Major league anxiety attack today. Not sure where my BP is but I should check. Might want to pop a pill an lay off booze again. It’s a stupid cycle, though I have not felt much anxiety for months. I just want to keep walking. I filled the afternoon with typically pointless pursuits. I checked on the payphones. The one on 21st treet and 33rd Road was still off the hook, in the exact spot where I left it yesterday. I dialed a couple of toll free numbers, making John about $1. Payphone owners make about 50¢ for every toll free call made from their phone. I dial the numbers for that reason, and as a means of continuing my childhood habit of dialing phone numbers that spell seven letter words just to see what they connect to. 1-800-BANANAS is a sex chat line. 1-800-FAILURE is, appropriately, not in service. Now I can’t remember what other words or phrases I dialed on the toll free. There are a number of words that connect to the same toll free broker who will sell you generic words for a negotiable fee. 1-800-WEATHER actually gives you your local weather, or it attempts to. From John’s phone they seemed to think I was in Washington, D.C. His phone shows that weird 929 area code, which is New York but probably the least known of the NYC overlay area codes. After fulfilling my life’s calling of dialing a few toll free numbers and making John a buck or two I go back home and stare at the computer. I just can’t stay seated, though. I walk to the payphones on 35th Avenue. They don’t work but they should be back in service soon. They are owned by Telebeam, which has its offices a block or so down the street. Their proximity to these phones does not seem to align with them getting repaired any quicker than others throughout town.
Last night a bartender told me that a customer came in the other night at 1am and asked if anyone knew where he could find a payphone. The bartender thought of me, and said he might have called or messaged me if he had my number. He also said that someone was beautifying a payphone enclosure on Steinway Street. I, of course, knew which phone he was talking about. I did an interview from that phone for “Hang Up” but I don’t think any of that footage was used. It was a rogue payphone, with no identifying information of who owned it. I did not tell the bartender about the interview, as it would have sounded like boasting. Or maybe not. Just seemed pointless to continue the discussion about that payphone with information he probably would not retain. I went to see what he was talking about today, and found that the tattoo parlor had decorated the payphone enclosure with its phone number and store name. Glorious. People who know me even just a little bit all seem to get the payphone bug once they talk to me about the subject.
I do not like this dark-by-5pm thing. Should petition for that ritual to be repealed. Should go home and find some work but will probably just keep walking and walking and walking.
Fuckall the X key is sticking on this keyboard. That is ass. I like this keyboard. Now I have to make these essays into lipograms. X-less lipograms. The lipogram is the most pointless literary form — if you can even call it that — ever.
