President Biden crossing the park. Vice President Harris fundraising in the Financial District. President Trump visiting his tower. Officer, where can I cross the street? I just want to go home.
There was a rally against the death penalty in Union Square. A Tesla Cybertruck parked by it and held down on the horn. I stopped for a second. I mean I am against the death penalty. But then I thought about going for a run and being stuck behind a dog owner taking up the whole sidewalk. I said no to the flyer. Happy hour at the Grey Dog was almost over, I had to hurry.
We ordered an Uber from Forest Hills and got assigned a taxi with a rating closer to four than five. He took the long way back to Manhattan, canceled the app ride to take cash, and then showed us where he lived in Queens. We got out as soon as we crossed the bridge into Manhattan, and then we walked the rest of the way home.
Midnight, Times Square theater. I sit on the same row as an elderly man tucked under a blanket. We both cry as the credits roll. That’s my last memory there, I read a couple days later about bed bugs in the auditoriums.
The sidewalk smelled like paint. The construction men were taking a break on the curb. Today’s task was to re-paint the scaffolding. The old paint had started to chip.
It’s a summer Friday at Penn Station. We stand and wait for the announcement of our track over the intercom. No signs, no board, just a crackle and a mad dash. I fight with the train wifi to do work as we outrun the storm approaching Manhattan on the way to the coast.
Cashier at the donut place around the corner gives me the eyes. After a couple visits, she started giving me free donuts. I would hold it tight as I walked past the late night rats shaking the trash bags on the curb. Katia told me she also gives her free donuts when she goes in before they close. Maybe she is bi.
“Sir, would you like me to inspect your bag?” That’s what the policeman at Grand Central asked. Would I like him to?
Rain jacket. Umbrella. Rain jacket. Umbrella. If rain jacket, coat check. If umbrella, wrist imprint. Backpack? Keys? Oh, the sun’s out.
We waited 25 minutes for a table at the Margaritaville in Times Square. They made us kiss for a photo. The flash caught my acne-scarring.
I was walking past the massage place at 8 in the morning. A man stood outside the front door, pacing in an uneven line, bending it like a string to miss the gum stuck on the sidewalk. He looked me in the eye and patted his pockets. “Brother, do you have a condom to spare?”
Are you free tonight? Yeah, I think I will just need help getting it into the taxi. Third floor walkup. Do we think it’s too wide for the stairs?
Jerry Seinfeld’s standup at the Beacon gave me a panic attack. I rushed out of the balcony and the employees warned me I wouldn’t be able to come back in. No worries, I told them, I’ll catch him here next week. Or the next.
