A man had an epileptic seizure at Times Square on Monday. He was flat on his stomach, his head turned to the side, and I noticed as I quickly rushed by him, on my way out of a porn store just down the street, that his tongue was lapping like the queens who frequent the buddy booths at the Blue Lounge on 40th.
I noticed a man was standing a few feet behind the Epileptic. The stranger stopped to call 911 on his cell phone, I imagined.
It seemed the morning rush hour crowd was content that someone else had taken the time to assist the man gasping for his life. There is so little we can do when encountering a demon possessed man.
Pissed off at people pretending they did not notice, I bent down and rubbed his back and told him that help was on the way. The man on his cell phone could not be seen by the man on his belly flopping like a fish. I didn’t want to be like the commuters on the subway platform who stood around as a drunk man was pushed by a stranger onto the tracks, and lost his life, due mostly to society’s blind eyes caused by these all too convenient I-Phones.
The seizure seemed to slow somewhat the moment I touched the man. I wondered if perhaps my experience as a man with schizophrenia could be felt by the man on his belly, lost in a modern world where it seems absolutely no one gives a rat’s ass.