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but that one, he was all business. That was just two years ago, but I noticed the other day that the green briars are already taking back the playground. The swing sets were already knocked over. It’s no wonder poor people get a bad name.
    The man coughs and I snap out of it. “Sorry,” I say. “Did you want gas?”
    Just then the woman squeals at her husband. “My God, Arthur, a chicken just walked into that house over there!” She’s pointing at Whitey Ford’s place right across the road from the store. Ever since his wife died back in the spring, the old man has kept his front door open, even at night. Animals and insects congregate there like fat people at a free dinner. Some people claim he’s gone off the deep end, but Whitey says he likes the company. Hell, I can surely understand that. The woman takes a couple of steps forward, shoots some more pictures of the stray dogs curled on the front porch.
    The man looks at me and grins. “She’s a city girl.”
    I glance back at the store, wonder what Jake is up to inside. “Look, I got things to do,” I tell the man. “Anything you need?”
    The man says, “Yeah, anyplace we can get something to eat around here?”
    “Well, not really. I got lunch meat and cheese. I could fix you-all a sandwich, if that’s what you mean.”
    The man looks down at my dirty hands, and then glances at the store. “What about that bar you mentioned?”
    I shake my head. “Hap don’t serve no food. Besides, I don’t think you’d want to take your wife in there.” Just then the door squeaks opens and Jake tries to sneak out past us, his head hanging down like a whipped dog’s. The woman wheels around at the sound and snaps his picture faster than a pheasant hunter getting off a shot.
    Then she says to Jake in a loud voice, “Excuse me?” He hurries along, his face turned away from us. I wonder if I should stop her. He’ll shit his pants if the woman keeps it up. “Excuse me,” she says again, louder this time. Jake’s practically going at a run by now. She motions to me and points. “That man,” she says excitedly. “Could you ask him if I could take his photograph before he gets away?”
    “I don’t know, lady,” I say. “Jake’s kinda funny.”
    “Just one,” she says. “He’d be perfect.”
    I toss the rag toward the door and yell for Jake. He freezes in his tracks at the edge of the store lot. I jog across the gravel and say to him in a low voice, “That lady wants to take your picture.”
    He looks at me with fear in his eyes, and then shoots a quick glance back at the California people. “I didn’t do nothing,” he says. His voice is shaky. Tobacco juice has stained his gray chin whiskers brown.
    I see the round bulge of something in his pocket, and I figure he’s probably got me for another can of pork and beans. “I know that,” I say. “It’s just what she does, Jake. She takes pictures of people.”
    He shakes his head. “I don’t like that, Hank,” he says. Then he starts off again. It’s the first time in all these years I’ve ever heard him say my name.
    I walk back over to the woman. By the look on her face, I can tell she’s disappointed. “I didn’t figure he’d do it,” I say.
    She shrugs, takes a photo of Jake’s backside, and then turns to me. “What about you?” she asks. “Just a couple of pictures underneath that sign?” She steps a little closer and I get a faint whiff of her perfume. A trickle of sweat runs down her neck, and disappears beneath her silky blouse.
    I look up and down the road, but I don’t see any cars coming. The holler’s dead, everything in it hypnotized by the noonday heat. “I don’t know,” I say. “I ain’t much for pictures either.” The last time I had one taken was in high school, right before the old man died. We drove into Meade on a Saturday, and he bought me a white shirt and one of those little clip-on ties at Elberfelds. All the way home he kept teasing me about looking