People have started asking me what I’m writing here. I have this somewhat garish contraption that magnifies my phone’s screen. I call it the poor man’s laptop, even though this phone cost as much as my desktop. I sit here in the breakroom and type away, rapidfire, scribe-like, saying mostly nothing but slowly drawing the attentions of others around. I don’t see anyone else doing this. So I’m becoming what I did not want to become at this job: Visible. I don’t want anyone to know who I am or that I am here. I answer few questions, and offer fewer clues.
There was a building collapse right around the corner from this spot. It made national news. There was pandemonium on the streets when I left that day. It happened around 4:30, I left at 5. One killed and I think 6 injured. It is a garage I walk past almost every day. Of course thousands of people passed it every day but still, it’s crazy to think you could just be la-la-laing along and then earthquake.
That threat is always real. Your floor could turn to quicksand. The earth itself could decide it is hungry, and that you look tasty. A small, forgettable pain in your side could attack. Your unintentional bumping into a disturbed person on the subway could send you onto the tracks. Fate is everywhere.
I think of a woman who used to live downstairs from me. I never knew her, but she was living with a dude I was somewhat friendly with. One time I opened the front door of the building at the same moment she was opening from the inside. I pushed the door open at the same instant she pulled it. Normally this type of encounter would solicit a chuckle, or chagrin, or something innocuous. Not her. She stared me down long and low, clucking almost inaudibly, her eyes accusing me of coordinating this moment as some kind of trap, a set-up. She was clearly unnerved at what I interpreted as a relatively routine bit of path-crossing.
Incidents like this can escalate. In a different context it very well may have.
That is a dead phone at the 103rd Street 6 train station. A friend tipped me off to it, but only upon my arrival at the station did I remember that I already knew about this one. I had done a tour of the Lexington Avenue 6 train stations some years ago, when most of them were already gone. This one remained, and still does, somehow, probably filled with quarters.
I am eating strawberries and drinking water, per diurnal routine. Some of today’s strawberries have a texture and, in certain portions, the color of testicles. Cold testicles. I can’t eat those. They look like no-good strawberries.
“No Good” was a phrase I used in an argument with an ex. She was complaining about the sex, except she was not complaining about the sex. I don’t remember understanding what this argument was about but I found myself asking her “Is the sex no good?” Those words “No Good” sounded so strange coming from me. I knew the sex was good. How bad could it be if we were going at it 12-15 times a week? She always came. I didn’t have to. The sex was good but she somehow got into a complicated discussion about it that she stubbornly, or perhaps logistically could not get out of. Sometimes you start into a lie or an accusation that you cannot back out of, however aware you become that you are wrong. By using “No Good” in the argument I guess I was trying to bring myself to her level of disarmament. Or maybe I just lost my ability to articulate.
I’ve done the math and concluded I should just be buying sandwiches, not making them myself. It makes little financial sense, and less logistical sense. The time spent creating my sandwichful masterpieces is itself a currency. In the old days I think buying grocery store provisions and making stuff myself would have been cheaper than deli-bought. Those days are gone. If it comes to making non-sandwich grub the story would likely be different. But I remain committed to the genre of the sandwich. It is a perfect creation, though it can be a source of true anger when they get messy or fall apart.
The daily commute has taken an unwelcome turn. I find that a person I don’t want anything to do with sometimes appears on the same train as I. And I can detect from this person a desire to speak. This is someone from my pub past, a span of about 15 years when I hit local Astoria bars regularly. I made many good friends in those days but encountered a number of others I’d rather just put away. This is one such individual.
I am cold.
