I can see clearly now
That song is currently residing in my head
The fruit stand is deserted except for me, a handful of cleaners, and John the security guard. The wind blows through barren branches in the orchard. There is no AC on, there is no heat on, it’s just dead air.
Mike unloaded quite a bit last night, telling me the story of what happened 15 years ago or so, perhaps 14 years ago, when he was 30 and in Newark and dropping out of the Culinary Institute of America. It’s not a good story, but it’s a story that he felt I needed to hear.
I did want to tell him that I knew the facts but not the details of what happened when he was 30. I did look it up once when I swore we’d never be friends again, and I had washed my hands of him. But I kept my mouth shut and just let him spill his guts. He’s a good kid who made an awful mistake and has paid the price for it and continues to pay the price for it.
Meanwhile, at the fruit stand, nothing is happening.
The PATH train was not crowded. A few Xavier High School boys who headed in were probably getting an early dismissal. I’d like to get an early dismissal since there was an early dismissal last Friday. Jimmy Chile suggested that Yancey might give a call with a thumbs up for an early dismissal.
I have ordered Smashburger for a 12:30 pickup. It is close to 60°, and I went out earlier because it was so hot in the office that I needed to get some fresh air, so I went out and had a mini cigar.
My cigars were delivered yesterday, as was my Eagle Creek bag which I still have to get used to as well as Mike’s external hard drive, which is exciting for him, so he can take the porn off my computer and put it on the hard drive and watch to his heart’s content or until he’s dry between the legs on his laptop.
I spoke to my sister-in-law last night with regards to our visit on Thursday. We shall be out there at the usual time, 2-ish, with Mike in tow. The menu is stuffed shells and shepherd’s pie. Turkey and all those other things are too time-consuming, and since she is making the food, she decides the menu. And as far as Mike is concerned, as long as there is no pesto, he should be fine.
So I am at the main fruit stand in midtown Manhattan. I am sitting at Lex Luthor’s desk. Lex has an owl fetish, as well as putting bling on most everything; he is definitely queer. And I am definitely gay.
I will make an effort to leave the desk as I found it, restarting everything on the computer when I leave, which I hope will be earlier than 5:00 p.m. Way too many eyeballs here, even though they’re all mechanical and attached to cameras, since there are no humans here.
I am getting a lot of use out of the iPad, but not necessarily for work reasons; Prawns
I am now sitting opposite 1220 Broadway smoking up a Padrón 3000 natural. It’s a humid, clammy day; it rained quite a bit yesterday, and today is the remnants of that. It’s awfully quiet in the office. Jimmy Chile suggests that we might be dismissed early, but I see no proof of that. He also suggested that we would be getting paid today, and I definitely see no proof of that.
A Tribe Called Quest- Low End Theory
Talking Heads- Speaking in Tongues, two records that I played from start to finish while I worked.
I am still reading the book about the cars, and they’re in the middle of making Candy O, and it’s just not that interesting because Candy O is just not that interesting an album. I found each successive LP less interesting than the one before, so I would like to know if my disinterest will correspond with the remaining chapters. I am halfway through the book
I did place a request for Cameron Crowe’s book, but I think there might be a long wait for it
The Google Gemini rewrite as a Sarah Vowell essay:
## 🍎 The Barren Orchard of the Self, or: The Perils of Early Dismissal
There are songs that settle in your head like a persistent, slightly unwelcome relative—a relative who shows up unannounced and starts rearranging your mental furniture. Today, for me, that relative is **“I Can See Clearly Now.”** And while the forecast in my skull is all sunny days and rainbow rays, the actual weather where I sit—the physical, architectural weather of the deserted fruit stand in Midtown Manhattan—is a meteorological study in the *absence* of anything.
I’m talking about a specific type of New York silence here. Not the picturesque, snow-dampened quiet of Gramercy Park, but the dead-air hush of a commercial space that is neither heated nor air-conditioned. The kind of air that simply *is*, inert and unremarkable, occasionally stirred by a sigh of wind rattling the barren branches of the forgotten, purely decorative orchard outside. It’s just me, a handful of cleaners who sweep with an air of dignified resignation, and John the security guard, who is probably contemplating the existential weight of his uniform.
This stillness, this mid-week vacuum, is an oddly fitting backdrop for the kind of unburdening that happened last night.
