He says his name is Brian.
That he’s been addicted to heroine and meth for 30 years
but woke up a year and 8 months ago,
decided to get clean,
and has been ever since.
He wants to know why he can’t get closer to our film set.
So I tell him it’s nothing personal, that it’s protocol.
He says he’s taking courses provided by
The California Department of Rehabilitation.
That he likes to edit video, how his instructor is very supportive
but he only likes to edit the things he shoots—
how some days he wakes up with extreme anxiety,
depression, and can’t get the idea out of his head
that he’s going to die.
He wants to know what PM stands for and why the woman in gray told him he couldn’t hang around the cameras.
I tell him that means Production Manager, and that she’s the production manager.
He maintains balance with his walker, and says he understands.
He says the hardest part wasn’t getting sober, but that after he did he realized that he really had no one.
No friends. No lover. No family.
I try to get a word in edgewise, but know it’s not my place.
He talks a while longer before wrap is called, then asks my name.
I tell him that it’s David.
That he should be proud of himself for the changes he’s made.
We shake hands and say goodbye.
For the next two hours I pick up other people’s garbage, wrap cable, and load a production truck full of equipment.
For the next two hours until now
I think of Brian, my life, and what we have in common.
Is it the night that’s hard to get through?
Or the day that’s just the same?
He says his name is Brian.
I hope he’s doing well.
Words Of An Average White Male 