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Ruth Curry

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  For someone who’s logged as many hours as I did at Freddy’s (RIP), I really can’t remember much about it. No sign outside—or maybe just the one, for PBR, flickering, upside down. (Or was it?) Wooden booths, a backroom—or a downstairs? Both? Saloon style-shutters leading to the graffiti-covered toilets, which otherwise didn’t really close. Three-dollar PBR on ice in a cooler under the bar, never cold enough, but for $3 (or was it $2,...
My friend Sarah has the perfect bathroom. Decently sized and situated off a short hallway, it’s neither too far from the bedroom nor directly adjacent to the living room or kitchen. There’s a working fan. The toilet neither clogs nor runs. I’ve never tried the shower, but given the robust water pressure and reliable temperature controls of the faucet on the sink, I’m sure it, too, is perfect. The sink is a pristine pedestal...
My name is Brooke, and I touch fire hydrants for money because it’s the only thing I can do.  I was an E-List Los Angeles shop girl nobody, until I comped Kim Kardashian a dress for an event—it was an emergency!—and she hooked me up with her manager, Simon.  Now I’m moving up in the world, on my way to the A-List, or at least I will be, if I can finish this photo...

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