It was early on a spring day on Skid Row, in Los Angeles, a city with almost 90,000 homeless residents. There I was, walking among what seemed like thousands of homeless people just awakening from their sleep on filthy blankets and soiled pillows on the hard concrete streets. Some were lining up for their free breakfast, others just smoking or using the street as their bathroom. It was a sore sight of humanity.
This was my first foray on the Row, and admittedly, I was a bit apprehensive. It has a reputation as a harsh, drug-infected scene, with rough and many times desperate residents. However, I was determined to shoot some images that aptly illustrated this description. While I was finishing a shoot, Kaceen approached me. I was immediately intrigued by his strikingly handsome face, almost model perfect. His demeanor exuded life, and his face was aglow. We spoke, and I immediately felt comfortable. We walked, talked and clicked. About the only thing we had in common was that we were from the East Coast. In a short time, I found him to be a fascinating personality, and quickly, he became my guide and ambassador on Skid Row.
We spoke about his life. Only 40 years old, he has been living on the street for more than a decade and has been an active heroin addict for almost 27 years. During these years, he has spent a great deal of time in jail for stealing and dealing. His habit costs about $60.00 per day, and shooting up is his only purpose in life. How did he become an addict at such a young age, and how does he survive day to day, living in eight-hour blocks until his next fix?
Kaceen’s name was chosen by Leroy James, an activist, poet and close family friend. The origin of his name denotes joyful and spirited, which perfectly describes Kaceen and his larger than life personality. With his charm and persona, what went wrong? As a young boy with a large frame, he tended to gain weight easily, and by the time he reached 14 years of age, he weighed 285 pounds. He was extremely self-conscience and very unhappy so he looked for ways to lose weight quickly. That is when he decided to try Primo (cocaine), which was readily available where he lived in New Jersey. The habit was expensive, so to support it he and a friend, Roger, became pool hustlers and drug dealers. Kaceen sold the cocaine, and Roger the heroin.
Kaceen used whatever was accessible to sniff his cocaine: dollar bills, straws, matchbooks, credit cards. Cocaine was his drug of choice until one cold rainy day, Roger introduced him to heroin. The very first time he used it, he felt it was a match made in heaven. Awful as it seems, it was love at first sight at the tender age of 14.
He said there were some happy and normal times as a youngster. When he spoke about singing with a gospel group, the New Creation, which sang a few times at the Apollo Theater in Harlem, he recalls some pleasant memories. However, those events were rare. Eventually, the drugs were the only thing that gave him pleasure and purpose for existing.
Kaceen and I continued to talk through lunch, and then I realized that his mood was changing. The time for his next fix was fast approaching, and if he started to withdraw, the pain would overtake his body, and he would have flu-like symptoms. As we rushed back to Skid Row, my mind was racing with hundreds of thoughts. Here I am in a car with a lifelong heroin addict whom I hardly knew and who was desperate for his next fix. With a great deal of uneasiness, I broached the thought of photographing him during his next fix. For some reason, I was intrigued by the novelty and probably the riskiness of the situation.
As we slowly walked to the end of the street, I realized we were surrounded by drug dealers, hustlers, and other strange folks who looked as if there was not an iota of integrity in their bodies. I could actually smell the insanity in the air. Kaceen started off on his own and said he would meet me across the street. Time passed, but I knew he would find his way back to me after he completed his deal. I am not sure why, but Kaceen and I had developed a synergy in the just the few hours of conversation. “You say my name correctly,” he told me, “most people don’t.” He mentioned that he felt comfortable with me, and he appreciated that I treated him like a person.
I sat on the side of the road surrounded by chaos and waited. As I sat there, I became more uncomfortable knowing it was risky sitting alone in this dangerous environment. I was definitely out of place. It was then that I saw him cross the street and approach me. He had smile on his face and was satisfied. He knew the dealer, and the stuff would be good. I asked him if he was feeling nervous with anticipation of the high to come. He answered “a little,” but was mostly happy because he felt the “shit was good stuff.”. He shoots two to three times a day, and he refers to it as “getting bent.”
We walked to an area that Kaceen knew would be private for us to shoot? Kaceen sat down on wet dirty steps on the side of an old warehouse as he prepped his needle for the cocktail his body desperately craved. I watched like a schoolboy with interest and awe as he prepared the heroin, heating and smashing the gooey dark substance in a small tin cup that looked like the container for a tea light candle. The needle looked sharp, cold and larger than life to me. It took a while to find a vein, but once he did, he plunged the pin sharp steel into his needle tracked arm with ease. He booted the syringe to push the liquid in and out between the needle and his arm. I watched as blood dripped from his skin and down his arm. Booting allowed him to get every bit of heroin from the syringe and efficiently pump the heroin into his veins. However, he only used half of what he purchased, testing it to be sure it was pure.
