I was engaged in a pitifully mundane task. Punching 19 digits and a 4-digit PIN to see how much money was left on an Applebee’s gift card that’s been in my wallet for something like 7 years. Sitting outside the Barclay Center, not on a designated seat or bench but on a surface on which seating seemed acceptable. I think there were shrubs or flowers behind the seatable surface.

I looked away from the arduous process, this blasphemy of time spent laboring over a first world dilemma. How much could I spend at Applebee’s today, if I were to follow through with the inspiration? I know, Applebee’s is gross. I should just give away the gift card to those who feel otherwise. But I was hungry enough to eat that shit, and to have the cost covered by something in my wallet besides cash would make it all the, well, shittier.

I looked away, to my right. A woman sitting next to me was masturbating. Her lips were puffed up with arousal, her right hand moved back and forth under her shit and shorts. Her eyes were closed. She was completely absorbed in the moment, oblivious to all, or so it seemed. I sensed it was possibly some kind of setup. I felt I could not look away but look away is precisely what I did. If she was oblivious to me that did not mean others were not paying attention, looking for gawkers, ready to shame a man for seeing what I was seeing. I remembered a moment in Murray Hill, An older woman, her shirt barely covering her breasts, saw my eyes land on her opened shirt. She screamed accusations at me, asking if I was a “gang banger,” calling me a “baller” and other names I can’t recall. I just soldiered on, not breaking stride or responding to anything but the whispers of other men walking my direction. “What was that?” one of them asked. “I have no idea,” was my honest response. It appeared she walked around as a boobie trap (pun!) soliciting gawks and stares for the purpose of, ultimately, I don’t know. Money? Would she call the cops on me for looking at her scantily clad body?

That incident rallied through my mind as I watched this woman yesterday, masturbating furtively, soulfully, publicly. In a way it was a relief. Every act of public masturbation I’ve encountered or heard about was performed by a male, though I have a foggy memory of seeing a woman at Penn Station fingering herself through her shorts. The woman yesterday was all the way under, and unmistakably absorbed in the moment. She was thin, black, 30s, appeared homeless or simply vagrant. Bottoms of her shoes were crusted white. I wished I’d stayed to learn more but it seemed wrong to gawk. What world of entanglements awaited me if we made eye contact?

I went to Applebee’s and, afterward, walked past the spot where she had been sitting. She was gone. I would like to think she went someplace where there was someone to take care of her. But she knew how to take care of herself.

Otherwise yesterday was a nothingburger. The Applebee’s incident, well, what can I say… I had the card, with $11.40 on it. The order got messed up somewhat so the server knocked off the price difference of about $1. I tipped $4 when the receipt suggested $2. I went into the Guitar Center to try their pianos. That chain has poor quality pianos. I’ve never seen a Yamaha hybrid or the Roland that was so popular you never found it anywhere until recently. My reportoire is usually the same when I sit at these store pianos. Bach A Minor Invention, Philip Glass, Schubert A Major Sonata, Pictures at an Exhibition (which exposes the weakeness of my right hand muscle between the thumb and index finger). I’ll sometimes start into an Alkan piece but it depends on the piano if I stay with it. None of the pianos at the Brooklyn Guitar Center were good quality. Go to Sam Ash for that.

I scoured the area for what payphones I knew of, and discovered another Little Free Library on Baltic Street. The goal was Butler and Bond, where a payphone with a story behind it still stands, moldering away in plain sight. The story involves a woman I’ve made conspicuous and deliberate effort to forget but who comes back to mind when memories align. She introduced me to this payphone, doing so in such a way that was completely out of character for her, at least as far as I knew of her character. She never abused me or treated me badly but nothing was right about our encounters. I was older than her father and she clearly needed some kind of sexual exhaust not for any likeness of or feelings about me but for an image. A function. I don’t know. It ended amicably. I guess she’s 28 now? That’s a little more than half my age but I’ll catch up soon enough…