engine revved. Dust and dirt flew. The sound of a short chirp as one of the spinning rear wheels hit the asphalt. He then accelerated across the intersection, ignoring the stop sign. Then the man and his old truck were gone from sight.

I walked on to where I had parked and collected my thoughts. I didn’t think the man was coming back and I didn’t expect to ever see junior either.

My phone was on the seat where I had left it. I started to take the camera off of the tripod.

I looked back down the road, considering a walk back to make the photograph.

In the end, I decided to leave with the story the man in the old truck had given me.

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How do you navigate the line between your right to be in a place with a camera and a person’s negative response to your presence? Do you assert your rights and push back, or walk away?

I had another one of these experiences just yesterday. It was, in a word, surreal. I was again on public property. This time I was in a small town in eastern North Carolina. Again, I was minding my own business when a different man pulled up and started yelling at me. It was over much quicker and involved a lot less walking than the story above.

Thanks for reading. See you next time when the plan is to turn back to the topic of using the handheld light meter for creative photography. I have a lot to say about it. It will be delivered to your inbox over several installments, with perhaps a few detours like this one along the way.