the_original_funkytoaster
Back Alley Confessional
Randall is a 41 year old Portland native. I had the opportunity recently to have a nice long chat with Randall. In a way, he helped me out.
I was on my way from the Hawthorne fish house, heading toward the Mount Tabor pdx strobist meetup when I met Randall. Fellow PDX strobist Randy Kashka and I stopped at the 7-11 for some beverages, and low and behold, there were 2 panhandlers sitting against a yellow wall asking for change, beer, weed, cigarettes, whatever we had to give.
So, I asked these gentlemen for a photo. Did I really have a choice? One guy declined and immediately left the premises, and the other was Randall.
Popped my trunk, got out my camera, set down my keys, changed lenses, closed the trunk and started shooting. A minute later, I discovered that yes, my keys were locked in the trunk. Not the first time I’ve done something like this, and probably not the last.
Let me just say, my wife is amazing. She was on her way to the rescue, but it would take some time to wake the boy and drive out to Portland. So, I had time to kill.
That’s when Randall and I got to talking. At first, we were just shootin’ the shit; where are you from, how many siblings, nice weather, all that good stuff. He has lived in Portland all his life, and as he put it, never got his act together. He’s the youngest of seven kids. He has always had drug and alcohol problems.
Before you know it, the conversation started to get more serious. We started sharing stories of loss. He had a girlfriend who died of a heroine overdose in the 80’s. His sister is dying of emphysema. He has never been able to hold a steady job. I started to tell him stories about my father, his life, his death, his demons, something I rarely discuss with strangers. Somehow, though, this strange vagrant was safe to talk to.
It seems trivial to describe it now, but the conversation made quite an impact on me.
An hour later, the wife shows up und unlocks the car. I left the scene at about a quarter after nine, shook randall’s hand, gave him two bucks and wished him good luck. I left with the intention of making the latter half of the strobist meeting, (with no luck at all I might add), gave up on that idea, and picked up some flowers for the wife on the drive home.
Anyway, Randall wanted prints of the pictures, and I agreed. We were to meet on Saturday (yesterday) at noon at the 7-11. Nothing quite like drunk sincerity, and of course, he didn’t show. I left the pictures tucked in the chain link fence where we met and went home. According to the store clerk, Randall is a regular, and hopefully he will get his images before they blow away.
Back Alley Confessional
Randall is a 41 year old Portland native. I had the opportunity recently to have a nice long chat with Randall. In a way, he helped me out.
I was on my way from the Hawthorne fish house, heading toward the Mount Tabor pdx strobist meetup when I met Randall. Fellow PDX strobist Randy Kashka and I stopped at the 7-11 for some beverages, and low and behold, there were 2 panhandlers sitting against a yellow wall asking for change, beer, weed, cigarettes, whatever we had to give.
So, I asked these gentlemen for a photo. Did I really have a choice? One guy declined and immediately left the premises, and the other was Randall.
Popped my trunk, got out my camera, set down my keys, changed lenses, closed the trunk and started shooting. A minute later, I discovered that yes, my keys were locked in the trunk. Not the first time I’ve done something like this, and probably not the last.
Let me just say, my wife is amazing. She was on her way to the rescue, but it would take some time to wake the boy and drive out to Portland. So, I had time to kill.
That’s when Randall and I got to talking. At first, we were just shootin’ the shit; where are you from, how many siblings, nice weather, all that good stuff. He has lived in Portland all his life, and as he put it, never got his act together. He’s the youngest of seven kids. He has always had drug and alcohol problems.
Before you know it, the conversation started to get more serious. We started sharing stories of loss. He had a girlfriend who died of a heroine overdose in the 80’s. His sister is dying of emphysema. He has never been able to hold a steady job. I started to tell him stories about my father, his life, his death, his demons, something I rarely discuss with strangers. Somehow, though, this strange vagrant was safe to talk to.
It seems trivial to describe it now, but the conversation made quite an impact on me.
An hour later, the wife shows up und unlocks the car. I left the scene at about a quarter after nine, shook randall’s hand, gave him two bucks and wished him good luck. I left with the intention of making the latter half of the strobist meeting, (with no luck at all I might add), gave up on that idea, and picked up some flowers for the wife on the drive home.
Anyway, Randall wanted prints of the pictures, and I agreed. We were to meet on Saturday (yesterday) at noon at the 7-11. Nothing quite like drunk sincerity, and of course, he didn’t show. I left the pictures tucked in the chain link fence where we met and went home. According to the store clerk, Randall is a regular, and hopefully he will get his images before they blow away.