::03:18:08::

::: 4: The Fonze :::

There are surprisingly a lot of open doors.
At least at night in New York City, a lot of well lit interiors.
This one I am passing happens to be a dormitory.
It looks like all the others.
It could be any city only this is NYC.

It is set apart from the others only because I noticed it.
I happened upon it on this moment.
I am walking by.
The NY Times, The Voice, The Brooklyn Rail and it is all the same as this.
This time something arrests me.

An old black man in a black suit and a black hat sits by a black door not watching 13 black security monitors.
Maybe it is 14, maybe it is 12, it does not matter.
He smokes; he spits and masturbates with a magazine.
It must be a long, boring night.

The thought pops in there.
I am certain you thought it too.
What if the Fonze wrote books?
Title? No. No.
Maybe just Cool?
Or Leather?
I don’t know.
I think he might live to be 100?
Broadway will keep him that way.
This is just f*cking stupid.

I am still thinking.
There are engines hidden away since the dawn of September, those are neither red nor silent in this particular city.
I notice there is a moon above the dorm.
No stars.

The black man continues to masturbate.
He is bored out of his skull.
I stereotype him.
His is one of the “self-excited.”
I cannot even be that.

I want to ask him through the glass of the well-lit NY night interior, well before he comes.
Does the Fonze ever laugh while he is alone?
Of course.
And if he lives to be 100?
Who cares?

He will die that way.

Written by: ~ J.D. Szalla

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