That "Drifter" Look, Pt. 1

When I'm not filming Skip moseying down the road or scouting locations to shoot, I spend most of my days in coffeehouses, sending press releases to newspapers and member stations, trying to acquire sponsors, drafting interview questions, looking at schools in particular areas, writing, and trying to find places to sleep that particular night. All Skip has to do is walk.

Every now and then I also have things to take care of in my personal life. Yesterday, for example, I needed to have my picture taken for a passport renewal. I drove 30 miles ahead of Skip to Ashland, Virginia, and found a mecca of suburban sprawl along Rte. 1. In this oasis, I found a copy place (rhymes with "Pinko") that takes these pictures for passports, at minimal cost. Let me remind everyone: I am a gypsy; I live out of my car. That being said, I still try to make myself look as presentable as I can when greeting my public. I put on a green flannel shirt, with a hole or two, over my drab olive army t-shirt and buttoned it up. I ran my fingers through my greasy, curly locks and I walked in.

I could not have had a less affable employee. On top of that, he looked foreign. I smiled, asked him if I was in the right place, and without saying anything he grabbed a camera from under the desk and walked over to a wall behind me, where he pulled down a white projector screen and motioned for me to step in front of it. Now I'm thinking, Well, it is around lunch time, he might just be hungry. I'll crack a joke to make him laugh. So I say, "How do I look? I don't want to look like a terrorist," and I smile. He looks at me from behind the camera, and he looks pissed. I look down at his name tag: Hamid. Whoops.

Later, I thought I had found a place to stay the night on the outskirts of Ashland at a Pentecostal camp. I drove into the camp, past the sacrificial altar (I'm guessing, I know relatively little about their cult), and the mess hall, to the reception building. I nod to a gentleman reading a small black Bible on a bench outside and I walk in. I told the elderly receptionist, a gentleman who introduced himself as "Brother Ned," who I was, whom I represented, and that we were both hoping for lodging for the night. He looked over his spectacles and asked me if I was a Christian. I lied and said yes.
"And your friend, is he Christian as well?" he asked.
Again, I lied. If he had asked me to recite a prayer, I would have had no choice put to recite "Ezekiel 25:17" from Pulp Fiction. It was a good thing that the camp was too far out of the way for Skip, because I have a feeling they would have shaved our testicles in our sleep had we stayed.