The Setting: Sullivan Square, a little past midnight a few Thursdays ago. My brother and I were returning from Wonderland. We were a few blocks down Broadway when we noticed, in the distance, a scraggly, hunched figure staggering towards us. This person was of indeterminate age, race, or gender. It was also unclear whether their genitals were covered. The only things that were clear, was their death grip on an unlit cigarette, and the very stained, very worn grey sweatshirt covering their torso. Brother: "I really want to know if that person is a man or a woman. I also want to know if they're wearing pants. (Pause) But I really don't want to get thrown up on. Or, stabbed with a hypodermic needle. So...let's cross here."
We crossed the street. The person, now separated from us by four lanes of blacktop and a grassy median, twitched on towards Sullivan Station.
Brother: "I think we made the right decision."
If my parents ever get to wondering if they did a good job raising us, I think this anecdote may soothe them. Sure, we go to the dog track on weekday evenings...but at least we have the good sense to cross the street when we see hepatitis coming.
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