As I walked along 14th Street the other day there was a man lying down in a doorway, legs sticking out. He was quietly, slowly convulsing. Back arching, hips thrusting upward. Two men were standing by. Vaguely official-looking men. Doormen, maybe, or security guards. There was no urgency in their movements or demeanors. They seemed to be waiting for something – for an ambulance to come, perhaps. Or cops. They stood guard over the prone body, occasionally glancing at it.