I imagine the old guy down the street who I only meet one day because I ran my car out of gas in front of his house. I knock on the door, he answers, I explain how my gas gauge don't work and I forgot to reset the trip meter. He chuckles, invites me in while he slips on some shoes so he can venture out to the garage to fetch a fuel can for me to borrow.
In a far corner of the room there is a five foot high glass and mahogany curio case. Dusty on top and bearing the scars of many a battle with the vacuum cleaner on the short, stubby legs it nearly disappears into the room. But something catches my eye. Around the corner of a pile of year old mixture of newspapers and magazines I spot a silver vertical stabilizer. Now I'm really looking. Right there! Prop tips! Painted yellow!
Chuckles returns from his trip into some other room of the house I'll assume was the kitchen with his slippers in hand mumbling something about having chicken again, takes up position on the sofa and grunts mildly as he tries to pull his two size to small slippers on his wool socked size elevens with one hand while reaching around his portly midsection. Out of my piqued curiosity, and just as what I assume is the missus enters the room, I ask him if he's a model builder. This results in a snort form the lady and a groan from Chuckles. As Snorts leaves the room through the door that goes who knows where Chuckles confirms that, yes, he sometimes throws a kit or two together, despite the nagging of the wife. Tells him he should stop playing with toys and smelling up the house. He's 68 years old for crying out loud! He gives me a wink and invites me to see what he calls his meager collection of the only piece and quiet he gets. Tells me the wife seems to disappear when he's modeling so he breaks out a kit every chance he gets no matter if he works on it or not. Sometimes sitting for hours watching the TV and never touching the kit, the kit supposedly assures him serenity for the duration of it's visit to the desk in the den.
Inside the case is a maze of finished kits. Mostly warbirds, two helos, a couple of cars (I really like the 66 Ford Galaxie) and a couple of figures. The work is simply amazing. The old Duck looks like it just landed. The float is wet, there is salt and water stains. Support wires are razor thin. One can almost smell the 100 low lead leaking from the center tank where an artfully applied stain serves telltale to the fact that someone ran the thing over.
There is a Mustang that looks war weary, from smudges and smears, scratches and dings, to little beer can patches applied over bullet holes. The real kicker is the tiny, muddy footprints the crewchief left as he climbed up on the wing to greet his plane and pilot back home.
The 1/72 B-24j looks like the real deal, only smaller.
A wright flyer looks like it's as old as the original.
A 1/32 spad has battle damage. The wood spars actually splinter up through the wing fabric where tiny little bullets paved thier way through. Engine oil has been blown down the sides of the fabric and wooden fuselage. One can see wood grain in the struts and prop. "Scratchbuilt Bastard" he calls it, with a slight grin.
An old looking and appropriately weathered F-86 is being loaded for a return trip to the deadly sky from which it just came. There's a guy on the ladder wiping the canopy with a huge grin on his face while pointing to another figure on the ground below who is giving him the finger. A tiny 1/72 scale finger.
An old looking bust I can't identify looks out of the case at me and I nearly want to move from it's line of sight. His face is dirty, weathered from years of horse back riding or sailing or whatever it is that he does. His long dirty hair looks real, matted, dirty. The leather armor is cracked and weathered, curled on the corners. A bow across his back is not strung, the bow string hanging free appears to be blowing in some sort of unheard wind. The arrows are fletched with what I swear looks like real feathers. Very tiny, real feathers. But not real feathers. Are they? His eyes are remarkable. They feel. They see. They are blue. Or Gray? And watering slightly. Even though I move around to take in the masterful work I still feel as if those eyes are following me.
I step back form the case and admire the whole scene while congratulating him on his fantastic work. He makes light of the praise but his face reddens with pride slightly as he scoots a couple of pieces around, adjusts the Mustang so it lines up properly with the Spitfire. As the case door clicks shut he begins a story that comes from his childhood and relates to how and when he started building, talks of his father in WWII and Korea. Mentions brushes and paint cans, old incomplete ship models and pink and purple corsairs doing imaginary bomb runs on tiger striped willys jeeps and jade green Ford Fairlanes with brush marks that would make an oil and canvas painter proud. Tells how it's always been a love of the hobby for him and how he gives most of his work away to his grand children and great grand children.
In the little doorway where a small, weathered gray, wooden, no window door stood until a moment ago he hands me a fuel can and tells me to keep it as long as I need it. His son cuts the grass and usually brings his own mower and fuel. I thank him for the can, promise to return it in an hour and once again thank him for giving me the tour of his curio case.
Can't imagine this imaginary guy ever having made a dime for his work with models. To him, it seems like it would be an insult to suggest he'd take money for his work and he'd sooner turn it down and do it for free just for the asking. It could well be that nobody ever sees his work, apart from the reluctant wife or the gray and brown mottled, far to skinny cat that seemed to not notice the stranger in the room, much less care.
But to me, he'd be a pro.