I’m pretty sure the caption says, “W.W. ‘Willy’ Boyd, photographed in front of his blacksmith shop on Main Street.” The year is too blurry to decipher, sorry.

Dear Mr. Boyd:

You were the highlight of my stop at the Breckenridge Welcome Center in May. The building was about to close and I was grateful for a chance to walk through and glance at some of the history displays. I wish that I knew your story. Your menacing scowl caught my attention and, to this day, all I have are questions:

May I call you “Cleophus”? I know it’s not your name, but you look like a Cleophus.

Are your grieving? Are you hurt? What’s with the face?

How many teeth do you have?

Are you single? I’m asking for a friend.

You’ve killed people, haven’t you?

What’s 7 x 9?

Do you have a problem with the person taking your picture?

What’s the worst epithet that you’ve heard about someone who looks like me?

Who’s the dude in the hat? I’m asking for a second friend.

What’s the least appetizing thing that you’ve had to eat?

Can you coach me on my scowl? I look constipated.

20150514_Me & Cleophus

How can I convince my generation that smiling in photographs is overrated?

Do you need a friend? I’m a great listener.

How old is the oldest person that you know?

If your cardboard cutout were to spring to life right now and you saw me standing next to you, would my life be in danger?

Are you afraid that the camera is going to steal your soul?

Are those couture suspenders?

Please visit me in a dream and give me the answers that I so desperately desire. I’m headed to sleep now & I anxiously await your arrival. Thanks, Cleophus!



5 thoughts on “Cleophus

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