I ask him what he's gonna do with all his rigs. He asks if I need 'em for props. Yeah. I do. I need to shoot some rigs and I haven't had any laying around the apartment in a long time. 10 years.
I expect he's gonna bring over a handful. Instead, he brings over a tupperwear dish with maybe 50 or more.
The next morning he sticks his head in my apartment. There was a clean rig in that batch. Can he get it back?
They ran into an old high school friend the other day. Her boyfriend is a dealer. She offered her number but they didn't take it. They know where to find her, though. Walking distance. They head out on foot, find the chick, cop and are back in no more than 15 minutes.
Sometimes I wonder how a nice boy from a good family like me ended up living the life I've lived...and still live, I guess, because even with 10 years clean it remains all around me. Shooting pictures of junkies is not a walk on the wild side for me, not a descent into a murky darkness I feel compelled to explore but merely a step out the front door. It seems this shit is always gonna be a part of my life, and I suppose that makes perfect sense, really, since it is part of how I got from there to here.
Occasionally someone suggests that I should try to notice all the nice stuff around me, because, they tell me, it's there. And it is. But for some reason I'm more interested in pointing out the things that surround us all but most of us remain unaware of. I assure you there's a junkie in your midst. There's probably a homosexual or two. Someone on the corner will sell you crack. I don't care where you are. That girl-next-door porn fantasy? She might really be next door. Whether all this is good or bad is a matter of opinion, and that opinion doesn't change the fact that it is. Period.
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