Saturday. Humidity. Walking for exercise. A man with hospital bracelets collapses in the street. I help him get back up to his feet not unlike all the times I helped lift Abuelita when she fell, though this man is three times her size.
He crosses the street and collapses again. I pull out my phone and call for EMTs.
“Mind your own business” snarls another New Yorker.
“Well he’s got a toxic sweat and I can’t do this all day” I shoot back.
Later when I tell Eric about the sweats and sores, but that the man didn’t smell drunk or seem on the nod, he assured me I did the right thing. Especially given the hospital bracelets.
When we get home that night we learn from a friend that Alan Vega is dead. Fuck.
This was our wedding song.