The truck, in municipal lot 10J, where I park every weekday morning, had an interesting sardine can motif, which you can see in the top picture here.
Unlike the denizens of the Jersey City hangout, the man who was questioning me was not at all menacing, but he did have that no-nonsense tone I’ve come to recognize.
Over the years, I’ve found that the easiest way to defuse these situations is to try to explain, as honestly and simply as possible, why I am taking pictures of the thing they own or are responsible for protecting.
The basic reason is that there’s something I like about it.
They look at the thing I’m taking pictures of, then back at me like I’m BS’ing them or am crazy.
When I explain that it has to do with some quality of light, color, form or the juxtaposition of things creating a kind of unexpected beauty, the matter is settled.
Some are intrigued. Others are merely satisfied that, while I may be cuckoo, I’m not a government inspector, an industrial spy or a scout for a terrorist cell.
If they’re still in doubt–and policemen fall heavily into this category–I hand them one of my photo postcards, if I have one on me, They examine it very closely, then hand it back, like a passport. When I say, "You can keep it," most do.
For a year or two after 9/11, these situations were particularly difficult. For awhile I had to stop taking pictures of certain things. Mainly indusrial sites.
I got tired of having my driver’s license and registration run while I sat in my car for an eternity with my rear view mirror full of red and blue flashing lights.
On October 3, 2002, I was boarding a plane in L.A. when for some reason there was a delay and everyone was stuck standing in the jetway. I was near the front.
I started gazing at the levers on the control panel of the jetway. Above the panel was a window up against which the folded-back door of the airplane was framed like a kind of formalist painting.
So I took a picture of it. (Which I managed to find in the recesses of my hard drive. I haven’t looked at it in years, but here it is, above.) Then the line started moving and we took our seats. Minutes passed. I was happily reading a book when I heard a female voice say, "Excuse me, Mister Levin?"
It was one of the flight attendants. I looked up at her and nodded.
"Would you be kind enough to come with me, please?"
Maybe I’m in the wrong seat, I thought. I stuffed my book in my backpack and followed her up the aisle.
To my surprise she led me right out of coach and into first class. But then she kept going, and turned to make sure I was following her.
She led me out to the mouth of the jetway, where two very official looking men were waiting to talk to me. She went back into the airplane.
They got right to the point.
"People said you were taking pictures of the airplane," one of them said.
"Well, not of the airplane…"
"Who gave you permission to take pictures?" the man asked.
"Well, nobody. I didn’t know you needed permission."
He then informed me of various FAA regulations regarding airport security and property, and asked me what exactly I was taking pictures of.
When he got the answer, he asked why I was taking the pictures.
In 2002, I had not yet printed any postcards. But I had just switched to digital, so I showed him the picture I had taken, and that, along with the usual explanations, eventually got me back on the plane, though people stared at me as I walked down the aisle.
So again the Morristown tale has been derailed by a digression.
I promise to finish tomorrow. Promise!