His name was Jamie. And once upon a time he told me he was a husband and a father with a good job in Seattle's booming aerospace industry.
But now he was a smack addict out on the streets--hustling something to shot into his arm.
He also claimed to be the last people to see rock star Kurt Cobain alive.
That of course was the reason I was in Seattle--dispatched on the fly from L.A to the Pacific Northwest as news broke that Cobain had shot and killed himself inside his Seattle mansion.
Jamie was our link to Cobain's final hours.
According to what he was saying--Jamie helped feed his own drug habit by working as a delivery boy for Seattle dealers. He got paid with heroin for acting as a currier--transporting smack to rich people who didn't want to have to go slumming in sketchy parts of town or to interact directly with unsavory drug peddlers.
And there on a dark street corner--neon lights shimmering on the rain slick pavement--I could see why Jamie was good at what he did. As hooked as he was on heroin--Jamie was still pretty presentable. His clothes were neat. His hair was combed and despite the dark eyes that looked like bottomless wells--his face was delicate and handsome. With a cell phone pressed firmly to his ear--Jamie didn't look like a junkie.
But there on that bizarre night--his jerky movements and the hushed desperation in his voice--gave him away. Jamie said he was willing to talk to us his interaction with Cobain--but first he needed a fix.

I don't know what it is about charming, self-destructive losers--but I've got to confess--I've always had sort a soft spot in my heart for characters like Jamie. Clearly he was a screw-up who had probably broken the hearts of just about everyone who had ever cared for him. But he was also smart and funny and shockingly self-aware and analytic. He knew that--barring some miracle--he was going to die a junkie--just like the legendary rock star we had come to talk about.

Whoever Jamie was talking to on the phone--clearly the conversation wasn't going very well. Jamie obviously needed some smack and the person on the other end was holding out. But finally some sort of deal was struck and Jamie told us to stay-put while he to take care of his business around the corner.
I lit up a smoke but before I was finished Jamie was back. The Seattle rain was still lightly falling as we jumped into a cab and headed to our hotel.

I had come to Seattle to get the dish on Kurt Cobain--to find out why he had kill himself?--what had he been doing in his final days in Seattle--and why he had fled rehab in L.A just a few days earlier. Working for a t.v. show like "A Current Affair"--that's the kind of crap I did. Looking back I am not always proud of it, but it was always a thrill ride and on that unforgettable night what I got a blood-shot and bleary-eyed view of human addiction that I will never forget--appetites that at first seduce and then destroy.

"A Current Affair" often deserved the "trash t.v." label that critics of the day had tagged it with. But one thing about the show--especially in those early days--we traveled like kings. Often we flew first or business class and stayed in fancy, expensive hotels--and that night in Seattle we were staying a a gem--the Sorrento.......more to come......mw