NEW YORK PUBLIC LIBRARY CHRONICLES

In an attempt to spice things up with my writing routine I seldom take excursions to cafes to write. When the music is on and that cup of vanilla soy has been steamed to perfection... writing in cafes can be perfectly bohemian.

But then there are those days when I need to spice up the spice-up. Like last week for an example. I deserted my usual Brooklyn hangout and I walked around midtown Manhattan searching for the right spot to lay down the paper and get to scribing. But I couldn't find anything. Then I thought about my good friend Said who often treks it over to the Public Library to write. So... that's what I did. On the third floor of the NY Public Library. It was quiet and perfect. I wrote for hours.

Then comes yesterday. I took the Q Train to 42nd Street and Bryant Park, walked one long block to the library and discovered it was closed. Damn! My muses were waiting for me up on the third floor and I couldn't get in. I asked a security officer what was up with the CLOSED library. He told me, "It's Monday, brother. It's always closed on Monday." I felt and looked like a fool. But he then pointed me across the street to the other library which is opened Monday thru Saturday.

So there I went. Across the street, up the elevator, to the third floor.

I found a perfect spot at a table near the back. And I was ready to get down with the get down... that is... until I spotted a 55ish year old Black man with spectacles smiling at me. Like he was happy I had arrived. Like he hadn't had his meds for the day. I decided to position myself behind a person in front of me so I could ignore him. And I did.

Until I heard this severe coughing. I looked up and yes, there he was still smiling and no longer coughing. I retreated back to writing. Ten minutes later I heard someone reading aloud. Something about Nixon or Jefferson. I looked up. The 55ish man had repositioned himself. He was now standing near a bookcase in complete view of me. Reading aloud. And smiling at me. I retreated back to my writing. A bit uncomfortable, but still focused.

Then out of the corner of my eye I saw him kicking his leg in the air. What the fuck! He was kicking and still reading Nixon. I tried very hard not to get aggravated. Because although I was in a public space, a bruh needed his privacy. So I breathed and thought about the characters in my play and I was able to keep the aggravation at bay and went back to writing.

Then he started reading louder. And I thought is this fool is really directing all of this at me, and why? But since I've been working hard on not tackling other people's problems, I simply packed my writing into my backpack and moved to the other side of the floor. Which was at least 100 feet away.

Finally. I'm relaxed.

But no sooner than I could put pen to paper, here he comes. Attempting to quickly dodge down a row of books. But I spotted him. And he spotted me. This time I didn't turn away. I kept looking. Hoping to project some serious "I will kick a hole in your head, you cock-eyed son of a--!" energy. And the more I projected, the closer he got. He was literally walking toward me. And as he approached my table, I looked him dead in the eyes with my fists balled and everything. What did he do? Drop his head and acquiesced. Punk!

I turned around to see if I scared him off. I didn't see him. He was gone! Yes!!! Who was this crazy kook? Anyway. Now I could relax and get back to writing.

Ten minutes later...

He was standing 20 feet away from me. At the copy machine. I didn't notice him at first because I was busy writing [the reason why I came to the library in the first place]. But then I heard this copy machine noise and the crumbling of lots of paper. And the coughing. His ass was back. As if to say: I'm not scared of nobody and I will spook you because that's what I do.

After a few minutes of contemplating whether to notify the library security, I grabbed my things and jumped in the first elevator that opened.

He won. The 55ish black man succeeded at disrupting and spooking the young black writer with focus out the wazoo.
And maybe that was his plan afterall: to chase away the light that challenged his darkness; to stop any young black man from achieving his goal. Little that he knew... I took the goal back to Brooklyn.

Crazy world.

Until next time,

Keith