He backs away finally. He throws on the lights.

"It's-all-clear!" he shouts. As our eyes adjust, he's pointing to the couch. "Have a seat. Built this couch myself. Actually I didn't build it, just fixed it. Had if for a while now. It's really great to meet you. Glad you could come. Stephanie, grab these guys a beer. Mind if I smoke? No? Cool!"

The words pour non-stop as he paces the room. Stephanie hustles from the room and returns with a couple cans of beer. I've had champagne before and even a little wine on occasion, but this is the first time I've ever been offered a beer. I'm a little nervous. Apparently so his Joel. He's peering at the can in his hand with a strange look. I nod at him and crack mine open. A hesitant moment later and he does the same.

As we sip at our beers, Lee's finally showing signs of calming. His pacing is slowing and his abstruse babbling is becoming more coherent. I've never seen anyone so energized.

And now that he remains in view for more than a split-second, I'm able to complete the earlier picture I'd began to form. He's still barefoot and wearing only gray long-johns. But to this description I can now add a thick multiple pouched leather tool belt equipped with a red-handled hammer, screwdrivers, a roll of electrical tape, and a flashlight. Finishing off his attire are two small silver earrings-one in each ear—and a dark green baseball cap worn backwards, and a little crooked at that. His shoulder length sandy-blonde hair dangles from the back of it. He's not wearing a shirt—thus revealing how slim he is—and apparently hasn't shaved in a few days. For living so close to the beach it's surprising how pale his skin is. It appears he doesn't see much of the sunshine.

"Joel tells me you’re an actor," I say.

"Yeah, that's right. Though I haven't had a shoot in over nine months. The last film bombed and my agent hasn't been able to get me anything since." Yes, his speech is definitely slowing, though he occasionally trembles as sweat beads on his forehead.

Mulling over my initial plans, which I'd spent the last week preparing, I ready in my mind some of the questions that I want to ask. What I believe I need to do is somehow correlate Lee's drug activities with those of drug addicts and then further link these two entities with the activities relevant of a political group. Social ties, economic ties, personal ties, and so forth. I pull out my notebook and glance over a page of subjects I want to address and then flip to a blank page. I almost feel like a reporter. Ugh. . .what an awful thought!

While Joel's making small talk with Stephanie, Lee grabs a chair from the kitchen, spins it around, and sits facing us with his legs straddling the back-rest.

He grins. "Where do we begin, doc?"

I take a deep breath and try not to shake my head. I guess I should start with the basics. "Uh. . .how long have you. . .uh. . .used drugs?"

"Drugs, bro? No way. Coke and heroin'll fuck you up. I only do crank."

"What's that?"

"Crank? It's speed."

"What's speed?"

"Methamphetamine, bro! Crystal meth."

He's smiling broadly as if he's having the time of his life. I start jotting down in my notebook.