Two blocks further east, a buxom, middle-aged woman passes me ‘A Song of Thanksgiving. God shall bless us, and all the ends of the earth shall fear Him.’

Across the street, a pretty blonde is injecting a needle into her arm. Blood oozes from her skin. Passersby look on, their faces numb, unperturbed. The woman staggers. Take a picture flashes through my mind. But I don’t dare.

Cameras safely in a gadget bag, I crisscross the ill-reputed, run-down Alphabet City*. The area has been a drug dealers’ haven for years, police crack-downs have reduced but not eliminated trafficking.

I stop in front of an abandoned building. The windows and doors are boarded up. One door has a hole, large enough for someone to climb through. Is it a drug dealers’ hang-out? I quickly aim my camera, but through the lens I see a man approaching from inside the hole. I can’t make out his features, just a black outline. My sixth sense tells me to make a run.

Somewhere between Avenues B and C, in the middle of an empty lot, filled with rubbish, and surrounded by burnt-out tenements, there is a battered van. The side door is covered with shreds of red carpeting. The door is open. Inside, a Mexican or Native American lies stretched out on a piece of foam rubber, sleeping peacefully. This time I rapidly shoot a number of frames. The man moves in his sleep. Damn mirror-reflex cameras, always noisy. I leave quickly.

Down the block, a half-naked, beat-up woman in her thirties enters the door of an abandoned building. The sign above the door reads, ‘This Land is ours – Property of the People of the Lower East Side – Not for Sale.’ Homeless men mill around filthy sidewalks, others slumber coiled up on shady stoops - a luxury on this muggy summer day. I pretend to be strolling casually past them. Determined to capture the social ills on the Lower East Side, nothing can deter me. While gauging the men, I know damn well that they are gauging me with every step I take.

‘Housing is a Right,’ says the banner in red letters dangling from a shack in a fenced-in lot. I enter the lot through a narrow gate. Was this indeed someone’s dwelling?

“What ya want?” A wiry, bare-chested guy with greasy, black hair and dark shades rushes toward me.

“Nothing. Just looking at the banner.”

After a few moments of awkward silence I ask,

“May I take a picture?” I search for his eyes behind the shades. He hesitates, then says,

“Go ahead. But for a donation.”

I shoot one frame after which, I be damned, the roll of film has reached its end. While reloading my camera, the guy keeps chatting, asking about my work, where I was from, etc. Ready to shoot again, he suddenly blocks my way.

“The donation,” he demands. His voice is threatening. I take out a dollar bill.

“You are just like everybody else!” He is furious, takes off his shades, and pierces me with fiery, bloodshot eyes.

“You’d better give me five bucks or I’ll take your film and take you to court for invasion of privacy.”

Now I am really scared.

“O.k., o.k.,” I quietly take out a five dollar bill from my wallet, expecting him to snatch it, but he doesn’t.  Swearing at me, he grabs the bill, and leaves for his shanty. A woman inside yells, “Yeah, take her to court!”

On 10th Street and Avenue B a husky, young black man watches me photographing one of the murals in the neighborhood.  

“Take my picture,” he begs.” I snap a few frames.

“Are you German? Oh, yeah!” He laughs, hugs and kisses me, slaps my shoulder, and shouts, “You ain’t prejudiced like Hitler, are ya?”

With a camera through Alphabet City? Perhaps I should have paid attention to the psalms the two women had handed me when I began shooting that day. Perhaps I should have sung the songs of praise, instead of carelessly stuffing them into my pocket.

*Avenues A, B, C, and D, between Houston and 14th Streets