by dm gillis
It’s just me and Spencer, alone in an alley on the Downtown Eastside. He’s struggling with the Brillo in his crack pipe.
“Just hang on man,” he says—“I just scored. I’m really jonesing.”
He’s been sleeping on benches, shoplifting and begging. He’s filthy, a stunning ruin of a man. Finally he lights the tiny nugget in the glass tube and inhales. Then he shudders, exhales and says, “Ahhh fuck me.”
I’ve come to take his portrait so he can send it home, but now he’s wrecked. His eyes’ve gone reptile, and he’s confused by gravity. It’s not the picture his family will want to see.
“Damn you’re a mess, Spence,” I say, and he grins at me with his blistered crack-lips.
“Go ahead then. Take my fucking picture.”
And bam, I do. Sometimes I think the D-300 sounds like a gun going off. Bam bam bam…. Holding down the shutter release, circling him. It’s evening and the light is runny, the colours blunt. Every line on his face is accentuated, every deep hungry hollow, every childhood abuse stitched into his psyche.
“Last I got my picture taken, it was the cops,” he laughs. But his buzz is changing, even now. He lights up again, inhales/exhales and says, “I’m running out already. Lend me some cash.”
“I’ll buy you dinner at the Ovaltine, but I won’t lend you money.”
“Shit, I don’t want no dinner. I can get dinner at the mission.” Then he says, “Check this out…,” and attempts a pirouette. He falls on his ass, and I catch the fall in six shots, like the frames of a motion picture. I’m not cruel; I’m just a photographer. I offer him my hand. He ignores it.
Now sitting in the gutter sludge, Spencer says, “My old man fucked me, you know?”
“Yeah, Spence. You told me.”
“Like I was a bitch. Tore me open every time. Stopped when I was about fourteen. Guess I wasn’t pretty no more. Kept beating the crap outta me, though. The prick had a heart attack a couple of years back, died. Shit his pants when he did, my brother says. My mother’s fifty-five. Looks ninety.”
“Pictures are for her, huh?” I say.
“It was hard for her. ”
I’m silent for a moment. Crows are massing overhead for their night-flight back into the suburbs.
“I’ll work on the pics tonight,” I say, “colour and black & white. I’ll track you down tomorrow. We can use a computer at Carnegie to send them home. Try to make that shit in your pocket last.”
“I don’t know where I’ll be tomorrow.”
“I’ll look for you, anyway.”
“No,” he says, handing me a grubby note, “I mean I really don’t know.”
He’s already walking away as I read what’s written on the slip of paper—
Please send these words with the pictures: All my love too family and friends. Good-bye. This is followed by a short list of email addresses.
I shout at him, “What’s this mean, Spencer?” Then I run after him, grab his shoulder and turn him around. “What’s this mean?” And I know what it means just by what’s on his face. I let him go. I’m just a photographer.