No matter where I go or who I’m with whenever there are crackheads around they feel the impulsive need to talk to me. It’s as if my soul is embedded with some sort of crackhead magnet. Living in New Haven, a seeming repository for crackheads, I get confronted a lot. I’ve decided to start documenting these encounters because most of the time they’re kind of amusing even though I’m deeply fearsome on the inside…
Scene: Outside of Black Bear on Temple St.
Crackhead: I knows you, yeah i’ve knowsed you for 100 yearz.
Me: (Blank stare, pretending not to notice)
Crackhead: (lights a cigarette, turns around) Oh, no, not you, not you…I knew him, not you for 100 years (points to wooden carving of bear situated outside restaurant)
*Note* The gentleman displayed in the image may or may not be a crackhead
