Bubbles sits on a park bench, anxiously looking around. His face is scarred from years of heroin abuse, his complexion is flaky as is his state of mind. His fiddling fingers tell a story; he doesn't know what to do with himself. His playful, youthful self relates to the children playing in the sunshine, on the lush grass they laugh and blow bubbles (Bubbles' innocent-sounding name contrasts starkly with his well-worn appearence). Instead of the bullet firing guns used by the street crews they are playing with bubble-guns, harmlessly releasing streams of floating spheres of joy.
In another part of the park Bubbles' contemporaries hover around in dark clothing, moving shiftily, communicating with obtuse body language and
hand gestures. A guy who could be Snoop Dogg walks past bubbles and greets him, pulling him out of his reflective daze. These people know Bubbles from years of hanging around the same streets but are they really his friends? The lure of the addiction is too much for him and there is no-one to turn to, the one person who promises to help him says she'll call tomorrow...if only she knew what would happen to her that night, she wouldn't have made a promise she couldn't keep.
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