Mike, bless his weary soul, decided to **unspool the past**. You know how it is: you think you know the contours of a person’s history—the *facts*—but you don’t know the topography, the painful little ravines. He told me the story of his life at age thirty, a narrative that involves Newark, the precipitous drop-out from the Culinary Institute of America, and what sounds like a whole lot of bad luck seasoned with poor choices. Fifteen years ago. Maybe fourteen. It’s not a good story. It’s a story told, however, with the earnest, desperate conviction of someone who believes an apology is best delivered as a memoir.
Now, here is where my own particular brand of neurosis, my historical-research impulse, kicked in. The truth is, I *did* know the facts. I had once, in a moment of righteous, friend-shunning fury—a fury I had sworn would be permanent, a washing of hands that felt biblical—looked it up. But one doesn’t interrupt a confession with a citation. So I kept my mouth shut, letting him spill his guts like so many dropped plums. He’s a good kid. He made an awful, spectacularly expensive mistake. And he is still paying the tariff. The price of admission to his own life, it turns out, is a perpetual payment plan.
***
Back at the fruit stand, the stillness is absolute. You could stage a Beckett play here.
My perch, by the way, is **Lex Luthor’s desk**. I have arrived at the office, a temporary stand-in, and been assigned the desk of a man who clearly compensates for a deep-seated vulnerability with excessive ornamentation. Lex, you see, has an *owl fetish*—those hollow-eyed sentinels of wisdom, rendered in various materials—and a penchant for applying “bling” to everything. The man is unquestionably queer, which is fine, because I am unquestionably gay. The air is thick with the unspoken solidarity of expensive, poorly-chosen décor.
It’s almost sixty degrees outside, a humid, clammy remnant of yesterday’s rain. The kind of day where the air feels faintly sticky, like old molasses. This tropical malaise necessitated an earlier excursion, a five-minute escape to inhale some “fresh” Midtown air and smoke a **mini cigar** with the furtive energy of a truant schoolboy. Now, I am smoking a Padrón 3000 natural, sitting opposite 1220 Broadway, contemplating the logistics of *things*.
Things like Mike’s new external hard drive, delivered yesterday, which will finally allow him to scrub the *pornographic evidence* from my computer and transfer it to a more private, less compromising locale. (I admit to a certain excitement on his behalf; a man should be able to enjoy his cinematic preferences without fear of his friend’s IT department discovering his predilections.)
Things like Thursday’s Thanksgiving dinner plans. Stuffed shells and shepherd’s pie. No turkey. My sister-in-law, who possesses a sensible, almost Roman pragmatism, is doing the cooking, and thus she dictates the menu. **No pesto** is the single, sacred commandment from Mike, and we shall honor it.
And then there is the eternal, tantalizing siren song of **Early Dismissal**.
The PATH train this morning was blessedly uncrowded, save for a few Xavier High School boys, clearly the beneficiaries of some institutional benevolence. *Why not me?* I wonder. Last Friday had an early dismissal. Jimmy Chile, our office oracle, is currently suggesting that Yancey, the higher power, might call in a **Thumbs Up** for freedom. He also suggested we’d get paid today. I’ve seen no evidence of either, but hope, as Emily Dickinson once noted, is the thing with feathers, and mine is currently perched right next to Lex Luthor’s ceramic owl.
I am due to pick up a **Smashburger** at 12:30. I have listened to A Tribe Called Quest’s *Low End Theory* and Talking Heads’ *Speaking in Tongues* in their entirety while working, an attempt to infuse the dead air with something intellectually vibrant. Meanwhile, I am still reading a book about the making of The Cars’ albums, and the current chapter concerns *Candy-O*. I must confess, *Candy-O* is an album I find monumentally uninteresting, and I am halfway through the book. I am waiting, with a scholar’s detached curiosity, to see if my disinterest in the record will correlate, chapter by chapter, with my disinterest in the prose.
I will, of course, leave Lex Luthor’s desk exactly as I found it. I will restart the computer. I will walk past the mechanical, unblinking eyes of the security cameras. I am getting a lot of use out of my iPad, but mostly for reasons unrelated to my supposed profession. Reasons such as… Prawns.
Would you like me to see if Cameron Crowe’s book on which you placed a request is available, or are you still holding out for Jimmy Chile’s early dismissal prophecy?