I wanted to see and be seen so I flew to NYC once a week.

I biked thru Calvary Cemetery to see who’d dug themselves out. On the other side of the cemetery gates, I ditched the Citi Bike because my knee was hurting. I walked around with headphones on and didn’t interact with a soul then rode the 7 into Manhattan.

I craned my neck to look around at the tall buildings. I thought, which would be the most fun to jump off? I pointed and spun a small circle. I appreciated when the tops of buildings were covered by fog—continuing heavenward forever.

I walked all the way to the Lower East Side to blend in but it didn’t work. It seemed fitting to chill at Forgtmenot because I didn’t remember it at all—I was just glad to be with the homies.

*

I staggered up Allen Street and found a 20-dollar bill on the ground. I continued along my path and found another, then another, and another. There were 20-dollar bills at the northeast corner of every block. By the time I arrived in Union Square I had 400 dollars in my pockets. I went into Whole Foods and bought 50 yellow mangoes that barely fit in my black backpack.

I trained back down to Chinatown to stand in the rain. I gave a mango to every umbrellaless passerby. What they really needed were umbrellas but all I had were mangoes. Eventually, I ran out of mangoes then used my good karma to find the way to Tompkins. There was no map or you-are-here-type directory on view in the streets of Lower Manhattan.

*

I finally made it to Tompkins Square Park and sat on an empty, wet bench. I watched a kid in Dunks try to kickflip—with his back wheels in a crack—for an hour.

The 1-hour timer on my phone went off. I stood up, stretched my arms towards the sun, and walked to get a burger. I ordered it just-the-way-it-comes but discarded the bread. I still ate it with my hands. When I finished, I combed my hands thru my hair.

‘That’s disgusting.’
‘What?’
‘Did you just put your greasy hands in your hair?’
‘No, what’re you talking about?’
‘I literally just watched you eat that sloppy-looking burger then run your hands thru your hair.’ ‘...’
‘Why did you do that?’
‘I don’t know. I didn’t know you were staring at me.’
‘I wasn’t staring at you.’
‘You just said you watched me eat my burger.’
‘...’
‘So yeah, you were staring.’
‘Well, you definitely ran your greasy hands thru your hair. I saw you.’

I held my tongue.

She gave up and left.

I didn’t care.

*

I went to the bathroom to rinse my hands and pee. After I peed, I stared at myself in the scratched-up mirror. In this dimly lit bathroom, it was hard to make out my eyes but I knew they were there. I kept staring, hoping they’d come into focus. I looked into the right eye of my reflection which meant it was actually my left eye—the one with astigmatism. My imperfect eye. I eyeballed it and thought of those daily affirmations like, you are perfect, perfectly you. My thoughts immediately changed to, that shit is corny. I withdrew a Presto from my pocket and tagged the mirror.

Back at the bar, I sipped slowly but surely on my Paper Plane. It was strong. I slid my iPhone out of my other pocket and opened Instagram. I checked my story to see how many views it’d gotten. Translucent red hearts floated from the bottom left-side of my phone’s screen. Steve Brodie’s tombstone, 284. Lady selling churros at Queensboro Plaza, 279. Unknown skyscrapers disappearing into the sky, 275. My steak frites, 261. My JanSport overflowing with mangoes, 250. My soaking-wet Adidas on the rainy sidewalk, 242. Kid trying to do a kickflip at Tompkins, 108.

I switched to X and tweeted, ‘i style my hair with burger grease.’ I switched back to Instagram and double-tapped—liking—the Quartersnacks Top 10 post. I spam swiped left until I got to number 1. I watched someone do a fucked-up kickflip manual down those big yellow brick banks in Barcelona. It made me think of The Wizard of Oz, which then made me think, there’s no place like home. I locked my phone and slid it back into my pocket.

I finished my Paper Plane, put my last 2 20-dollar bills on the bar top, and left.

*

I moved westward listening to Brian Eno’s Ambient 4: On Land. I felt OK but my mode of expression appeared exhausted. My knee still hurt but I was happy. I knew I’d never be able to jump down anything again—much less off a building.

I went in every Manhattan bookstore looking for The Cows by Lydia Davis. I never found what I was looking for so I flew home and left all the assholes.