The book with buzz this summer on Vinalhaven is not the latest Tom Wolfe novel. It is, rather, Away Happens, a collection of humorous essays about life on a small Maine island (namely, Vinalhaven). Phil Crossman is the local author. The book has a catchy cover, with a photograph revealing a gentleman waving somewhat wistfully to the ferry as it steams past, headed to the mainland. Seen from behind, a valise in tow, he wears only a cap and life vest. This minimalist artwork is full of innuendo. Does it symbolize someone who has literally “missed the boat”? Some of the scenic view, for better or worse, is obscured by a promotional blurb. Like any good censorship, it offers that much more to speculate and fantasize about. Someone could understandably spend time thinking about that bleeped-out anatomy, wondering whose it is.
Determined to uncover the truth on behalf of curious readers, I set out to the island’s literary epicenter, the library. I began with the obvious question, “Is that Phil on his book?”
“Oh, no,” I was told. The name given was unfamiliar. For living in a place where you feel you ought to know just about everybody, that was a surprise.
“Well,” I asked, “how would I know him?”
“Hmm,” came the thoughtful response. “He has a really big truck.” I paused, trying to add in that new information.
“Oh, is that what you ladies on Vinalhaven call it?” I asked. Lucky for me, this bad joke of mine got a laugh, followed up with an emphatic, “He really does drive a very big truck.” It began to appear that this story could be a complex one. What else might I expose in my investigation?
The cover photograph is creative, I thought, so my next step would be to go to the epicenter of the art world on Vinalhaven, the New Era Gallery owned and run by Phil’s wife, Elaine. I told her, “Now I know it’s not Phil on the cover. But do most people think it’s him? And more importantly, does he want people to?” She smiled, explaining that the original shot was on a custom-made birthday card for her from friends, one the model and the other the photographer. Phil liked it so much he later envisioned having place mats printed with the picture. That, mind you, would have been with the unexpurgated version. So when the book came together last year and needed an illustration, Phil thought again of that picture. He asked their friends for a new rendition, this time specifically for the book. And Phil didn’t seem to mind, Elaine admitted, if folks wanted to think it was he.
To find anybody on Vinalhaven, just wait down street and they’ll appear. Sure enough, Phil did. I told him about my assignment and what my research had revealed so far. He replied, “How can you be sure it’s not me?” Well, he had me there; I hadn’t even considered the possibility of that aspect of an investigation. I tell Phil my next step is to canvass a statistical sample on the island and assess how many people assume it’s him on the cover. My first opportunity is the Garden Club open house I’ve been invited to. It’s on a hot, sunny Sunday afternoon in late June. I station myself next to the sangria, the busiest place on the porch. I’m trying to phrase the question delicately; this is a genteel group who may not want to admit they’ve noticed the cover, let alone thought about it. But, in upholding the eminence of the arts on Vinalhaven, they concede familiarity with the book. Half my sample says it is probably Phil. The other half knows exactly who it is. Not only his name is proffered again, but more
details. It is inspiring. The Garden Club membership clearly appreciates many forms of the island’s natural beauty.
What the reader of this article needs to know is that the cover boy’s true identity will not be revealed here. He dubs himself, in this persona, “The Bun Man.” Not that he’s averse to being uncovered by me, so to speak. When I describe the path my research took, he thinks it’s funny Phil might insinuate ownership of the cover image. I ask him, “Is there a whole collection featuring you in this genre?” I’m picturing, like Phil with the place mats, that there could be T-shirts, a calendar, postcards, or a series of note cards with this motif.
The Bun Man doesn’t deny there have been a few experiments. One was a photo of him sprawled on a Vinalhaven back road in the snow with a suitcase’s contents scattered, suggesting he had just been struck by his oversized truck, both of whose rears the viewer is left staring at. The other picture was of him standing by the island’s ferry ramp, seemingly the sole passenger on a cold winter day. (This was, it turns out, on Christmas, a day no boats run). He is wearing a hat, mittens, and boots — but nothing else. From behind, the view is of him waiting patiently, where the sign says, “Have your ticket ready.”
The Bun Man clearly has a sense of humor, an appreciation for incongruity and irony. It seems this playfulness is good, clean fun. He agrees; he wouldn’t want his efforts misread as perverse, dark, or even exhibitionistic. There’s actually one more photo, he tells me. It’s of him at the summit of Mount Washington, but he says his buns are too pale in it. I say sympathetically that maybe the snow was just reflecting, intensifying a whiteness not wholly his. But he has his standards and that picture is, he says, not one he’s proud of.
The Bun Man’s exposure extends now to bumper stickers as well as the book cover. I tell the Bun Man that it seems to me he has earned a share of Phil’s 15 minutes. But the Bun Man has rejected his claim to fame, modestly choosing anonymity and privacy. There is only so much he’ll reveal about himself. He may never be credited with artistic accomplishment on Vinalhaven, the way Phil Crossman surely is. Knowing he is helping promote great literature — what more could a guy ask for? — I remind the Bun Man this article could spread his fame, given the paper’s wide readership. He is pleased. “Tell them the Bun Man could be coming soon, to the town where they live!” he asserts.
Tina Cohen writes from Old Harbor, Vinalhaven.