The photograph was taken on a sweltering August afternoon in Dyess, Arkansas; hometown of Johnny Cash. My son Pete and I were there for the dedication of his newly restored boyhood home. As the ceremonies wore on, Pete took refuge on the shady steps of the town’s long abandoned movie house. Days later when I looked at this photograph, the implication of the image began to present itself.

I’ve been enamored with the monster of Victor Frankenstein since childhood. I was fascinated with the movies to a point where the monster’s lumbering footsteps haunted many of my earliest dreams. Now here he is peering down at my good boy, my young man; but where others might see menace, I see only empathy. Pete is autistic, which for the uninitiated, automatically makes him a uniquely magnificent and divine creation of God. I see the two as compatriots, equipped with black and white brains, trying their best to negotiate the punishing muddy greys of the world around them. Neither is sufficiently armored for the task but still they persevere and occasionally human kindness comes their way, in Pete’s case more often than not. The photograph reminds me that when the pitchforks are raised and the torches are lit, I tend to favor the monster over the mob. The monster is almost always the more attractive.