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Behind the Painting
I was sitting on a bench on Broadway eating a sandwich with the sun on my face. I watched the light hit the east side of the street, sending slow shadows up the buildings. They stretched north in one evenly-spaced line, rising and falling like piano keys.
The weather was fine. The scene was perfect. I left to get my paints. I sat back down at the same bench and watched the guys of Lower Broadway go by.
A guy hurried past me, clutching his phone to his ear. “It's just that, I think I have scoliosis.”
A guy rode by on his bicycle, talking loudly on speakerphone. A guy in a car sped through the intersection and honked his horn. “Fuck off man. That guy fucking beeped me. He beeped me from behind his window.”
Another guy on a bicycle did tricks between the sidewalk and the bus lane, balancing on his front wheel, spinning his handlebars, suspending himself in midair.
A guy wheelied up the street on his dirt bike. A guy kneeled down to snap photos with a giant zoom lens.
A guy walked out of a nearby building and started stacking garbage bags in front of me. He made a half dozen trips and still the bags kept piling up. The sun was nearly gone. The scene was recorded. I knew it was time for this guy to get going.
