I bend down and tend to him while continuing to film. I lift him and sit him on the bench beneath the canopy, the street sounds floating behind us. I call an ambulance. What if those kids return and see him again? I wait twenty minutes for the medics, watching Marky, smelling his shit and dabbing some of his wounds. Who knows when I’ll see him again? He could end up in Riker’s Island, or perhaps worse, Bellevue, where they’ll medicate his ass. More than likely, he’ll be back on the streets by next week, if not sooner…
I walk home along the shaded street to post my story. A lot of photojournalists post before they get home—or they stream live as they film, which isn’t interesting to me. I'm more old-school: editing is where the magic happens for me. Where I organize my material, think it through, smooth over a harsh sound. It hurts the number of Hits I get because my posts aren't up-to-the-second. What can I say? I’m a one-man crew.
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