As he explained the process, I watch intently and waited for changes in his demeanor. Nothing happened. I took some photos, and then he was ready for the remaining portion of the heroin. The process was the same, but this time was different. I could see him slowly slipping away as he was enveloped by a trance. The weight of the world was lifted from his tired and ill body. His eyes rolling back into his head, body gently swaying back and forth, his body limp. He had entered another place; he was at peace and time stood still. Slowly he lit a cigarette and enjoyed every puff. All was well for Kaceen.
Fifteen minutes later, we were heading for Hollywood, and Kaceen had crashed in the back seat. I asked him a few questions, but he was too high to have a conversation. He sputtered some words. He was happy to have the company and tried to oblige. But, I was an intrusion into this other world. He fell asleep. When we reached Hollywood 30 minutes later, he was awake but tired. As we walked, he told me his high was gone. I thought to myself, he lives for a drug that gives him 20 minutes of a high, 30 minutes of sleep, eight hours without feeling ill, and then the craving begins all over again. What a pitiful life! But, who am I to judge another person’s existence.
As we strolled down Hollywood boulevard, our conversation commenced again, but this time I delved into questions that were more personal. What is a good day for Supreme, his street name on Skid Row? No arguing with his girl friend, a good speed ball, a hustle that comes off well, or some dude handing out fifty dollar bills, which sometimes happens on the Row. A bad day? Rain, cold weather, and worst of all, getting sick from a bad fix. There is no future nor a past. Just the present moment and thoughts about where his next meal and fix will be. No responsibilities, no rent, no place to be. Yet endless opportunities to connect with the hundreds of homeless people, some he calls friends. People who know him and accept him exactly as he is. An odd type of freedom. A slave to his habit. Maybe a victim of circumstance. But, master of his domain.
Kaceen was a natural survivor. Having lived on the streets so many years, he knows them like the back of his hand. He’s also business savvy, and getting money on the street is not a problem. His 52-year old girlfriend, a heavyset prostitute turns tricks to help pay for their habit. She has a steady clientele of businessmen and truckers. Some are clients that she had known for many years. It did not matter, as long as she was paid.
Back in the car, we discussed death, and I asked if he feared it. “Don’t know what it’s like. I’ve never been there.” But he told me he didn’t want to die. Would he like to leave the streets and find a place to live? He admitted it was a rough life, constantly on the move and being harassed by the police and other homeless. However, he gave no definitive answer about coming in. What about kicking the habit? He certainly had the means to purchase the drugs on the Row to help with withdrawal. He told me the details of how it could be done and how much it would cost. Much less than heroin. We dreamed about what a life under a roof and no heroin would be like. But, with it all, he declared, “I love heroin. I’m cool.”
It was getting late, I was tied and ready to leave. Suddenly, I felt apprehensive, even a bit panicky. Here was a heroin addict sitting in the back seat of my car with twenty thousand dollars worth of camera equipment. Strategically I dropped off Kaceen on the outskirts of Skid Row, avoiding potential conflict with Kaceen and a possible mob of homeless. My hand was in my pocket, ready for what might happen. I told him to help himself to some food in the bag next to him, and I casually reached back as if I was fixing my equipment. “Don’t worry, I won’t take your stuff” said Kaceen.
We made plans to meet again in a couple of weeks, and then I watched him disappear into the concrete jungle. I was sorry to see him go. In took several days to realize that my friend Kaceen and I shared life for about eight hours. Our conversations were deep and truthful. There is nothing phony about Kaceen; he is what he is, honest and revealing. We were just two people talking and sharing stories about life. It occurred to me that he let me in, he trusted me enough to share his most intimate moment, getting high.
A couple of weeks later, I returned to the Row and searched for his tarp. He was not there, but I put the word out on the streets asked some people to let him know I was looking for him. News travels fast on the streets and shortly, he appeared, and it was apparent he was genuinely happy to see me. I felt like it was a mini-reunion between two friends. He looked weathered and indicated he was going through withdrawals. It was difficult to see him in that state, and I was concerned for his well-being.
It was a Sunday morning, and the Row was bustling with a tense excitement. There were makeshift churches and vehicles passing through handing out food. Then a loud, rough fight broke out with people jumping in and out of the fray. Through the chaos, Kaceen and I just talked about nothing in particular.
I could see he was not feeling well, so I gave him some money. I know I should not have done that, but I did. He smiled like a school kid getting candy. As he walked across the street towards a van giving out sandwiches he said “Derek, try some of the sandwiches. they’re pretty good.” “I’ll come back and see you later,” he said, as he crossed the street, I could see a bounce in his step. He walked right past the sandwich cart, turned around one last time at me and I watched him disappear into the morass of humanity. Sadness engulfed my heart. I knew we would never meet again.
