Behind and in front of my glasses

I was in a Brooklyn vintage shop, about to leave, after six months, the jugular pulsating New York City. I still remember myself with two mountains of clothes, old-fashion strange shaped buttons spread over them, on my arms, two wonderful hats, a red Panama one and a blue stylish cap, on my head, standing in front of the changing room where I had to decide which clothes would have been better for me and which were - surely - declaring themselves as presents for my wonderful vintage-addicted best friends. I had spent two hours in the yellow empty walls shop, long but not so narrow and full of our dreamed striped and checked tissues, gorgeous spots of colors and geometries of their intersection. I could already imagine the addicted ones comparing my entire shopping with their vintage "little gift", a sharp smile while stealing another gadget ("only this one, please!") under my trip unstoppable accurate report.
The guy, waiting with me, near the changing room had an impatience on his face, he was holding a very orange shirt and a pair of straight blue trousers, so similar at the ones he was dressing, shaking his head at the time the woman before us was spending inside, and may be also thinking how lucky he was being before me, like I was guilty too. 'Is there a man in the mirror or what?' his eyes were to explode when from the radio speaker a breaking news suspended the question: Michael Jackson dies at age 50. A shining silence fell on the eyes raising toward the radio voice. The changing room opened. My arms, my shoulders and my head let the clothes fall on the ground like feathers, the impatient guy was moving outside and I followed him. The 5th avenue became of faces outside.
From a white fairlane, the doors all open, Jacko broke the spell through the first notes of ‘Don’t stop till you get enough’, the volume turning at the maximum, the center of the street -we the people- began to dance. Energy of movements, bodies, music, words, tears, memories, thoughts, so many hairs, bicycles stopping, unspoken messages, old ladies’ bags gently put on the ground: shops pubs cars mouths were singing Michael in a longer and longer dancing tail.
When I realized the vintage shop was closing I ran inside. At each vintage gift I attached the receipt, underlying the date and writing on it: 'bought the day that Michael Jackson died'. It turned out to be the most accurate trip report of my life without anything else being stolen.