A scene from last week.
On a muggy and disturbingly hot day, I was sitting in a Puerto Rican restaurant, a hole-in-the-wall on a main avenue in the Bronx. As I was eating my Super Desayuno (eggs, salami, mashed plantain, and fried cheese) at the white counter, a tall, drowsy and thin man with pockmarked, light skin sauntered into the place sideways.
He turned around to show what he was struggling to lug into the restaurant. It was a girl's bike, which he then tried to sell to the customers for "fordy dahlahs, fordy dahlahs".
When nobody took the offer, he exhaled and sauntered back out; the labor and burden of carrying the bike literally uphill of the avenue and into as many stores as he could was evident on his face. As well as buckets of sweat.
Back to my plate, I scooped some plantain, stabbed a piece of cheese and ran it through egg yolk from a bleeding sunnyside up serving. I supposed I was to assume he was looking for money to support his drug habit, but I know not the man's history and intent.