It’s 7 p.m. on a Monday in the Mission. The man walking in front of us is drunk, very drunk, and angry. He spins around to engage with us, and Bryan turns me by the elbow toward a display window. We pretend to discuss eyewear trends long enough to confuse the man, and he continues on.
We’re a quarter block behind him when he begins to weave and stumble dangerously. He is crossing the street, tilting forward, forward, until suddenly he is horizontal.
He falls so fast, so hard, there isn’t even time to gasp. I can still hear his teeth smack the asphalt.