As I was walking home, I saw a couple of cops harassing a drunk Mexican guy who didn't speak much English. I was high as fuck, which just made me angrier and more confident, despite having just gambled away more money than I'd be able to pay back.
"Did you rob the bodega on 36th avenue?" the cop, a tall white guy, asked.
"Hey! You don't have to answer that! Usted no tiene que contestarle." I ran up to the trio, much to the cops' disapproval.
"Just who do you think you are?"
Luckily I still had my work badge on me. "I'm an immigrant rights activist, and I'd like to ask if you're arresting my client or if he is free to go?"
"Your client? You don't even know this man!"
The two cops looked at the guy then at each other. The guy seemed really confused and was babbling on and on in Spanish too quickly/drunkenly for me to understand. I told him (in Spanish) to shut up and stop making the situation worse for himself, then folded my arms and stood up straight to the cop.
"Are you arresting my client or is he free to go?"
The other cop finished writing a ticket for disturbing the peace (by being drunk in public) and advised the guy to go home. I waited until they left to explain the ticket to the guy. He was grateful times a million and told me about his family in Mexico, the depressing loneliness that filled his soul sometimes, how he could only destroy it with alcohol.
And I felt that.
But instead of paying attention to those feelings, I bottled them back up and hailed a taxi for the man, giving the driver his address and making sure he had money to pay for it. Then I walked back home, ashamed at myself for the drugs, knowing the shame wasn't enough to prevent me from spiraling.
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