It’s hot. It’s Sunday. Neither of these things make me
happy. Some people like Sundays, but I’ve always hated them. Sunday means Monday
is almost here. And fuck, I hate Mondays.
I’m looking for somewhere to eat lunch. There are lunch
places on every block, which makes my decision even harder. It’s not easy to
make a choice when all your choices look almost identical. I prefer fewer
options. When there are fewer options you can examine each one with refined
attention.
“Sir, can you help me?”
Another person trying to sell me something or ask me for
something or ask me to help him sell something to someone so the children in
Africa can have mosquito nets. Fuck off.
“Sir, Please. Please, where can I find this? This!”
He’s waving around a piece of paper. No, a photograph. I
grab it. Curiosity beats hunger.
“This place is magic. I’ve made it past the wall! The guards
didn’t even see me! I slipped right past it. Right past it! And now I need to
go here. To this place. Tell me where it is. It’s magic, I just know it.”
It’s some cheesy, artsy photograph. It looks like it was
made by some graphic design undergrad. It’s a landscape, somewhere in New York
City. Looks like the Bronx. It’s
black and white, except for a yellow cab, which still retains its color. I say
I’m sorry and hand it back to the man.
A book falls out of his coat as he takes it from me. Nadja.
I read that in college, in one of those classes where you talk about art and
life. He scampers away, mumbling to himself, and scaring a family of tourists
as he crosses the street.
No comments:
Post a Comment