The church

In Santa Fe, we visited a church. We entered accidentally, just wanting an interview with one of the guys who gather at the Plaza, and only discovered the sacred with time.

We set up the camera and focus on Randy, covered in tatts and a cultivated layer of dirt. I sit shoeless on cool concrete and feel the rainwater gather in the cracks of the pavement. Randy speaks about God, about hypocrites, about the kids around him. "She's a good kid," he says, pointing at a skittish teenager perched above the backpacks and skateboards. He tosses his chin towards another. "He's good, too--he's gonna hit the road for the first time soon." The boy nods, trying to mask pride with nonchalance. Randy names his friends, throwing us insights about their personalities, their religion, their mental health. His voice relaxes the group and lulls them out of suspicion. In the background, Eric strums someone else's guitar and smolders at the shadow of a memory. Tourists mill around the square, bartering with bored natives selling turquoise and mystique, but they give Randy's group plenty of room. We finish the interview, and the Lost Boys take up an offering. Eric, having rejoined reality, speaks. "What kind of beer do you like? We're going for a beer run--our treat." They empty their pockets and tally the amount in quarters and nickels and one-dollar bills. They give us travel tips and hugs; we bring them nuts and bottled water and don't wait for the beer.