WASHINGTON SQUARE PARK IS A CONTENT FARM

oh god

I’m sitting in WSP trying to write an article about Thomas Mann’s The Magic Mountain for absolutely no one. I’m trying to think of really brilliant things to say about the passage of time. I rode a Citi Bike from 140th to 4th in 44 minutes and entered the park for shade. When I first walked in, there was to my left a kid’s birthday party, with a man dressed as Olaf playing an acoustic guitar. To my right was a man with a guitar wearing all black and covering an Elliott Smith song. Ahead was the hero of this piece, a young lady reading Franny and Zooey while drinking a Pacifica tallboy. I moved towards the center and chose a bench far enough away from the jazz band that I could still think. The place is bustling. Some guy offers me money to move to a different bench and I stare at him until he asks the woman next to me the same question. She can’t speak english and confusedly walks away, and the man proceeds to stage a young couple on the bench and set up a camera. Across the small courtyard is a stand set up with painting supplies. A lady has rented their equipment and draws on a piece of paper attached to a clipboard. She watches me while she draws. I return her stare for a few seconds, then look away. A wiry gentleman comes up to me and says that if a guy in a red tracksuit asks me questions about Palestine, I should ignore him. That he’s apparently trying to trick people into looking dumb on the internet. The cameraman hands the couple a coffee cup with a mic taped to the back and tells them how to hold it while speaking. They conduct a three minute interview about dating, something about how dating should take up 10% of your life. They staunchly defend this idea, saying that other social relationships are important to uphold. The lady with the clipboard is still staring at me. I write this line in my Thomas Mann essay: “Is all we know that which just happened? Is everything outside of that scope just a blurry re-imagination?” A man in a red tracksuit traps three young men in an interview and tries to get them to locate Israel on a globe. He counts down loudly, 5, 4, 3, 2, but then they successfully find Israel. It reminds me of a dream once where Israel was in Colorado. Everything else about it was the same, but it was just in the middle of Colorado. The young couple next to me finishes the 10% interview, and the cameraman tells them that the jazz was too loud, and that they’ll have to start over. The jazz is very loud. The lady with the clipboard continues to stare at me. The Pacifica girl is gone. The wiry gentleman and the red tracksuit guy are now arguing with two police officers. Red tracksuit’s cameraman captures the whole thing. I see a woman who reminds me of my Middle English professor, but then remember that my Middle English professor died during Covid. I am holding a cigarette but am afraid to light it, in case it bothers anyone around me. I presume I am in the shot with the young couple, who are now on the second take. This time, the woman in the couple is speaking loudly about how her last relationship was abusive, and took up all her time, and that she lost all of her friends during it. Her current relationship is three years. Her boyfriend is silent. The lady with the clipboard has stopped drawing but still stares directly into my eyes. I see the Olaf guitar guy slap a woman dressed as Elsa on the ass behind a tree. The cameraman feeds the young couple a line, “In my opinion, a relationship should take up 10% of your life.” They keep messing up the delivery, and the cameraman keeps saying, “I know, I know, it’s retarded, but you have to say it just like that: “In my opinion, a relationship should take up 10% of your life.”” The painting stand has packed up and left in under a minute, and the clipboard lady is gone. Red tracksuit stalks with his globe looking for another victim. He has a severe underbite and offers everyone a chance to win cash. A black couple accepts his challenge and a man next to me brown-bagging a 40 gives me a knowing smile. The young couple from the 10% interview gets a free polaroid of them for doing the interview. Elliott Smith guitarist has presumably killed himself. I coin the term “locum-avoidance” for my Thomas Mann essay, and pause to consider whether anyone will get it or if it will hurt the integrity of the piece. I chuckle at the thought of integrity. The black couple wins the Palestine game and are handed a $5 bill. They tell red tracksuit guy that he said it would be $10, and there is a lot of confusion until he reaches into his pocket and gives them $5 more. Red tracksuit guy sounds just like Tucker Carlson. I abandon my Thomas Mann essay out of a deep sense of hopelessness in the world. I have been on the bench for fourteen minutes.