This Stain From My Notebook: May 6, 1993

 

Today is my day off from work and I’m in Central Park.  The weather is absolutely beautiful:  the sun is shining and the temperature is around 85 degrees.  Several workmen in blue uniforms mowed the grass earlier, so the intoxicating scent of summer still lingers in the air.  I’ve taken off my shoes and socks in order to feel the cool ground beneath my feet, an experience that always makes me feel like a kid again.

A young man with headphones and no shirt is catching some rays just two picnic tables away.  I don’t know what his deal is.  He’s made eye contact a couple of times already, and he even smiled at me once.  Perhaps that means he’s interested.  He’s certainly cute enough, but his sporadic outbursts are beginning to pluck my last nerve: “Lights out! …Contagious! …Mulatto!”  I’d still do him though.

Now there’s a fine looking dark-skinned man leaning against the wall by the men’s restroom, and judging from the way his eyes keep darting about, he’s definitely on the prowl.  I keep making suggestive gestures with my pen and my mouth, in hopes that he’ll take the hint.  I don’t think he’s paying me any attention, though; his eyes are set on Turret’s Boy.

Two college-age jocks are playing hackey sack in the clearing just below us.  They both have their shirts off, and their sweat-glistened, furry torsos literally sparkle in this noonday sun.  There should be a law against hunky men with no underwear wearing their shorts that tight.  Of course, I can’t say for sure-because distance and tact prevent me from making any further assessments-but I think the tall guy might be Jewish.

I met a really nice older man in the park last night.  We sat on this very picnic table and talked for over three hours, while some kid by the amphitheatre played jazz music on his saxophone.  The strange concoction of mellow music and moonlight mixed with the sounds of park life and passing cars really put me in a mood, and it seemed as though everything the man said was profound and mysterious.  In fact, the whole scene was surreal, like some long-lost edit from Manhattan or Annie Hall.  Then again, we kept taking shots (vodka) from the flask he carried in his back pocket, and there’s a possibility that we might have, you know, burnt one while we were talking, but still….       

Well, I’m not doing a very good job of staying focused, so I guess I’ll just call it a day.  If I’m smart, I’ll rush home right now and douse myself with a bucket of ice water before I do something stupid.

Then again, when did I ever claim to be smart?

Robert